Hold an Old Friend’s Hand

Well, no double pink lines yet. And it doesn’t look like there are going to be, praise whoever. But what’s totally bizarre is that I was kind of oddly disappointed, and yet, completely relieved.

There is honestly no way to win.

But what that means is that my hormones are basically out of control which: hate. And also: fat and bloated. And – ooh ooh, my favorite: HUNGRY.

Yesterday I opted for a super late breakfast thinking because I am a whale, that I’d just cruise right through the whole day, given that I had my brunch (a half of a bagel with cream cheese) at 11 a.m. I was doing SO WELL, you know, throughout the day on no sustenance, drinking cup after cup of coffee and praying for someone – anyone – to drop an entire crate full of fen phen, or even carrots or…something…when I couldn’t take it anymore. I was driving home (at 3:30, mind you, because my job is just that exhausting) when I suddenly found myself in the McDonald’s drive -thru, and before I knew it, I was down an entire Quarter Pounder with cheese, french fries and hot mustard sauce, and a diet Coke. You know, to save calories.

I ate all of this in approximately 2.5 seconds, and was COMPLETELY satisfied before I even knew what hit me. And when I say 2.5 seconds, I mean, honestly, that the McDonald’s is 2 blocks away from my house, and by the time my car pulled into the garage, I was done. Not even a crumb. 2.5 seconds.

And then I started crying, because I am a horse. And then, to make matters worse, I LIED ABOUT IT. I walked in with a McDonald’s cup and said I’d stopped for a quick soda, when Adam eyed me suspiciously.

“Just a soda!”

And then I got busted, because a) I am a HORRIBLE liar even though this one I half-believed, given that if you’d BLINKED, you’d have missed the shoving of the Quarter Pounder down my preternaturally wide gullet, and b) there was mustard on my shirt. Like, all over it. In large, blobbing blobs, all fresh-like and smelly, like infant poop.

So yeah. Period. Hormones. Quarter Pounder. Horse.

In other, equally exciting news, I am also a complete social dullard. Yes! Dullard! And also, picky! And did you know that trying to make friends is like dating? Because it is exactly like that. Exactly. There is this woman I know who is actively trying to be my friend, and, well, I don’t like her. And I PROMISED myself that I would try. Try, because I need to stop being so judgy and annoying because someone I meet isn’t one of my longtime friends, or even remotely like them. Because I need to accept that people aren’t going to be like the people I know in Boston, and I just need to accept them for who they are, and enjoy them, or so my therapist tells me.

Except: No, thank you.

This woman is coming on too strong, and we need to slow down the relationship. She calls A WHOLE LOT, and by a whole lot, I mean every day. More than once. And when I say no, I can’t do something, because, most of the time, I ACTUALLY CAN’T, because I have something I have to do, she pushes. “Oh, come on! What do you have to do? You don’t have any friends here, you told me! Blow off the work you have! Blow off Adam! Who needs to walk the dog? GO CAMPING WITH ME!”

First off, shut up about the no friends. Yes, I don’t have friends here, but mercifully, I have many other places. So, no. Just no. And secondly, um, camp? CAMP? I don’t camp. Like, ever. I’d like to think I’m all rugged and shit, but the very idea of going camping at all, much less here, where there are alligators and mosquitos and snakes and black widow spiders and scorpions and iguanas and SEARING HEAT gives me the heebs, and going camping with a woman who will not shut up under ANY HUMAN CIRCUMSTANCES, and tries to manipulate me into going camping is, well, my idea of the ninth level of hell.

So I’m trying to let her down easy, and it ain’t going well. I’ve had to turn off my cell phone – yes, TURN OFF, for extended periods of time, my cell phone. God help us, but how do you tell someone you don’t want to date them, when they are already married, and it’s not dating? But I don’t want to date her! UNCLE! I would rather stay home alone! I AM HAPPY THERE.

Last night, I talked to one of my favorite people in the entire world – someone I literally saw and/or talked to *every day* while I lived in Boston, and I love her to bits, to the point that it might be scaring her, because I am love-bombing her hourly, but really – she’s that awesome, and I miss her more than most people, because, again: every day. For two full hours last night, I talked to her – I mean, I cackled like I haven’t cackled in years. I was myself, live and in person, err, voice, to one of those people who really knows me, and I really know, and we really like each other and GOD, it’s been so long since I had that in person, I could cry at the memory, but it felt SO GOOD, because I miss her and it was so fun and, well, I smiled all day.

And the timing of that absurdly long talk was perfect, as it reminded me that I can’t settle, because I know what the real thing is, because I have it somewhere else, and I need to break up with the Desperado. I just can’t date when I have no intention of getting serious. I’d never talk to her if I moved back, or miss her desperately the way I do Ann and Erica and Eve, and for the frillionth time, I DO NOT CAMP, nor do I like being pushed into doing something. So no.

Conversely, there is this woman at the health food store that I am interested in, and I *think* she’s interested in me, but I think we’re too chicken to take it to the next level. We chat for at least 10-15 minutes every time I go to get my daily soup and water, and – drum roll – she’s from Boston and moved here a month after I did. And she lives under an anti-abortion billboard and hates it, and she loves my t-shirt that says “Your Body is a Battleground” and she’s funny and sarcastic and GAH, today – TODAY, she started to mention something about “forming a support group” for displaced and miserable Democratic Bostonians which would have been THE PERFECT SEGUE and we both knew it and then there was THAT MOMENT, and then another customer came along and I RAN AWAY, because I am shy, and also, weird.

I ran away from an opportunity to ask this woman OUT ON A DATE. I ran away and that moment, it may never pass this way again.

To recap: Hate. Fat. Bloated. Hungry. Freak.

*Tiffany. Dude, it’s from her SECOND ALBUM, which I totally had, and I saw her in concert and tried to stalk her on mall tours, and SERIOUSLY: Tiffany. Much better than Debbie Gibson who is an asshole. I met her in Petco once and it wasn’t pretty. I didn’t recognize her and was all casual and friendly because she had a cute dog and that’s the only reason, and she was, in a nutshell, FURIOUS WITH ME because of it. Seriously. There was acting out and stomping – ACTUAL STOMPING AROUND THE STORE because I was all casual, but again – I didn’t recognize her. Debbie Gibson = NUTJOB (or, as I originally wrote, nutjub, if you prefer.)

30 comments June 14th, 2006