You, sir, are sporting oversized aviator sunglasses, and your shirt is unbuttoned to the middle of your chest. Your head is shaved. You are strutting backward up the street, your arm at a right angle to your body, as you point up the block, greeting someone you know.
That guy? The stranger in the distance? He is the man. “The man,” you would say, if he could hear you, but he is too far. Instead you point silently, profoundly. You point with emphasis.
…You are still doing this — still walking backward, pointing meaningfully at this person, who is no longer visible. The friend walking with you offers his feet an awkward smile, shakes his head.
Maybe the friend walking beside you has a girlfriend. And if he does, she wishes he would hang with you less.
This morning I used the last of some deodorant, and I felt victorious, like I had bested corporate forces that were waiting for me to buy another pack before it was time. I should have left this fateful stick in my gym locker, or dumped it from my bag in a hotel room, or found it dried and crunchy in a drawer crammed with confusing hair products.
For my next feat, I shall use the last of a bottle of honey before it becomes a bear-shaped crystaline brick, or perhaps consume an entire bag of ground-up coffee beans before they start tasting like dirt.
Then we’ll have a party. You bring the coffee.
We returned from Kentucky a week or so ago, and had a very good time. All of us should get lake houses. And trust funds.
I was watching TV last night when, suddenly, my shoulder and upper arm began to tingle and erupted in gooseflesh. It was so startling that I jumped a little. Did something just brush up against me? Some sort of crazy energy field? (We have those in California.) A ghost? Or perhaps the bony, beckoning finger of Death?
The isolated patch of goosebumps continued to prickle, and the bumps were extreme. “Look at this!” I said to Bryan. He examined my arm and murmured in appropriately confused tones.
Then I remembered I had eaten a single pretzel a few minutes earlier. Turns out they were coated in some sort of yeast powder. I tried another one an hour or so later, and the isolated goosebumps resumed.
So, it wasn’t so much an ectoplasmic energy transfer from the netherworld. It was a pretzel.
But! You may be saying, “Maggie? What if it was a magic pretzel that gave you psychic powers?” And that’s an excellent point. I’ll keep you posted.
Did you know it was possible to get blisters from a support garment? Like, long, water-filled girdle blisters across your back? The kind where you wake up, and something on your back itches, so you go to scratch it, and your hand comes away wet? Did you know this?
Yeah. Me neither.
For the sake of efficiency I’ve removed all the fortunes, tiny scraps of artwork, receipts for indecent things, currency from other countries, cowboy business cards, pretty leaves, and notes to myself to help me remember all the important things I no longer remember. And now, my wallet is tiny.
I feel less interesting.
Alice and I talk business:
Alice: I think it’s adorable that you want some money for yourself. Maybe you want to buy yourself a special little treat without the Hubs knowing, and why shouldn’t you? Bravo, Mrs. Mason.
Me: Sometimes, when I’m feeling low, I just like to get myself a nice lipstick. Nothing pricey, just a little pick me up.
Alice: What? Whore.