overcome
. I will put this weekend behind me and move forward. That said, I’m swearing off men for a while. Because, seriously? Two complimentary shit cocktails in a row? Some might call that a “one-two punch.” I, however, know exactly what it was.
So what do I have to look forward to in the next guy I date? Guy Number Three in the screw-it-I-might-as-well-join-the-convent series? I can only imagine. And I don’t want to imagine. I’ve had one die and one be married—thus technically dead to me, and possibly also dead inside. What fresh hell could be next? Psychopath? Social disease? Drummer in a band? One, two, uh, one, two, three … Count me out.
But before I can take heed of Jimi’s words and rise anywhere, I need to wash off the thin layer of travel grime that I’m certain is coating my entire body. Between the radiation from airport scanners and the general airplane filth, even thinking about the many unseemly violations of my person makes me a bit nauseated. So I jump into the shower to do a thorough post-travel scrub.
Then I do the most stupid thing a girl can do after she gets rejected by a boy: I step on my scale. And, yes, I know technically he was willing to come to my hotel—how gracious—but the fact thatit would be completely meaningless and that he had some poor unsuspecting wife at home still makes it feel like a rejection. I wasn’t worthy of being seen in public with, from one of the biggest stages in the world to a common city street. I was worthy of a morally bankrupt booty call. Blech.
You know how you step up and the number bobs around, up and down, finding center, and when it lands, you think, “God, no. It’s broken. It’s gone nuts. When did this cheap thing break down?”
Well, after the third or fourth time resetting it and stepping back up, hoping for a miracle, I literally gasp when I read the number before me. I’m six pounds heavier than I was the last time I weighed myself. Six. It’s not that I’m saying I’m fat. I’m not one of those girls who’s skinny and complains about how fat she is all the time, making you want to force-feed her frosting so she really knows what fat is. I don’t even weigh myself regularly. Once every week or two. And as far as my weight goes, I’d say I’m normal. Healthy. I’m in fairly decent shape. And I fluctuate like everyone else. But by two or three pounds up or down. Not six. And, yes, if we’re going to be honest, I’ve been hitting the crumb cakes more often than the gym of late. But this is appalling. It’s more than five. Closer to ten than to one. Six. Of course it’s an evil even number.
Nat calls me as I’m toweling off to tell me that she’s just spilled salt in the kitchen.
“Which shoulder am I supposed to throw the salt over?” she asks. She’s probably just humoring me, but screw it, I need humor.
“The left,” I say.
“Okay,” she says.
“With your right,” I add.
“Wait—what? Left or right?”
“Throw the salt over your left shoulder with your right hand.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’ll have to do it again.”
Now, for a moment, I almost forget the misery, as I ponder this advanced concept from the superstition rulebook: If you spill salt, then incorrectly administer the antidote by using the wrong hand to toss more over the wrong shoulder, should you do the shoulder toss twice? That makes me think about the maximum amount of bad luck you could bank before a painting scaffold fell on your head, and that makes me think about general wallopings, and that of course leads me back to New York and my affair to forget.
“You will not believe the whirlwind romance I just experienced over the weekend.”
“Spill!” she squeals. “Is he tall? Funny? Mortgage holder? Fully vested? Does he have a brother?”
“Yes, yes, a bunch of I-don’t-knows, and for his mother’s sake I sure as hell hope not, because one son of his kind would be enough to make you want to shoot yourself,” I say.
. I will put this weekend behind me and move forward. That said, I’m swearing off men for a while. Because, seriously? Two complimentary shit cocktails in a row? Some might call that a “one-two punch.” I, however, know exactly what it was.
So what do I have to look forward to in the next guy I date? Guy Number Three in the screw-it-I-might-as-well-join-the-convent series? I can only imagine. And I don’t want to imagine. I’ve had one die and one be married—thus technically dead to me, and possibly also dead inside. What fresh hell could be next? Psychopath? Social disease? Drummer in a band? One, two, uh, one, two, three … Count me out.
But before I can take heed of Jimi’s words and rise anywhere, I need to wash off the thin layer of travel grime that I’m certain is coating my entire body. Between the radiation from airport scanners and the general airplane filth, even thinking about the many unseemly violations of my person makes me a bit nauseated. So I jump into the shower to do a thorough post-travel scrub.
Then I do the most stupid thing a girl can do after she gets rejected by a boy: I step on my scale. And, yes, I know technically he was willing to come to my hotel—how gracious—but the fact thatit would be completely meaningless and that he had some poor unsuspecting wife at home still makes it feel like a rejection. I wasn’t worthy of being seen in public with, from one of the biggest stages in the world to a common city street. I was worthy of a morally bankrupt booty call. Blech.
You know how you step up and the number bobs around, up and down, finding center, and when it lands, you think, “God, no. It’s broken. It’s gone nuts. When did this cheap thing break down?”
Well, after the third or fourth time resetting it and stepping back up, hoping for a miracle, I literally gasp when I read the number before me. I’m six pounds heavier than I was the last time I weighed myself. Six. It’s not that I’m saying I’m fat. I’m not one of those girls who’s skinny and complains about how fat she is all the time, making you want to force-feed her frosting so she really knows what fat is. I don’t even weigh myself regularly. Once every week or two. And as far as my weight goes, I’d say I’m normal. Healthy. I’m in fairly decent shape. And I fluctuate like everyone else. But by two or three pounds up or down. Not six. And, yes, if we’re going to be honest, I’ve been hitting the crumb cakes more often than the gym of late. But this is appalling. It’s more than five. Closer to ten than to one. Six. Of course it’s an evil even number.
Nat calls me as I’m toweling off to tell me that she’s just spilled salt in the kitchen.
“Which shoulder am I supposed to throw the salt over?” she asks. She’s probably just humoring me, but screw it, I need humor.
“The left,” I say.
“Okay,” she says.
“With your right,” I add.
“Wait—what? Left or right?”
“Throw the salt over your left shoulder with your right hand.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’ll have to do it again.”
Now, for a moment, I almost forget the misery, as I ponder this advanced concept from the superstition rulebook: If you spill salt, then incorrectly administer the antidote by using the wrong hand to toss more over the wrong shoulder, should you do the shoulder toss twice? That makes me think about the maximum amount of bad luck you could bank before a painting scaffold fell on your head, and that makes me think about general wallopings, and that of course leads me back to New York and my affair to forget.
“You will not believe the whirlwind romance I just experienced over the weekend.”
“Spill!” she squeals. “Is he tall? Funny? Mortgage holder? Fully vested? Does he have a brother?”
“Yes, yes, a bunch of I-don’t-knows, and for his mother’s sake I sure as hell hope not, because one son of his kind would be enough to make you want to shoot yourself,” I say.
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