Daisy

Ronald and I were taking our occasional afternoon stroll down 20th Ave. to the local bookstore pub. He was teasing me because my checkered shoes were old and torn, and he didn’t like that it made me look like I didn’t take care of myself.

“Do you think it’s possible for your shoes to have any more holes?” He’d chuckled in that pretentious way I’d always hated.

“Oh shush you! I love these shoes. They’re so comfortable, and I’m sorry they look ratty but I’m allowed to wear them at least once a week in the summers. Pleeease?” I pleaded with him, but he knew that regardless of his answer I’d continue wearing the holey shoes.

“It’s fine, it’s just…it looks like you’re an emo kid begging for attention.”

“Well, I’m not. They really are just comfortable!”
But Ronald didn’t understand. He came from a conservative family. He came from an Ivy League school, equipped with all the pretentious bullshit that came along with the diploma, thought people who graduated from Berkeley had a misguided education and a false sense of confidence. He didn’t think we were very smart. Even though he never meant to make me feel like shit, it still bothered me, because, when push came to shove, I was much smarter and funnier than he. Sometimes, I think he knew that, which is why it was so important for him to put me down every so often.

“Alright, babe. That’s fine, let’s not get too riled up about a pair of shoes now. There are much bigger things to think about.” He’d do this all the time, pacify me like I was a nine year old child on the precipice of a tantrum. Before I started an argument, I saw Daisy…

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She hobbled around the block in what she called her, “outdoor” robe. Pastel blue with tiny white roses sprinkled all over it. I wondered if she had a closet full of the same “outdoor” robes. Was her indoor robe less modest, perhaps, a solid color, because she didn’t have to impress anyone at home? Her socks were pale pink, inside brandless shoes, bleached white with extra cushion for heal support.

Her hair, cauliflower colored, looked like a million teased cotton balls sitting atop her scalp. There were no strays because they were all their very own strays. Standing at 5 ft 6 inches tall she had mentioned she’d been shrinking since she turned 60. She said that, in fact, we would all start shrinking on our 60th birthday; we’d feel our bones compressing against each other, and we would wake up feeling shrinking pains not growing pains. She said that no Advil or Aleve could take the pain away, because, “life is tough, and we gotta keep being reminded of that. And sometimes,” she said, “sometimes there’s not a remedy.

As I catalogued all my misfortunes, and growing pains in my head, I thought for a short moment, oh, I know all about pain. Having been broken hearted yet again by the first boy I ever considered sharing a modest king sized bed, and an electric toothbrush with for the rest of my life. As I looked over at Ron, I realized I was now “fixing” that pain by dating merely a proximity of someone with whom I’d want to share a similar intimacy. I could hardly imagine sharing a fork with the guy. But I did try, I really did, and when I’d look into his sad brown eyes that lined perfectly with mine, I’d try and convince myself that eventually things would be OK…and that I’d fall madly in love with this boy… but things were never just OK. Ron is the Aleve that just won’t make my growing pains disappear.

But I digress.

Daisy held a leash attached to a feisty dachshund named Maxine that looked like it was too, feeling shrinking pains. She hobbled like Daisy, and together, their misaligned hips swung back and forth sloppily. Their grace had disappeared along with a perfect complexion and a full set of teeth. At one point Maxine was gnawing on my pant leg and it felt more like a leg massage than a bite. I probably should have been bothered at Maxine’s distaste in me, but I figured it was her way of claiming protection over her owner; I found comfort in that even though the cuffs of my pants were soaking in slobber.

I’d seen Daisy around several different times of the day, and I wondered if this was just her way of passing time, so as not to feel so alone at home. When I asked her about her schedule she simply smiled and said, “oh honey, does it looks like I do much of anything else? Maxine and I walk about the blocks here for a good half hour, twice a day. Then we garden, and then Isabel gets home and we make dinner together.” And then she went on, “You know we used to make elaborate dinners using Julia Childs’s recipes, it was always an adventure. But now since my hip surgery last year, we stick to simpler things like salads and boiled vegetables with chicken. Sometimes Isabel is too tired from working at the library, so we order-in instead.”

During her food speech Ron was completely engulfed in Maxine’s lack of teeth, pulling Maxine’s lips up to check out her gums and for a reason I’ll never understand, she liked him. She panted as she wagged her little tail ferociously. This disturbed me, and only at that point was I offended.

Daisy talked more about things that I was only mostly interested in, and while I managed to look like I was processing everything she was saying, I imagined Daisy getting back home to her perfectly manicured front yard.

My mind wandered as I thought about how odd it is that when you’re old you become Mr. or Mrs. Green Thumb, knowing exactly what time is the best time to water, prune, pull weeds, and plant bougainvilleas. It really makes no sense, but maybe it’s a senior citizen right-of-passage. When you’re 18 you can buy cigarettes and porn, when you’re 21 you can buy your own alcohol, 25 you can rent cars without the extra insurance charge…and then at 60 you get the magical green thumb power as soon as your get your first AARP mail.

Anyway, I thought of Daisy getting home and pulling out her little buddy full of all the gardening tools collected from Ace Hardware from the beginning of time. She slips on her rubber gardening shoes, placing her bare, damp, feet inside each shoe carefully, and only when her big toe with the ingrown toenail find its indentation, does the shoe fit her just right. Putting on her gardening hat, a sun washed teal, would be the finishing touch to Daisy’s production. Maxine would follow her like a less than half sized shadow, right up until Daisy would start pulling the weeds, which would be the moment that Maxine would run over to the deck and lay down analyzing Daisy’s every movement, fighting with herself to stay awake for one more minute. The occasional breeze would make Daisy’s gown blow upward and she’d laugh at herself, feeling foolish under the unpredictable Seattle weather. Maxine would bark joining in on Daisy’s cackle. They are their own orchestra.

I tuned back in when Daisy mentioned that she’s been Isabel’s partner for 30 years and that they started off as two liberal lesbians friends who never thought their companionship would go beyond their twice a week mystery book club.

Daisy was my revolutionary hero.

Going to mystery book clubs, with her own personal mysteries, it all seemed so romantic. None of the other women knew Daisy was lesbian, or that she graduated top of her class in mechanical engineering.

“Honey, it was sheer coincidence or “fate,” how Isabel and I met. She saw me at these meetings and befriended me quite quickly as I seemed to be the only one to offer any sort of interesting input during our conversations about literature, and social issues. One day she says, ‘Daisy, my dear, why don’t you go home to a husband. It seems like you lead a lonely life.’ And I says, ‘Isabel, I’m just independent, and don’t need a man to make me happy. I’d rather figure my life out on my own.’ She knew exactly what that meant, she just knew!” She said within a few months they’d bought a dog together and had moved in to a boat house on Lake Union. She looked away and sighed, “that was when we were still able to get around easily. Anyhow, hun, I better get going. My Isabel is probably worried sick; I was supposed to be home fifteen minutes ago. Five more minutes and she’ll be sending out the troops!”

Ronald was already restless. His two-beer buzz was wearing down and he needed a refill.

Ronald couldn’t have been more disinterested in my revolutionary.

“Right so it was great meeting you Ms. Daisy walk safely.” He said it all in one quick breath.

“I’m sure I’ll see you and Maxine again soon. Thanks for letting us play with Maxine.” I smiled, fascinated by this wonderful woman, wishing I could hear more. But Ronald and I walked away as he let out a sigh of relief.

“What was that about? I’m sure she didn’t need to be patronized.”
“Really? Are you being serious? I was totally interested in her story. Don’t you understand how rare it is to meet someone who’s had the same partner for 30 years!? Let alone being a lesbian constantly chastised for believing in human rights.”

Ronald stopped, and looked at me, “you really don’t think it’s normal for two people to be together that long? That’s really sad you have no hope for the human race.”

“It’s not that I have no hope for the human race, it’s that marriages end every day, people don’t value the power of commitment and love. And besides, what’s wrong with being a realist? It beats being constantly disappointed by people.” He snickered again, and stayed silent, “By the way, I’m not fake, and I’m offended that you said that.”

Ronald never understood me the way I wanted him to. Maybe it’s because our relationship was superficial as that of a Hollywood couple trying to promote a movie they were both starring in. Except, we didn’t have a movie, people did watch us though, his two friends loved to put the magnifying glass on our already pathetic (but extremely enjoyable) relationship. But I don’t want to make this about me.

Really. I don’t.

Daisy and her dog Maxine frequented the block all throughout summer. Sometimes she’d limp a little more than usual; sometimes she’d use a walker and both she and Maxine looked like every step was one closer to their last. But, Daisy remembered me and every time we walked by each other she’d say, “Hi hun! Beautiful day isnt’ it? And then she’d ask about Ronald, referring to him as that ‘quiet young looking boy;’ I’d always have to explain to her that Ronald was just a temporary thing, that I tried so hard to make it more than that, but he was just not it for me; I was simply in love with the idea of getting over someone else, and that it was all just a disaster. I had the story down to a quick 3 minute conversation because I didn’t want to keep revisiting the break up.

She’d always shrug and say, “ehh…he looked a little too short for you anyway.” I’d pat Maxine who’d then gnaw on my hand a bit before her sense of smell kicked in and she’d recognize me.

Daisy stopped walking Maxine right when fall rolled around. Instead, she used her walker every day now and when I’d see her, she’d only glance. She stopped remembering me, and I forgave her for it because if I was 75 I wouldn’t want to stop and try to remember people all the time.

Months have passed and I don’t see Daisy anymore. I never bothered to figure out where she lived, and if I did know I probably wouldn’t have visited her. I tend to dislike the smell of defeat, that’s what ancient people smell like to me. Yes, I guess I’m cold hearted, but that’s how I heal.

I cared. I did. I cared about everything Daisy had to say.

Ronald was wrong. He was wrong and I wish I could just tell him that he was wrong about so many things.

My business Suit Man.

My business suit man.

Towering over me by ten full inches. Slacks brushing the tops of his dark brown leather Nordstrom’s shoes. They tie but only for show. He sits and his fancy argyle socks show, revealing that they do, indeed, match his belt.

This guy means business

He’s wearing an eggshell button down, tailored made specifically for his shoulder width and the length of his arms. It all just fits so perfectly. He’s wearing a sports jacket that is the standard three buttons, and a dark charcoal tint (no pin stripes…thank god!). His haircut is everything you’d imagine “boring” could be. A full head of hair, cut, "crew" style combed ever so politely to the side. It's all well thought out; all the colors match more perfectly than a J Crew mannequin on a Store Opening day.

His style is so inoffensive and conservative, I already know he’s the right type of boy for me.

Pale skin, hefty, strong fingers. I can see them as he pull out his Kindle probably to catch up on his New York Times for the last two days. His nose is rigid; there with a purpose. Pointy at the very tip; a nose I’d call ‘dangerously painful.’ While I only get a quick glance of his eyes, I already know they’re ever so short of stunning, brown. If I look longer they maybe might be honey colored; but I don’t look long; a glance is so much better. And even if they are short of stunning, brown… that’s okay. I make exceptions for my business suit man.

He’s fancy and beautiful in every sort of way. His nearing-30 -year-old-skin, full of spunk and perfect, a tan that looks like he travels; dark, heavy eyebrows, chocolate colored hair, and a jaw line that I can recognize two miles away… it’s like I’ve just glanced at the most perfect sculpture. In twenty years he’ll be considered handsome and charming. With his salt and pepper hair and his five o’ clock shadow, all the women will do the classic double take. And he’ll smile…knowing that, it’s flattering, but he has something so much better at home.

Maybe. But most likely not…

In twenty years the ring on his left hand will be strangling his finger from a ten year marriage that’s been slowly strangling his life. The skin will puff outside of the limit of the1/8” thick platinum band. The area where his wallet had ready-to-use condoms will have picture of his two boys dressed in soccer uniforms, with the one knee on the grass and their hand placed on a soccer ball. Their smiles will be boasting two missing front teeth. With golden hair and blue eyes I’ll know I never was his type even if I had sat next to him on that record breaking scorching hot Seattle day. Even if he said “hi” to me, and I said “hi” back, and if we small talked about the weather, and how we’d rather be at the beach or on a boat, instead of going to our usual 9 to 5’s. We would have talked about how we were stoked it was Friday. We’d make eye contact and smile in each others’ eyes. There would be connection, but that’s all. That’s all and nothing more.

The general rule is to never ask for a number on the bus, or even off the bus if it’s someone who rides the bus with you frequently. Because, what if you never call? There’s a chance you’ll see them again every day for the rest of your working lives and, well...who would want to deal that that kind of awkward?

That’s just if I’d sat next to him.

But I didn’t. I did not. It was too hot and because it was too hot hardly anyone was going to work. It was Friday, and I imagined people called in sick to visit the beach. These hot days must be celebrated.

Thus, aside from the diligent twelve, the bus was empty. And for the first time in weeks I’d gotten my own bench seat. He sat behind me. And that was that. But even if, even if…

I wasn’t his type anyhow. I know this because of the picture in his wallet twenty years from now. Golden hair, green eyes...that woman has strong genes.

I’m not his type. I’m not. And this is how I justify not speaking to my business suit man.

"Someone" "Punch" "Me" "Plea"s"e"

Oh my goodness, someone shoot me (not really). But seriously, punch my arm, or pull my hair..do something... it's completely deserved, I swear.

I developed a new habit and it's driving me crazy. I get really deep into conversation and then, bam it comes out..and. i. just. can't. help it. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the terrible hell that is the "air quote". I've been air quoting about as often as a meth addict(1) picks at their skin. Honestly, I have no idea why I even do it, and every time it happens I get distracted with myself, and my story gets all screwy. Of course I can't even point it out to the poor person who has to put up with my air quoting because then they'll know that I know that I'm kind of a douche.

Now that I'm fully aware, however, I've decided to buy myself a shock collar; every time I make an air quote motion or even develop the beginnings of an air quote...or even if the intonation in my voice suggests I'm going to use an air quote in the next 2 seconds...I shock myself. If it works on dogs, it'll totally work on me.. (try not to believe that). You know what confuses me though, if people are able to use air quotes why can't they use air parentheses. That's just not fair to the parentheses. I mean if you're gonna be a tool, might as well be a tool all across the board.

Anyway, putting myself to sleep the other night I started devising a list of things that people do that make me want to drop kick baby sea otters


List of Things Pretentious People Practice in Front of the Mirror:
1) the "pssh"snicker smug laugh.

2) the eyebrow lift when anything that they don't understand is said. (they don't want to admit they actually have no clue what you're saying, so they remedy their problem by making you think you're the issue, and clearly you're confused.

3) the air quote (see above)

4) people who chew with their mouths open (maybe this isn't so much pretentious as it is disgusting, but still deserves to be noted)

5) Name dropping.

6) the drinking pinky raise (seriously...who do you think you are?)

7) the, i'm-going-to-talk-louder-than -you- while- you're- talking- because-what-I'm- about- to-say-is- so- important-I- cannot-wait , move.

I'm gonna honest here though...I've committed a few of these crimes myself, but my philosophy is, you can't hate it until you try it, right?

Dr. Midori Sour

My date with true love was Thursday morning...we got intimate fairly quickly. I hadn't even had a lick of alcohol yet, and she was askin' me all sort of personal questions; then she told me to get undressed so that, well, so that she could check me out. She stepped out for a second while I made myself comfortable, slipping on the backless robe with that wallpaper print plastered all over it, death pale blue, and little swirls of pastel colors floating around aimlessly looking very 80s... this is the Zach Morris cell phone of robes. Like a good girl, I do what she says and I hop onto the bed, and my ass slaps against the cold protective paper, i quickly jump in shock, well this is no way to get comfortable.

I'm sitting there twiddling my thumbs, thinking of all the ridiculous things that could happen at that very moment...my mind wanders and I imagine a sudden earthquake, and i'm running down the halls bare assed. I shrug, well i wouldn't be the only one..

I'm staring out the window thinking: everyone really did just see me get naked didn't they? Then right about the time when my heart jumps out of my nostril i notice the sign that says, "Our windows are tinted to ensure your privacy.." whew...

My date walks in and i'm certain she's noticed I'm nervous.. She says something, and I ask her to repeat it..and i tell her that yes, I'd like that vaccine, and she says, "great i'll put in an order.." We're all smiles up until she tells me she needs me to slide down, and as I'm sliding i rip the paper and it's awkward because it sounds like it could be a fart, but i'm hoping she knows i'm more tactful than that...we move on.

She pulls out the stirrups, and asks me to place my feet on them, and I'm nervous and cold, and most importantly i'm thinking, gosh darnit this girl moves fast. I want to make a joke, but i think our language barrier might cause some mis-communication and awkward misunderstanding. I bite my tongue.

She's down there talking me through her examination of my special area... I kind want to tell her to keep to herself, if you dont have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all... because, No Dr. Midori (her name is Minori), i don't know want you to tell me that the next thing you place in there will make my "tummy feel weird" and nor do I want you to tell me that the swab has to be there for 15 seconds, cause now all I'm doing is counting down..and your seconds are a lot longer than mine. I flinch and she tries to commiserate with me by saying, "i know i know, it feers weird..i'm sorry..." Look Midori, let's face it,you are not sorry! If you were you wouldn't be narrating right now, you'd be giving me a high five (not that kind) cause i'm being such a good patient (date)!

When she's all done checking everything out she pulls out all the crazy devices (okay...one thing..but still!) she's placed in my special area...and says nothing. In another dimension i'm saying, "wait..seriously? You're not even gonna tell me everything looks great? You're not gonna say, 'wow that is a well kept hoodle you got there'? " I'm confused...you do your thing, and i dont even get a compliment in the end? Call me egotistical but i'm pretty sure i deserved, at the very least a "looks good!" Just saying...

And you know what, if i'm honest here... the women's exam is way more uncomfortable than getting a shot, and when i was little, i'm pretty sure Dr. Fuhrman gave me lollipops and stickers every time I walked into his office...What did i walk out with this time around? Prescriptions. Yah, being a girl is awesome, but we have to do this little song and dance once a year and it's no Disneyland let me tell ya...i think we at least deserve lollipops, and if you for a second think i'm too old for lollipops, i hate you.

I suppose i would have settled for Peppercinni as well...

But so we're fighting now...and in a year, when we have our second date, we're gonna have to work this situation out because I'm tired of being walked all over Midori...just tired.

kind of like...

I've posted this on Facebook, but I like it enough that i feel the need to place it here. Sorry to those who have already read it.



We're driving down the freeway. The 118 west to be exact. I can't stand that after you pass through the canyons, KROQ's overrated music starts chopping up. Static infiltrates the speakers of Stef's car. Welcome to suburbia, USA. We turn off the radio

I place my fingertips just inches away from the window. Heat emanates off the tinted glass. Reasons why I hate southern California: 1) windows on a sunny day are fire hazardous I keep thinking that maybe just maybe, this time So Cal will be different, more accepting of my shortcomings, more welcoming...i hope. and yet.

We exit off Olson Rd and while i know that it's not spelled the same, i can't help but think of those two decrepit twins i so loved when i was five. But only for a moment. Just after i think, what's that street we're supposed to turn on? Wildflower Ave? Wild Boar St.? Raindance Rd? fuck, what is it? Poor Stef is already thinking about how the hell she is going to avoid traffic on the way back, and i can't even get to our first destination.

Moments later i remember that Wildwood is the evil street we turn right onto. Wildwood. and then after wildwood is.....and that takes me a while because for some reason Native American names are so foreign and non-catchy to me...Big Sky. Big fucking Sky. That's the street. But it doesn't matter at that point because all i can think about is that lawn. those lawns. Who the fuck cuts them so flawlessly? I imagine leaping with wildflowers and daisies through the lawns, the sound of music comes to mind and i start humming..."i am sixteen going on seventeen i know that i'm naive...fellas may think--"

Hll Canyon comes around. "Which one is it?" stef asks. "umm..." seconds go by..."this one, this one! on the right!" Their lawn is just as perfect.

I stand outside, no one knows we're there yet. I can breathe, but all i breathe in is heavy air and smog. welcome home? but no. it's not home. It's something else. and yet.

The smell of baked sweets creeps into my nostrils...i have bad sense of smell, but this...this is different.heavy sweet butter mixed with fresh cinnamon and vanilla..but really it's the butter i've deprived myself (even though my body wouldn't really show it) for four long years that's housing in my senses.

I take a deep breath. Knock. Ring the doorbell...and all of the sudden i feel like a Jehovah Witness evangelist because no one answers, and i want to ring again.

knock. ring.

My little sister answers the door and for a second i step outside my short tubby body;i feel like i, ten years ago, am answering the door for myself. She smiles (I smile?), I smile (she smiles?)

...home, or its distant synonym.

Publicly Humilinaked

I'm the tub of margerine (not

quite butter..yet) in the locker room.

I'm 14 and it will be the first time i

see other girls in their bra and

underwear.

I'm a mess.

they all think i'm fat.

my bAcne is probably oozing out of my sports bra

cellulite...they see it.

My butt is too flat.

My boobs are so much smaller than Carol's, and she's a size 2 and i'm a size 4!

The less developed girls somehow manage to keep their shirt on while they magically take off their sports bra and put on their standard A-cup bra. I watch in awe, while I study their swift moves.

I would like to try this magic.

I grab my bag, walk over to the corner, turn around facing the mauve tiled wall, and silently start the magic, placing my arms inside my shirt and somehow manage to remove my sweaty yellow sports bra without removing my P.E. shirt. Bravo! Task one is done, now i must put on my real bra.

Ten minutes go by and after several attempts, all the girls have left..the 2nd period bell has rung and I'm left alone in my self made puzzle.

After successfully changing without getting naked the first time, I pretty much label myself the Goddess of the Art of Swift Undergarment Removal.

It's Junior year, and I still have bAcne, my breasts are the size of dried apples, and my thighs are the only things that have become "womanly". Everyone is prettier and even the underdeveloped broads have learned to love themselves and claim naked freedom in front of everyone in the locker room, every 1st period.

This locker room is a haven for all pubescent boys...

I'm still in the corner...hiding.

Busty Girl who always tried to beat my 800 yard time, but always failed: Nice job out there today.

I'm in the middle of removing the bra. Arms tucked into my shirt and i'm probably making all sorts of constipated faces.

Me: Oh, yah...ummm thanks!

Busty Girl: Do you need help?

I've finally managed to remove the bra and it's now sitting on my waist as i try to pull it down past my hips, over my shorts...then suddenly in the midst of me saying "no i'm all good" and trying to pull the tight bra down my enlarged hips, my shorts fall to my ankles taking along with them my days-of-the-week underwear. Busty girl laughs at me and as I bend over to pick up my runaway undergarments, my ass brushes against the mauve tile and i jump nearly falling into her.

We share sweat. My butt's been violated by freezing cold tile, and Busty Girl has seen my "secret place."

Needless to say, I never again tried the magical undergarment removal. i de-crowned myself from my Goddess of Undergarment Removal status and I decided that I'd already reached my peak of embarrassment, and after this point everything would be a breeze.

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Present Day:

I get naked almost every day in front of a slew of women who represent every type of body in the world. I like myself...i'm content with my personal "me," and getting naked is just another thing to add to my casual daily routine. I don't have the days-of-the-week underwear anymore, it's kind of worse now, but only because the ones i wear for the gym are ones that i buy in bulk at Target hoping no man ever sees them (for their sake).

Recently, however, I've managed to make my routine traumatic and awkward, once again.

I've ran six miles on the treadmill, my face looks like a cherry and all i want to do is put on my clothes get on that bus home and read. And I know all the rules of the women's locker room:

1) Don't make eye contact

2) Don't stare anywhere for too long

3) Pretend like no one else exists by looking through people not at people

4) Dress quickly, and speak only if spoken to (because if they know the rules like they should, they'd only speak to you in an emergency)

5) Never make friends

6) Never snicker randomly

7) Avoid pulling out your cell phone

I comply to all of these, and as I'm pulling off my bra, i'm pulling it over my head and I hear a familiar voice:

"Joey! Hey!! I thought that was you."

Shit

" Heyyyyyyyy...how's it going? Mark told me you came to this gym, I just never thought i'd see you."

I'm now naked in front of a chiseled body kickboxing instructor who looks like she just walked out of a photo shoot for lululemon . My breasts are small and just kinda hanging out there while I act surprised and excited, even though i'm pissing the horror out through my pants at this terrible coincidence...and like Ignatius Reilly might say, Fortuna has something against me.

Hey you're that girl whose boyfriend I made out with two years ago. Only to find out after the fact that he was dating you all the while. Well isn't this just some adorable reunion!

If this isn't a fucked up version of drunken Karma i don't know what is.

"Yah I teach kickboxing here every Tuesday and Thursday from 5:45- 6:45. I've been here for about two years"

Your boyfriend's saliva stinks of cigarette and rotten vegan food.

"That's awesome....yahh kickboxing scares the beejeezus out of me. Wow, well i'm surprised I haven't seen you! This is about the time I usually come to the gym."

I can't find my bra.

And while i'm making a mental note to always leave the gym before 6:45 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she smiles at me and says, "kickboxing is amazing. Especially the one i teach, we have all sorts of people, all sorts of experience levels and body shapes"

Translation: Even fat asses like you who can't tell their left foot from their right can do kickboxing!

The small talk continues and on top of having nothing to say to this perfectly normal woman i'm panicking cause she's seen my goods, and now i look like a modern day exhibitionist because i can't find my fucking bra. I remember the mauve tile and thank the gods that my underwear is fastened on me like the seatbelt on the Indiana Jones ride. I'm trying to harden my abdominal muscles to look chiseled and fantastic...but at this point i'm helpless, she knows she's better then me...the only thing i really have going for me is that she doesn't know my other secret.

"Yah, i should definitely try that some time. I bet it's really soothing and fun, and i could definitely use a break from my usual routine."

Awkward head nod.

I find my bra, it's attached to the inside of my blouse. Fantastic. After fastening it on, I quickly pack up, gathering the little pieces of my broken ego scattered all around her.

"Well, I best be going, i can't miss those 70's buses"

"Ohhh you go on the 70s too, well i'll go with you. It'll be nice to not have to ride the bus alone for once!"

I smile, she smiles.

Fuck me and my big mouth.

"Great!! yah, i never take the bus with anyone, so this should be great!"

While riding the bus i wanted so badly to explain to her that it wasn't my fault that her boyfriend decided to cheat on her, and that instead he's just kind of a scumbag in general. I wanted to tell her i didn't know, and that, to be honest, i never thought they were a "thing" because she's kind of manly and he's kind of ....well, feminine. I wanted to say that nothing else had ever happened and that i was stoked that they were still together after two years.

I mostly wanted to tell her that I never make friends at the gym, and intend to keep it that way, and that every Tuesday and Thursday after this week, I'd be avoiding the gym at all costs, because I can't stand small talk...much less, kickboxing instructors who i have nothing in common with beyond a vagina and breasts.

I've seen her at least three times after that...

..oh, so there's supposed to be a point to all this?!

It's 10 am and i've already stuffed the second piece of chocolate in my mouth, except this time it's Dark Chocolate with Almond instead of Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate with Toffee and Almonds...

I'm such a fat ass...

Before a few months ago, I was content with most things in my life. I'd wake up at 7:15 a.m. after shutting off three alarms that went off at 6:45, 7:00, and 7:05 a.m... I'd step down from bed, slip on my faux suede Target slippers, walk to my dresser, pick out a frumpy outfit to wear to work (insert here a self pity comment about how no one notices me any way) .  Brush my teeth while the straightening iron warms up, spit, rinse, spit..straighten hair and eat cereal all at once. 

By 7:45 i'm rushing out the door...praying to the gods that i have my bus pass on me.

It's raining.

I'm running...

...i always run. It's perfect logic, if i'm not there on time i miss the bus. But if i'm there too early i get extra wet and cold and end up smelling like those other people..the ones with dirt under their fingernails, greasy hair, and gray teeth...If I run I avoid be outside in the rain too long, and i get there just as the bus is pulling up, because I leave exactly two minutes later than I would if i walked, and arrive at the stop in two minutes. Sure, i'm frazzled, and I look like a mess, but walking to the bus stop wouldn't change any of that, now would it?

Upon entering I'd plop into my usual seat, the one in the middle of the bus, the accordion seat. I'd scope out the couple that looks like brother and sister. They're pasty and pale, talk without making eye contact and say goodbye with the backs of their shoulders. 

Every Wednesday, I'd fall in love again. My bus boyfriend who reads Time magazine, Newsweek, and books by Clive Cussler and David Baldacci (love can forgive these things), would sit right across from me; the spot with the most leg room. He's tall, and wears flip flops with linen pants, and his blue eyes always forget to look in my direction. It's a good thing, because usually i'm trying to steal a glance or two while I nervously tremble...he's completely unaware of me, which explains and excuses why he kicked me once.

..but those are only on Wednesdays. 

Every other day, I sit and act completely unaware of everyone.

Upon entering the office, I place my coat on my chair, log in to my computer, grab my mug from the day before pull out the semi dried up tea bag, place a new one in and get my hot water. Sitting back at my desk i think, this can't possibly last much longer, but for now i'm happy. happy. happy. happy.

But it's now. It's today and I've stopped feeling any sort of happy. I don't even enjoy bus boyfriend, or my moldy tea mug, or the fact that on a really rainy day i get to see at least one women nearly slip in her heels outside my window. It's just...chocolate. Everything is chocolate, everything i don't want, but still there.

So, I eat it. 

I've never been the girl who eats her feelings away, in fact I don't even like Ben and Jerry's on a good day. 

Today, after I eat my second chocolate i'll figure out what's wrong. The news headlines on my Google Desktop... the market's crashing, Obama has gray hair, 60 year old women are getting laid off forcing them to eat their cat's food, Mexico has become the Middle East, and in bold it'll says "who are you kidding? you won't survive this recession!"  and i won't be able figure out if it's Google telling me that, or if it's me telling me that. 

I need a break. A break from knowing that everything is becoming a whole lot of nothing. And even though the news is all relevant, I refuse to accept that I have to have my face rubbed in it every fucking day of my already ridiculously mundane life.

..and so this is my personal break from reality.  

My green fuzz is the stuff one might find embedded in between my frontal and temporal lobes...thoughts that have absolutely no idea where to go. I'm sure i'm not the only one whose trying to find a home for it.

Enjoy?