“What would he even see in a guy like me? I’m not going to be anyone’s project. Even if he’s not Freddie Prinze Junioring me, you know eventually he’s gonna be all like, ‘Hey, let’s go to the gym and work out for six hours and totally get our cardio on.’”
Wheels barked.
“Right? That’s why it’ll never work out. I don’t want to get my cardio on. I can’t think of anything more awful than that aside from having a vasectomy while awake with no anesthesia. And even if I did want to go out with him—which I don’t—soon, he’d get bored anyway and then we’d argue and break up and be all sad. Then we’d have to see each other every day because we work together, and by that time, he’d probably have Tad spread over his fucking desk making him squeal like a little bitch. God, I hate that fucking name!”
Wheels raised his head and gave a little howl.
“Amen!” I agreed. “Preach it, sister. So, it’s decided, then. It’s easier this way.”
I swore Wheels rolled his eyes then, letting me know nothing is ever that easy, and even if it was, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to settle for easy. That life was too short to settle for easy and that maybe, just maybe , I should step out of my comfort zone for once in my fucking life.
Then I realized that this was my two-legged dog and that he probably didn’t mean a damn thing at all. Either that, or he was psychic and could see that my downfall would occur the very next day and it would involve a pair of bike shorts.
God, I’m such a sucker for bike shorts.
W HEN my alarm went off the next morning, I woke with renewed determination. I let Wheels out, listening to his cart squeak as he went about his business. In the shower, when I wasn’t singing at the top of my lungs, I practiced my speech to both Vince and Sandy, as they were almost the same. I’m very flattered that you want to take me out/help me out. But I’ve decided that I don’t need that right now/don’t want your help. I’m asking that you respect that/fuck off before I cut you. So, while we can be friends, I think we should just keep it at that/never talk about this again, you stupid queen.
The coffee was gurgling as I finished getting dressed, and I let Wheels back in the house. I poured the coffee in my travel mug, grabbed a granola bar (don’t worry, it was one of those ones that are supposed to be healthy, but is really just covered in chocolate), and went out to face the day.
On my way to work, I sang along to Kelly Clarkson’s “Miss Independent,” completely agreeing with the music’s timeless lesson, even if I looked like a raging fruit as I danced in my car. “That’s right!” I shouted at the traffic light, waiting for it to change to green. “I don’t need no fuckin’ man tellin’ me what to do!”
I forgot that my window was down until the woman in the car next to me shouted back, “Me either! Don’t need no fuckin’ man!”
I would have been beyond embarrassed, but I was feeling way too fucking good, so I shared a kindred moment with the woman, both of us grinning at each other like fools. I cranked up the stereo and we sang as loud as we possibly could until we missed that the light had turned green and the guy in the truck behind us began to honk and scream out his window, “Move your gay asses!”
I thought about flipping him off because I was Miss Independent, but then I saw he was in a Ford F350 and I was driving a Prius, and I liked my face shaped the way it was, so I just waved as sarcastically as I could. And if you think one cannot wave sarcastically, then you’d be wrong.
So there I was! Feeling good! Feeling fine ! I pulled into work and I was going to make it after all! I’d made it thirty years, and I was gonna make it another thirty years! I parallel parked on the street better than I’d ever done before, and I was gonna fucking rock this motherfucking Tuesday! I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and grinned the
Wheels barked.
“Right? That’s why it’ll never work out. I don’t want to get my cardio on. I can’t think of anything more awful than that aside from having a vasectomy while awake with no anesthesia. And even if I did want to go out with him—which I don’t—soon, he’d get bored anyway and then we’d argue and break up and be all sad. Then we’d have to see each other every day because we work together, and by that time, he’d probably have Tad spread over his fucking desk making him squeal like a little bitch. God, I hate that fucking name!”
Wheels raised his head and gave a little howl.
“Amen!” I agreed. “Preach it, sister. So, it’s decided, then. It’s easier this way.”
I swore Wheels rolled his eyes then, letting me know nothing is ever that easy, and even if it was, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to settle for easy. That life was too short to settle for easy and that maybe, just maybe , I should step out of my comfort zone for once in my fucking life.
Then I realized that this was my two-legged dog and that he probably didn’t mean a damn thing at all. Either that, or he was psychic and could see that my downfall would occur the very next day and it would involve a pair of bike shorts.
God, I’m such a sucker for bike shorts.
W HEN my alarm went off the next morning, I woke with renewed determination. I let Wheels out, listening to his cart squeak as he went about his business. In the shower, when I wasn’t singing at the top of my lungs, I practiced my speech to both Vince and Sandy, as they were almost the same. I’m very flattered that you want to take me out/help me out. But I’ve decided that I don’t need that right now/don’t want your help. I’m asking that you respect that/fuck off before I cut you. So, while we can be friends, I think we should just keep it at that/never talk about this again, you stupid queen.
The coffee was gurgling as I finished getting dressed, and I let Wheels back in the house. I poured the coffee in my travel mug, grabbed a granola bar (don’t worry, it was one of those ones that are supposed to be healthy, but is really just covered in chocolate), and went out to face the day.
On my way to work, I sang along to Kelly Clarkson’s “Miss Independent,” completely agreeing with the music’s timeless lesson, even if I looked like a raging fruit as I danced in my car. “That’s right!” I shouted at the traffic light, waiting for it to change to green. “I don’t need no fuckin’ man tellin’ me what to do!”
I forgot that my window was down until the woman in the car next to me shouted back, “Me either! Don’t need no fuckin’ man!”
I would have been beyond embarrassed, but I was feeling way too fucking good, so I shared a kindred moment with the woman, both of us grinning at each other like fools. I cranked up the stereo and we sang as loud as we possibly could until we missed that the light had turned green and the guy in the truck behind us began to honk and scream out his window, “Move your gay asses!”
I thought about flipping him off because I was Miss Independent, but then I saw he was in a Ford F350 and I was driving a Prius, and I liked my face shaped the way it was, so I just waved as sarcastically as I could. And if you think one cannot wave sarcastically, then you’d be wrong.
So there I was! Feeling good! Feeling fine ! I pulled into work and I was going to make it after all! I’d made it thirty years, and I was gonna make it another thirty years! I parallel parked on the street better than I’d ever done before, and I was gonna fucking rock this motherfucking Tuesday! I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and grinned the
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