Girls & Boys

We had a very trying Fourth of July, as evidenced by the fact that at 8 p.m., I was still halfway in my pajamas with a glass of wine by my bedside. Yes, yes, we should have painted the garage, but we couldn’t, we just couldn’t bring ourselves to go out there in wild thunderstorms and sweat ourselves silly. I mean, I got half-dressed to go out and have nachos after some serious Point(TM) saving this week, and that was quite challenging enough, thank you. It shall wait until the weekend. (Pajamas are totally back on.)

That being said, it was a long night anyway, what with the flaming fireworks, and a certain small dog who is TERRIFIED of flaming fireworks. I swear her barks were asking me, in a small voice akin to Alby Grant, “Is this the end of days, Mama?” I said it before, but I hate fireworks. Hate.

Separately, in things I also hate, I had a cortisone shot in my foot on Tuesday, which made me feel very athlete-like and brawny (I am important enough to need steroids! Steroids!). Or, you know, like a whining Ashlee Simpson after screeching her way through the Orange Bowl (Anyone remember that? Anyone?) Now, I’ve had steroid shots before, but I’ve never had one hurt quite this badly before. The burning! The flames! THE BURNING FLAMES! After carping and promising that I was going to “either faint or throw up, I AM GOING TO FAINT OR THROW UP,” they tilted back my chair, where I proceeded to jam my fingers so tightly into my eyeballs that I actually temporarily blinded myself, and when the shot was over, I couldn’t see, which was embarrassing on so many levels.

Foot doctor: “Are you okay?”

Jonniker: “I can’t see! I can’t see you!”

And dude, I couldn’t. I could not see him for the life of me. But it was because I jammed my thumb directly into my eye socket and made my vision go blurry and askew. Smooth. Also, I honestly couldn’t walk for an entire day–I mean, sometimes shots make you sore, but this was…well, this was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Cortisone shots in the feet = painful. Very, very painful. But hopefully worth it.

Oh! OH! What I’ve really been dying to tell you is that I was at American Eagle the other day, and they have lots and lots of cute, comfortable underwear on sale, including the tanga, thongboy and plenty of boyshorts–you may want to drop by there, because they’re adorable, and oh lordy, they are cheap. They also have those really frightening boy-brief undies that resemble tightie-whities, with the flaphole and everything, and I just find them really upsetting, as they’re designed for a generation that is not mine. Honestly, I find it upsetting in general that teenage girls are buying lingerie, and nothing is more distressing than heading past a Victoria’s Secret and seeing a bunch of pre-pubescent girls wandering around the aisles pondering lacy demi-cup bras. I just…well, I feel very queasy about it, and I felt similarly in American Eagle, as nymphet after nymphet loaded sexy underwear into her arms and headed to the checkout. They are too young for sexy underwear. I wanted to take them all aside and explain that sexy underwear is for grown-ups, and some day, when they’re all grown up and really truly in love, they can find out what happens between two people who really dig each other, but for now, they should be in Jockey For Her, at best. I’m sure that would go over well. I’m also fairly certain that I was all over Victoria’s Secret in high school, and that my mother wanted to lock me up and put me in full-body plaid bras.

But I digress. While perusing the undies and picking up a few boyshorts, a boob popped out in my face. A boob! A pierced boob! People are undressing before me all OVER the place, and what am I supposed to do about it? Is this some kind of test? The worst part is that I could see that it was about to happen. I saw the tank top give way, saw the boob about to break free, and for one fleeting moment, considered screaming, “YOUR BOOB! YOUR BOOB!” but remembering the Starbucks incident, I stayed quiet. And then…there it was. An entire boob, with a pale blue barbell through it, just staring me in the face as its owner and I hovered over the size M thongboys. It almost brushed my NOSTRIL at one point, but I stayed calm, despite the fact that she remained oblivious to the exposed barbell, until finally, she giggled and said to no one in particular, “MY TIT!” and put it away.

Oh, to be so comfortable with exposing your boobs in public. But I guess, you know, you have it pierced, you WANT people to see it. Personally, I’ve never really wanted to share my nipples with the world, but who am I to judge? Mostly, I wanted to punch her for using the word “tit,” as it’s always reminded me of something very hard and immovable, like an underripe peach, whereas “boob” sounds soft, squishy and slightly friendly. A boob is a soft, smiling pillow of sorts, whereas a tit is very angry and unhappy. Women should not have tits. No one needs angry breasts.

And that’s all I’ve got! Happy Thursday! I know we’re all excited to go back to work after that one, pathetic Wednesday off, aren’t we? AREN’T WE?

*Blur

35 comments July 4th, 2007