[My apologies — this blog post is all over the place, yet it needed to be written. The sweet memory of a few cherry blossom trees demanded it]
I stood in my kitchen, sobbing as I watched out my patio window, the landscapers buzzing down a perfectly good cherry blossom tree. It struck me as incredibly sad, and I could feel the tree sobbing, desperately pleading with them not to take their chainsaws to its limbs, wondering what it had done wrong.
I knew what that tree felt like. I, too, wondered why my life seemed so crazy, buzzing out of control. Why, after reading my writing, one editor called me “brilliant” while a new critique partner ripped through my latest chapters like they were plowing bullets into a target practice dummy. Why I had no idea how to do my taxes, when, if ever, I’d receive unemployment benefits, why I had no clue if I would be splitting my time between a random storage unit and my car in less than two months’ time.
What was it about the chopping of this and two more trees a few meters away, that turned me into a quivering, full-on, snot nose-blowing, weepy mess? A friend I talked to later in the day pointed out it was, perhaps, a culmination of things tipping me over the edge toward a needed catharsis, brought on by the recent death of my beloved cat and the current downward-twisted pandemic economy. I agreed, only to have my friend turn it around on me. He asked me, why is it that I can feel such empathy for a tree when I can’t feel the same way for another human being?
We frequently push each other on the spiritual, existential side of things. Although his epiphany stung, I knew exactly what he meant, considering I feel little grief over the death of people, who I know are still alive in spirit, but who other people believe they have lost forever. My friend advised me to send love and gratitude to the trees, and be thankful that they had graced the courtyard in my condominium complex and provided me with a beautiful view, given squirrels a place to run and play, and birds a place to nest. With regard to people, however, perhaps investigate, through meditation, why a tree can cause me such anguish but losing a person almost never brings me to tears, and how I could be more empathetic towards other humans experiencing pain of this sort.
I thought for a moment before I responded. It could have something to do with the fact I experienced death of a childhood friend at a very young age, and have been in contact with him at various times of my life since, which makes me not fear, and not even feel, human death as final.
This, and my idea that human beings set up their own situations, consciously and unconsciously making choices leading us to situations which are sometimes devastating but are all ultimately of our own making. All the tree was doing was being beautiful — it was in full blossom, perhaps one branch was dead but at least 90% of the tree was flowering. Did I think about the tree as myself, able to be sliced down and mulched into oblivion in less than 15 minutes time? Did it know that somebody loved it? How do I relate this to people in my life that I feel such little empathy for, in my person circle, social media friends, or people in the world as a whole?
So I wondered, did the tree have free will when it was planted? Did it have free will to grow consciously or did it just listen to the seasons with no hand whatsoever in blossoming? The answer is — I have no clue.
My friend also explained — absolutely nothing in the universe happens that is not supposed to happen. This means, the tree was cut down because it was supposed to be cut down. Perhaps it knew this beforehand and put on a spectacular display because it loved me and everybody else who could see it and enjoy its beauty. But perhaps the tree wanted to go be a tree in another universe, only it could not do so while still manifesting here, and so, it bid me and my neighbors farewell. Only, all I could see was how it affected me. How short-sighted of me, eh?
It made me think about my own self manifesting somewhere else, where perhaps I disappeared from somebody else’s universe, to come here and be who I am in this one. It made me wonder, in this world, when I stopped being friends with certain people if they felt like I did today, watching the cherry blossom tree get decimated and leave their lives very suddenly. Perhaps I withdrew my love from them and left their world in the same manner that the tree left mine. And maybe we all do that to some degree, to save ourselves from pain, maybe, or simply because… it was time for a change. After all, we’ve all been “unfriended” in real life, at some point. And it usually hurts.
The ultimate lesson is perhaps that change sometimes hurts as well, and whether we can see why it hurts is up to us to pursue. What am I supposed to learn from this change? How can this make me foster more conscious Love into the universe through my own being? How can I see that the tree’s life and death is merely the beginning of something else I couldn’t understand previously? I realized when I returned home, not only could I now see straight through to some of the other condominiums, they could see straight through into mine. While not great for privacy, perhaps this could foster more community which is normally something I shun because I’m an introvert. Something else I noticed is, it’s way sunnier on my patio. I would be getting a lot more sunlight in the afternoon now that the tree is gone.
So now I also felt guilty, as if the tree’s demise brought about more sunshine. But that’s the thing about change — we can never really see what’s around the corner if we get stuck in the emotion that ties itself to thoughts about the change itself. The best advice I can come up with is to let myself feel sad for the tree (I do actually have a special relationship with trees, and it’s something I’d encourage you all to investigate for yourselves) but also, along with accepting my sadness, accept the change for exactly what it is: a starting point for something new.
And new is scary as hell. Like waking up in a pandemic and not knowing what the hell is gonna happen from here on out. From now on, I will stand in my kitchen and look out at the remaining cherry blossom trees, I will think fondly about the beautiful one now missing. It was, after all, never really mine, or anyone else’s, but its own beautiful self, perhaps presently manifesting as beautiful in somebody else’s universe. Maybe they’re thanking me for sending it off to them with such loving thoughts. And maybe, we could all send each other off with loving thoughts a lot more, since we were all once saplings, we might all be struck down by unseen forces, or maybe, it was the plan all along.
This morning, as I lie in bed, I am awakened by a familiar sound. Could that be a black-capped chickadee, or the robins, or some as-yet-unidentified-by-me bird, chirping from a nearby tree? It is, and more follow. I peek out the window to find, birds are still chirping as they fly by, and downstairs on my patio, Mr. Wobbles awaits his daily peanuts. Nature adapts. So can we.
Our protagonist subjugates herself to Saturday consumer rush-hour traffic because she’s too busy during the week to spend quality time required for This Great Task. She tries to maintain positive, sunshiny disposition as she walks into chosen department store, tempted by mailed sales flyer and percent-off promise for using store credit. Beelines straight for Women’s Outerwear while simultaneously perusing/fending off numerous virtual assaults on wallet from plentiful fragrance/snacks/sportswear gadgets/Christmas merch displays. Finally arrives at Outerwear, slightly out of breath and damp in the armpits. Thinks for umpteenth time: menopause is a bitch. Shuffles out of her own ineffective and broken-zippered Goodwill-bought coat from two years prior to start the inevitable onslaught of try-ons. Spends ten minutes weaving through endless racks of sub-par warming textiles to find exact coat she saw on website, until she spies the ultimate in warmth not attributable to hot flashes – a.k.a. Columbia brand.
Ooh! Here it is! It looks even better in person. A hood, big pockets, and – bonus – it’ll cover my butt.
Slides fingers down to price tag, stifles a gasp. She didn’t have her cheaters on, couldn’t make out the three-point font of price on her phone screen when she quick-researched the store’s internet coat selection in the parking lot.
Ouch, well, it’s a bit pricey but I have my heart set on a blue one, so let’s see… rummages through two full racks of faux-fur lined hoods in six different colors. Okay, great, a blue one! Here’s a medium.
Slips arms into sleeves, cinches coat around midriff, tries to connect zipper and the bottom stop tooth. Fails to get them within three inches of each other. Tucks in derriere. Same result.
Rats! Fine. Let’s arrange this nicely back on the hanger and look for a large. Hm. I don’t see a large in blue. I see one in red, grey, black and plum, though. I guess that’s fine. But the black will be hard to see in the dark, not good if I’m out shopping or walking dogs at night. Red? Maybe a bit too flashy. Grey? Boring. Perhaps plum. It’s right in front anyway.
Slips arms into sleeves, cinches coat around midriff, notices sleeves are a tad long, tries to connect zipper and the bottom stop tooth. Fails to get them within an inch of each other.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck. What the actual fuck? Are you fucking serious? This is fucking ridiculous. My ass isn’t that big. Is it? I’m not that fat, am I? Pleads with internal voice. I’ll jump-start my keto, lose fifteen in one week and pray for better weather – please fit! Further bargaining seems fruitless as she exhales full lung capacity, sucks in stomach, tucks in butt once again; zipper still refuses to meet.
Looks up to assess surroundings, notices several other women also trying on multiple coats. Huffs. Wrastles out of coat and stuffs it back on hanger. Rifles past miles of blacks, greys and reds, seeking an XL but finding none. Instead, finds an XL in plum. Again. Wonders why only Medium-sized women get to choose from the full palate of colors. Wipes thin sheen of sweat off brow. Slips arm into plum coat, notices sleeves are two inches longer. Cinches coat around midriff, connects zipper with no problem. Winds through two aisles of other shoppers and mounds of coat racks to stand in front of mirror.
Holy cowza. I resemble Violet Beauregarde from Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, post gum chew. Goddamn blueberry pie…
Turns around in mirror, wonders how a low-carb diet produced such a big bottom. Surely she will achieve weight-loss soon. Sees cute man walking by. He looks right past her.
Seriously? He can’t even see my butt from there. At least Sir Mix-A-Lot and Queen would be proud. Untucks butt to stand normally. Feels vaguely mortified. Admits this is why she has no full-length mirrors in her house. My GOD. Are those really my hips?? Violet, you gum-chewing bitch twin! We both should have stopped after tasting the tomato soup because once you get past the roast beef and baked potato, you’re doomed. I wasn’t prepared for dessert… the blueberry pie and ice cream. Because obviously I CAN’T HANDLE THE BLUEBERRY PIE AND ICE CREAM!
Worriedly glances around mirror post. Other female shoppers still also engaged in try-on dance take no notice of her internal struggle. Semi-panic attack ensues. More brow and upper lip sweat emerge.
Surely the Oompas will be arriving shortly to roll me away for squeeze therapy. Okay, FINE. I may be slightly overreacting, but – glances back at mirror. Oh Hell no. The coat fits, but damn, I can’t. I just can’t buy the PLUM. Maybe if I were a normal size individual, it wouldn’t be so bad, but now, all I see is… Violet. I might as well just plaster a blueberry to the end of my nose. Roll myself down the vanilla ice cream snow-covered streets while I walk dogs and shop and ….
Alright, alright. Calm down. Let’s take another look.
Closes eyes and rearranges coat on body as she inhales and exhales deeply. Reopens eyes to look in the mirror one last time, disgust evident on her face.
Nope. NOpe. NOEPopePope-ster. Can’t just can’t. Sorry not sorry. Even if people don’t see me as Violet, I’ll be mistaken for the Fruit of the Loom Grape. Except Los Fruitos didn’t HAVE a single grape; they had a bunch. So I’ll look like the whole damn bunch. A bunch of fat Loomy Fruit purple grapes. Except grapes don’t care about their asses. Maybe Grape Ape. GrapeApe-GrapeApe. Now she feels damn old in addition to damn plump. This is fucking ridiculous. Lemme look for another color.
Turns from mirror, slightly wheezing from rigorous self-examination. Whips off plum coat, forages for empty hanger and in her periphery, at last, she spies a red coat. An XL RED coat. She shoves the plum monstrosity onto the hanger, crams it back into the multitudinous Ms and Ls and beelines for the red like a sweaty Pamplonan bull. The brightly colored XL within her grasp, the hanger snaps from the force with which she pulls it off the rack. She practically caresses it as she slips it on.
Come here, my Darling, my Tomato. My roasted red pepper, my big ol’bottle o’ketchup, my… whatever. Red doesn’t make me look fat. Blows sweaty lock of hair off her forehead. Wait, obviously, I’m already fat fat fatty. Fatty buckle two-by-four, can’t fit through the bathroom door–. But tomatoes are okay. Red pepper, ketchup, radish, cherry, for fuck’s sake – APPLE! – I can be the Fruit of the Loom Apple! Somehow this is much better than Violet and her blooming, billowing blueberry or the Loominous Bunch o’Grapes. Why? I don’t know. Don’t ask such ridiculous questions of a woman having a menopausal meltdown whilst cardioing up a sweat in a produce-colored coat. Leave me the hell alone. Screw you, Keto diet and my measly three lost pounds. Come January, this coat will be YUGE! And I will laugh, cackling like the Red Delicious, or saucy tomato that I am –
Her jubilation is interrupted when she observes a woman trying on a coat not ten feet away. The woman is thin. From this vantage point, our hot, bothered and near-hysterical protagonist can see the pricetag on the coat the woman is test-driving clearly reads M. Self-proclaimed Apple-Bottom Saucypants immediately turns away, half out of shame and half out of the need to not strangle this other woman with a scarf from a nearby display. She suspects the garments were co-named “mufflers” by a menopausal chunker in the same predicament.
Oh, come now, it’s not her fault she’s able to buy a coat without hating herself. But I do envy her color choices. Alas, I’m finally happy with my winter garment. I’m going to take my new friend Tom Ato and pay at the register. She licks her lip sweat in pathetic attempt to satiate her worked-up thirst. She smiles as she arranges coat perfectly on counter.
Clerk rings up coat, no percentage-off discount visible on monitor.
Wait, why isn’t my thirty percent coming off?
“Sorry, ma’am, you can’t use the percent-off coupon with Columbia. It’s one of the brands that don’t allow the store discount.”
You have to be fucking kidding me. Shoots clerk annoyed look. Swipes coat and receipt, shoves both into yuge plastic bag. Shuffles outside to freeze in her old but conservatively colored sad excuse for coat. Contemplates Culver’s on her way out of parking lot but instead arrives home to eat broccoli, drink hot water and question her life choices.
A Man Buys a Winter Coat
Voice-dials friend while navigating through parking lot after picking up three Little Caesars sausage and pepperoni pies. Sees department store, decides on a whim his ratty college hoodie no longer covers his near-frost-bitten beer gut. Friend answers phone as man stuffs half a slice into his face.
“Whazzup, numbnuts? … Yo, wake up, bro! … kickoff’s in thirty. Just grabbed some za and a 12-er, on my way to pick up JoeBoBlow and Stever the Beaver. Be over in twenty. Put some pants on.”
Hangs up, trudges through parking lot. Smears greasy hands on jeans before opening door. Enters, grabs a few stuffed animals for his nephews, scoffs at perfumy-girly bin, snags a couple designer chocolate bars for a post-za snack and heads to Men’s Outerwear. Sticks animals and chocolate under armpit to peck at a rack of wintery-looking coats for all of five seconds. Finds a 2X in Bears blue. Throws everything on cashwrap counter before blindly punching in PIN and nodding to cashier. Nearly takes out irate, ruddy-faced older woman fighting with receipt and swearing under her breath while he exits to his car, where he tosses purchases on passenger seat, unwraps a chocolate bar and belches.
If you’re anything like me, this string of pseudo-words conjures a Tom Petty song, but since you’re probably not, it may just read as someone obsessed with the letter Q. And why qwouldn’t I be? For those who don’t already know, I aspire to be a published author (excuse the redundancy). I’m very heavy on the aspiration, hopeful on the published, and still a mere writer until that fateful day arrives.
Read: I’m in Query Hell. I’m quite sure of it. Not qidding.
To get traditionally published, querying is the act of reaching out to literary agents (or sometimes, directly to publishers, though not so much) to ask (query) them if they are interested in representing your manuscript. It’s a lot like looking for a real estate agent; you want one whose values, style and track record match what you seek for your house. If you have a million-dollar mansion, you want someone experienced to entice serious buyers and weed out the lookie-loos who merely ogle the decorating. Victorian? You’ll want a historic house expert. Micro-house? You need to look for quirkies. In short, you want a good fit.
Likewise, for my manuscript, I require an agent who 1) represents the genre I write (romance); 2) is somewhat quirky themselves (kooky yet professional); and 3) will not only relate to a slightly off-qilter manuscript but will also be able to sell it to a publisher. In my search for the perfect agent, I’ve utilized many online resources, created a multi-paged, color-coded spreadsheet, and have sussed out those agents I think would be interested. Over 200 of them, in no particular order, all at-the-ready to stab their Rejection Wands deep into my heart and roar with malice when they read the pages I’ve bled over for the past three years.
Ok, maybe that last part is just my Imposter Monster screwing with my head, IDK. Hard to tell. I’ve quibbled with my pillow for weeks on end, my hopes of a decent night’s sleep quashed. Quite the quandary.
In all seriousness, though, I’ve never feared the Submit and Send buttons more. My stomach twists, my coronary arteries bulge, my inner champion cheers, “You can do this! Someone is bound to love your weird-ass manuscript!” while my inner douchebag admonishes, “You suck, nobody wants your crazy-cat-soaked story!” My ulcer, naturally, prefers the second one, so I drown it out with Stuart Smalley affirmations for at least an hour after I click. Shame I don’t like alcohol.
For all the times I ridiculed you, Sir Smalley, I apologize. I get it now. If I listen to any more ramblings of my Inner-Dbag, I’ll lose the courage to press any button at all, which will only extend that long, dark corridor of uncertainty into a perpetual moving walkway of shame and fear.
Which won’t do. So quietly I quiver, a mere month later. Two handfuls of queries sent, the responses ranging from suggestions on how to improve, form rejections, and the ulcer-inducing Phil Collins of Responses, the No Reply At All. It’s the name of the game. Whenever I am summoned to my inbox for a personalized flogging session, I chant, I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me! I consult my spreadsheet, reread my query and pages. I tweak. I lather, rinse and repeat while the soap trail beelines for my eye sockets, whereupon I suffer horrible, searing pain! (oh, wait, I’m not a Gelfling). I tear up, pummel my peepers, scream, babble incoherently, and cower in a remote corner of the shower.
But only until the hot water runs out. Then I stand, ready for round two. Or three. Or thirteen. I’m determined, I will quersevere.
Back in my twenties, I dated a guy we’ll call R. This R was the love of my life. Probably still is, at least, until I snag my next one. However, R and I broke up twice back then (read: he dumped me twice back then). Never mind those circumstances, they’re not important, just know that R came back into my life in my forties, looking for a second/third chance to make things right. After those two spectacular breakups in my twenties, do you think I’d learned?
** Oh, this time will be different, because it’s obviously meant to be!**
Idiot. Answer: No.
I flew right back into his arms, only this time, the breakup was exponentially more explosive. Trust me, friends and family can attest to the fact that his Third Dumping of Me was by far the most successful and I indeed did splat splendidly.
Should I have known better than to try and rekindle? Yup. Did I try to rekindle anyway? Yup.
Who do you think learned the biggest lesson?
He did. I was still studying.
Fast-forward four years, when for some reason, I thought about this guy we’ll call M. Now, M was a high school crush that never got off the ground for a myriad of reasons. Not heeding anything I should have already learned about resurrecting past flames, I dug and scrounged and scratched and clawed until I found M online, in the most obscure way possible.
Can you guess what happened? I’m sure you can, because you’re sharper than I am. But let me sprinkle in some details for flavor.
A meeting, an attraction, a reunion of sorts, several dates in clandestine locations. I’m not sprinkling in e.v.e.r.y detail, but you’re smart, you can figure it out. Anyway, long-distance relationship for two months, filled with calls, texts, proclamations of What Should Have Been Way Back When and plenty of You’re So Different Than What I Expected and I’m So Glad You Got in Touch with Me.
One fateful weekend, when he was here visiting his kids, he invited me to his big Christian Cult. (I could call it a church, but I don’t like lying.) For him, I suffered through it for almost two hours. Then, out to dinner with his entire family, kids, mom, siblings. I thought I was doing a really good job of blending with the family. Apparently not, because then?
Nothing. No word. For two whole days. His wayward “Hey” text was answered by me with a slight chastization, because I am nobody’s doormat, doorstop, door-anything. If we are full-on dating, I’ve attended your church AND met your family, a simple text isn’t too much to ask, no matter how busy you are or how late it is.
Which turned out to be an ironic revelation in itself, because a full day later, he left. One, without even telling me his intentions, two, without even seeing me to say goodbye, and three, after texting me one last time. You, of course, already know what was about to happen, right? I was about to receive The Dump Text.
Yep, this pillar of maturity I spent so long trying to find didn’t have the balls to call or see me, despite being a mere five miles away. To add insult to injury, being a pilot, he turned his phone off immediately after texting me so I had no way to respond while he was in-flight. I tracked said flight back to Texas and waited ten minutes for him to disembark. I dialed.
He picked up the phone. Hello? Who is this?
Um, really? I had to laugh at this point, because he was obviously expecting me to rant and rail and bitch him out. I did none of those. I just said, M, I get it, you don’t want to continue, you could have just told me. We’ve not talked since, despite his again serenading my ears during that phone call with We Should Stay Friends! and I’m So Glad We Had This Time Together! (Carol Burnett, I hear ya. Soooo long…)
Another fast-forward to present day, more or less. Several months ago, I met a guy I’ll call J. J piqued my interest at a Christmas party and left me insomnia-bound for two days, wondering how we could have clicked so well and parted without any follow-up offers. I don’t often click with guys so immediately, and so I decided, thinking of a previous J that I had NOT reached out to and regretted ever since, I wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. I sent this New J a message. Which – he to this day has never read. It sits languishing in his FB message queue. After meeting again at another party months later, I realized the cold hard truth: he was seeing someone and they were indeed serious. What I thought was a click was, to him, a mere clack. Still, at least I tried. We did talk, albeit knowing he was unavailable didn’t thrill me. He’s an interesting man regardless. Which got me to thinking…
About the Old J, the one I met in 2005 during filming of a Keanu movie in Chicago. Old J and I had hung out during the long days of extra-ing. He was a production assistant and I was just trying to get a glimpse of Keanu. My life was awkward. I was in the middle of a divorce, my father had died suddenly the week before, and I had just moved for the second time in six months. This J made me laugh, flirted with me, and somehow seemed like a ray of sunshine for my soul during those three days. I wasn’t ready to take any steps at that point, so I didn’t. One of my friends told me I definitely should have, as she was sure “something should have happened” between us.
Through the years, I’d always been rather wistful about this J, so when the Christmas-party J slipped through my fingers, I thought, I don’t want to regret not reaching out to another J! And, in the months since the second J-fail party, I’d thought about the first J. A lot.
Now, I am fully cognizant of the fact that reaching back into my life has never reaped a bountiful crop. Nevertheless, I persisted. Cuz I’m still an idiot sometimes. I did some investigating. I’m Facebook friends with a friend of another Facebook friend and they are in the Chicago film business. I asked him how I could find a certain someone named J from the Keanu movie I was an extra on. And through some research, I found him.
What’s funny is, I realized when I went to Facebook message him, that I had already done so six years agoand had completely forgotten about it. I had already found him somehow, and time was kind enough to let me forget this fact. And, since I’d already learned my lesson about past relationships, I didn’t do anything.
Huh. Okay, so that’s a lie. Pass me the cordless drill and a large drill bit so I can install this tidbit permanently into my skull, please.
I did not, in fact, learn that when something did not happen in the past, it’s because it wasn’t meant to. But I was about to finally listen to my own little pearls of wisdom.
After I messaged him again, of course. Because apparently I’m a bit brain dead.
A few minutes after I pressed send, I researched him and found his Twitter page. He is the owner of his own extra casting company downtown, and so I began reading.
And what did I find?
He’s a full-on Trumpster. Not even a mild one, but a huge flag-waving one.
This here Pretty-Liberal-and-Proud-of-It will not suffer even one date with a Trumpster – ever.
Put down the drill, cuz my cheek felt the slap from the past as if it were real — a harsh, open-handed, leave-a-mark slap, and no power tools are needed.
Did you know you can delete an entire conversation on Messenger?
Hell, yeah, you can. Did I? Hell yeah, I did. Sometimes even idiots learn.
As I chuckled to myself at my desk, I figured, the Universe had reacted to my infinite will, way back in 2005. I just didn’t know it yet, that Time is merely a concept and your infinite will always knows best, because it is timeless. It knew he was not the man for me. I went full-on laugh when I surmised that no man so far has been the man for me, but that’s another revelation for another column… I can’t handle too many pearls in one week.
Just wanted to impart some wisdom to anyone willing to listen: the next time you regret not reaching out, not putting yourself out there, or wonder why you never heard back or you flat-out got rejected either by somebody, or a job opportunity, etc.? It’s because the universal will knows better than you do.
Heed the Universe, man. It really does have your best interests at heart. Trust it.
One day, maybe that other J will open his Facebook message box to read what I sent him. Maybe he won’t. Either way, universal will’s got my back.
And egrets everywhere rejoice.
(These photos are mine. Trust me, those egrets are indeed rejoicing.)
So here I am, at my yoga class, ready to be namastéd to hell and back, cuz it’s been a rough week. Haven’t been sleeping very well and my back has paid the price, but this class is my third in five days. Aren’t you proud of me? Look at me, waiting so patiently for this Core-class to start, acting pleasant toward those around me. I usually avoid eye contact and small talk at all costs; however, today, I make a concerted effort to not be rude. My usual rule of experiencing the Zen without a side of human is not in force, so I make nice with the person on the mat next to mine. She is quiet and nods to me, careful to keep the respectable two-to-three feet distance between us. Unfortunately, another someone wants very much to be close to me. Too close. But hold that thought. I’ll explain in a minute.
The teeny tiny yoga instructor addresses the class, ascertains who’s new and who’s a regular, then lowers herself ever-so-gracefully onto her mat, without using her hands to aid her descent. She motions for us to lower ourselves to the mat in the same manner. Only one of us succeeds, while the rest of us clunk down with varying degrees of grace. My degree is the square root of zero. There is no slow, measured movement into a sitting position for me. I’m lucky I don’t throw my back out. I bend at the waist, hunker my hands down on the mat then let my ass hit the floor, stifling a grunt in the process. An elephant wearing a tutu possesses more grace than I. A+ for effort, though! Okay, I’m seated.
One minute down, fifty-nine to go.
I can’t help but laugh at her next words. They might have been “Sit down and get settled on your sitz bone,” but all I heard was “Sit on your sitz” and I smile. And so I sit on my sitz. Look at me! Sitting on my sitz. I’m sitzing! Haha! How funny is that? NOT FUNNY This is a serious transmeditational class, for god’s sake… I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my internal mouth to follow suit. Not surprisingly, it doesn’t. It never does. Those two cups of coffee before class were a ba-a-ad idea, but it was either fall down from exhaustion or caffeinate myself to come work out. I cast a smile to the woman on my left. Her eyes are closed. I’m alone in my sitzing, all caffeined and no one to know.
Two minutes down, fifty-eight to go.
Oh boy, this class is going to suck, for the road to Zen is filled with pain. No pain, no gain, right? I’m familiar with this instructor, and she’s murderous on the core. I mean, obviously, look at her. All flat-stomached and settling gracefully on her sitz. I adjust my Namasté in Bed t-shirt to cover my overbaked muffintop and await the next position.
“Ground yourself and your root chakra into the floor.” Ah, the centering of the self. I ground my root chakra into the floor as requested. The instructor contorts herself into a perfect pretzel-like, cross-legged pose, her thumbs and forefingers positioned in a precise loop atop her knees. I try to follow suit, still figuring out how to sit on my sitz as opposed to fidget-on-my-fat ass. This is more difficult than it should be due to the pulling of the groin muscle I did last week getting into pigeon pose. Pigeons don’t have groin muscles, I’m pretty sure, because if they did, they would never, ever strike a pose so ridiculous. Instead of centering, the pain causes me to curse my root chakra and the horse it rode in on. As everyone else in class assumes the peaceful seated pose, I stretch my legs out in front of me and squirm from side to side, unground and not Zenned in the least.
Next, our instructor prompts us to find a focal point six to eight feet in front of ourselves, zero in on the point and then soften our gaze. Supposedly, this is done to relax us. Pinching my thumbs and third fingers together to complete my circles, I will my energy circuit to cooperate. I search for a focal point the requisite six feet in front of me. What I find is far from ideal.
My softened gaze turns to a surly stare, for there, inching toward me in all its furry obnoxious glory, is an eyebrow. A centipede. One of those wiggly waggly insect-like creatures that moves so deftly it creeps out even the Let It Be bug lovers among us. There will be no more grounding for me. I am decidedly unground and halfway to my knees by the time I spy He Who Has Far Too Many Legs inching ever closer.
And now I’m faced with a dilemma. As everyone around me breathes in, breathes out, and exhales all their stale air up through their remaining chakras, mine are in revolt. I maintain perfect silence, swallowing my need to scream bloody murder while the segmentally hairy one proceeds to taunt me. He not only senses my fear, he is quite resolute in his mission to terrorize me. His little legs swish-swish-swish back and forth, to and fro, his combat boots marching in perfect goosestep formation toward my mat. This is no time for grounding. No time for root balancing, breathing serenely or remaining on my knees.
This is time for war.
The others in the class lift their arms and encircle their heads, breathing deeply and releasing all that stale energy from the depths of their bellies. I scramble backwards, inching my mat closer to the wall as Sergeant Centipede marches on, gunning for me, a triumphant trumpet protruding from his horny antennaed head. It’s not reveille I hear. It’s a battle cry. Ten-hut…. Charge!
I stifle a shriek. This is no longer yoga. It’s No-ga. As in, this is No Way to Namasté. I must escape. I must duck, bob and weave in order to stay out of Sherman’s March to the Seat of Mary’s root chakra. I hazard a look around and nobody else has noticed Mr. Brow. Nobody. I am alone on this battlefield. But make no mistake. I will not concede. If the Brow don’t retreat, I must get on my feet.
Which I do. We move to our second position. I am still nowhere near grounded. Stepping on the ‘pede is not an option, because despite its aggressive actions, I have a personal policy of not harming nature as long as it doesn’t bite, sting or infect me with disease. And so far, so good.
As the instructor brings us onto our feet in a splayed leg stance, the transition to warrior pose is underway. I pray the Brow takes notice. This Yogan is not taking any shit from a hairy insect-like creature. Not today. Not ever. Discreetly, I lift my mat and drop it back down, hoping to thwart Brow’s advances. The effect is minimal. The thwop of the rectangular magic carpet merely garners mild attention from my neighboring yogalites, the Brow unconvinced to alter his intended warpath. Now the tiny trumpets blare louder, and I spy a skull and crossbones flag, the Jolly Roger waving side to side in his miniscule hands. Or feet. At this point, they’re all goosestepping so fast I can’t tell one appendage from the other.
The class lunges left, I inch right. With my feet pointed to the corners of my mat and my torso in a slight plié, I strike. I poise my right foot a là Karate Kid, Muwagi would certainly be proud of my balance. I prepare to toe-flick the charging eyebrow into oblivion. Lucky for the Brow, and everyone else, my feet are still encased in socks. I’m not one of *those* yoga students who flaunt their lower filanges. Feet are gross. Although come to think of it, that’s what this bugger deserved. To be flicked in the face with an angry, calloused big toe, to be pummeled with my piggies, uppercut with my underpedals. Kicked in his little eyebrow face with my little hammerhead podiatral protrusions.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m still lunging, still poised to strike. I flick. I falter. And I fall. He heads in the other direction. For one second. Then the multipedal mongrel resumes his encroachment. Until I flick again. And with one large burst from my lips, I blow on him afterwards for good measure.
It is then, and only then, he stills, perhaps stunned at my boldness. For the next forty minutes, he neither advances nor retreats. But don’t think for one moment I have achieved any sort of victory. I am still, after all, in a Core yoga class, and my instructor has no mercy. With one eye on the Brow the entire time, I work my core.
“We crunch, we twist, we bend and bow.
Maybe my breath has killed the poor eyebrow. “
Alas, I am wrong.
At the end of class, there is usually a seated pose or some sort of relaxation technique to allow our muscles to absorb what they’ve just learned. And usually, I choose child’s pose. But not tonight. No child’s pose, for this is no longer child’s play. This is all-out war, because the Satanic Brow has sprung back to life, defying all odds. It rears up, waving the flag with more determination than ever. Like Fred Flintstone gearing up for a marathon, the peddling of his hundred feet on the ground alerts me to his nearness, and he’s more determined than ever to mount my mat, and possibly, one of my limbs.
I Am So Outta here.
For all intents and purposes (translation: ouch), my class is over. I shuffle my mat and my sore core to the door, and silently tell the bug to namastay the hell away from me. And that, my friends, is the non-climactic and non-moral end to a very hairy story.
(And if you’re wondering how I know the eyebrow is a boy? Really? A girl eyebrow would have been tweezed… duh)
P.S. The next week, same class, there was neither an I nor an Eyebrow in yoga. But there was a spider, who wantonly walked her way across the ceiling at a very respectable distance. Dealing with 92 fewer legs? Zentastic.
(This trip happened a while ago but took me several months to work through the PTSD incurred by it and so the delay in posting.)
A vacation. A short but honest-to-goodness vacation. Something I’ve saved my pennies for and feel a quiver in my liver merely thinking about. Vacationing alone, venturing out to parts unknown. This is going to be epic. A true spiritually enlightening island getaway. I want to do yoga on the beach and meditate to the sound of crashing waves while Zenning the fuck out.
With no sleep, Friday morning at 3 AM, I start preparing, stuffing my low-carb feast of frozen protein bars, little plastic containers of cashews and pouches of beef jerky into every available nook of my carry-ons. Going to stay as focused and carb-free as possible. By 4:30, I’m out the door, on the way to Midway Airport.
With two backpacks perched on my shoulders, I queue up for the security check. Which is when I realize, my itinerary is not an actual boarding pass. This is perhaps the first sign of impending doom, but ever the optimist, I surged on, obtaining my pass from a kiosk and returning to the line. They wave me through Security with only a nod so I gain back most of the time I lost. Although I’m one of the last ones to board, a chorus of angels sings to me when I see one of the few seats left is nestled between Hottie-One and Hottie-Two. Yes, please.
To my left, Hottie-One resembles Jake Gyllenhaal, and to my right, just some random manform of beauty. Doesn’t matter. He’s older than thirty and he’s cute. Works for me. I’m not that picky anymore. Except… wait…. Hottie-Two decides he doesn’t like sunlight in his eyes while he’s trying to sleep, and he closes the window shade. Seeing my disappointment, he faces me. “I’d like to close it, but I can keep it open during takeoff if you’d like.” I barely hear this because his eyes, and, damn, …. I’d like. To keep it open. Um, what? Close your mouth, Lauren. And stop drooling.
After our initial ascent, the window shade plummets, and so do his eyelids. At least now I can stare without him knowing it. I pull out my laptop and start to read a romance manuscript that a fellow writer friend from Texas has recently asked me to critique. I’d heard everything is bigger in Texas and according to her novel, that is a correct assumption.
And, oh, critique I do. While I drool. And try to cover the screen as I highlight and type “OMG this is Hot!” about ten times in rapid succession. Poor Hottie-One (aka H-One) is working on a fossil fuel presentation while I sit here ensconced in some serious Hot-For-Teacher action, the lead student character halfway to O-Town and me trying not to squirm in my middle seat. At least I’m afforded the pleasure of rubbing elbows with H-One and H-Two on several only slightly accidental occasions. But, alas, the flight ends. H-One and H-Two-Oh-It’s-a-shame-I’ll-never-see-you-again both disperse. *Sigh.*
I have about an hour and a half to kill until I board my second flight from Ft. Lauderdale to Nassau, Bahamas. I’m so enamored with this manuscript I’m reading, I don’t even care that once again, I’m one of the last passengers to board the aircraft. Somehow, I snag a window seat, disrupting a man who clearly figured that sitting on the aisle would secure him his own row. Think again, bucko. He’d be nice-looking if he weren’t wearing a scowl of general disdain for everyone who dare make eye contact.
“Excuse me.” He shoots me a harried glance, then grudgingly stands up and lets me through. “Thank you.” No desire to talk to this man and the feeling is obviously mutual. I keep reading the manuscript and blush to myself while I thoroughly enjoy the story. Once we get close to the Bahamas, I forget the manuscript and begin taking lots of pictures documenting the beauty of the islands. Such blue water! I can’t wait to go swimming.
The Nassau airport is beautiful. Slightly confusing, but using O’Hare all my life has prepared me to not panic when bombarded with a million signs and placards. The twin-engine plane to Andros Island is easy to find and off I go. But, damn. It’s a short, stuffy little plane. And smelly. And hot as hell. God knows what is coating the windows. I drag a napkin out of my backpack and after a few swipes, the greenish-brown film is lifted and I snap some more pictures. Unfortunately, it has started to rain. Hard.
Shaky flight but I love adventures. We disembark in the middle of the runway, all of us huddling quickly into the airport as we get soaked. It’s almost 4 PM and I’m tired, hot, and hungry. Paul Simon’s I Can Call You Betty, and Betty when you call me, you can Call Me Al trolls through my mind as I feel like a bit like scattered cattle in the orphanage marketplace… don’t ask me to recall the correct lyrics. I can barely think straight. Someone official-looking notices a rain-soaked foreigner with a glazed countenance and takes mercy on me, guiding me to a “taxi” and a woman I can barely understand who drives me to my destination.
Let’s call that destination OMiFuNo. As in, Out in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere. I chitchat with the woman driver all the way, and she assures me she will be back on Monday morning at 6:45 to pick me up and take me back to the airport. The next 60 hours are reserved for fun! Yea!
It’s too late to go down to the beach, and it’s too dark with rainclouds, and holy sheet, the mosquitos are threatening to lift me off the ground. I talk to the nice man named Freeman in the office/dining area of the OMiFuNo Lodge, and he prepares me a “salad.” I did request lettuce and cheese and dressing, and that is what exactly what I got. No more, no less. The man did his best but I suppose the difference between the Salads of the U.S. of A and what I was presented with surprised me. And not in a good way. Torn iceberg lettuce leaves with a garnish of American cheese sliced in crude triangles decorating the outer edges of the plate. Low-carb at its basest.
But I am tired, and Freeman is kind. Although TripAdvisor had encouraged me to think of this place as a little nugget of paradisal wonder, the OMiFuNo Lodge seems deserted except for me and three scrawny stray cats. Tossing some beef jerky down for them, I trudge to my room and flop down on my bed. I eat one of my protein bars while scratching my insect bites furiously and look forward to my Saturday morning snorkeling adventure.
An hour later, I’m zoned out. Here I laze, in Room 3 at OMiFuNo’s Lodge. Still wired from twelve hours of travel, I can’t sleep. And I’ve never felt so alone. Or, perhaps I have, although since all we ever really have is “now,” it’s a moot point. Everything is Now. I feel alone. Now. Purposeless. Except for writing my romance novels, which today does not seem like such an important accomplishment. I wax philosophic. It’s all I have to do since I can’t get the tv remote to cooperate. And my cellphone gets zero reception. Lah, dee… Dah. Boredom.
A truly fitful night of barely legitimate shut-eye ensues, thanks to the million bug bites screaming out for the scratch of a fingernail. Why I’m so melancholy is beyond me. Sixty percent of my skin is covered in mildly poisonous insect saliva and I’m aggravated because the nearest store is several miles away, and that anti-itch cream I brought? Oh, wait a minute. No. I brought copious amounts of shampoo and conditioner in my 2 oz. airline regulation bottles. Because there are just so many people here to impress with my luscious locks.
Scratched to high heaven and feeling dejected, I await my daily adventure. I take a shower and eat some Freeman-inspired scrambled eggs, bacon, and few bites of toast, and one smidge of fruit jelly. Freeman has been most cordial although I admit, I only understand about half of what the man says. His accent is very “tropical.” He drives me the mile to my snorkel site. Jesse, his uber-thin wife Chelsea and their two small children (plus dog) boat me out to several small reefs and blue holes. The snorkeling here is nothing compared to my experience in St. John, St. Kitts, or Dominica, but I try to enjoy the view regardless.
And in an earnest effort to enjoy the Now of my island adventure, I accept the experience for what is was, which comes served with slight humiliation of the ultimate Baywatch couple watching me beach myself, belly-first, onto their tiny boat after each of the four dives. Why the boat doesn’t have a ladder irks me but when your life revolves around scuba diving, swimming in vast oceans, and maintaining perfect bikini bodies, who needs stairs? The third self-launching onto the boat is hard because for some reason, my arms are already aching. However, I eventually hoist myself up, refusing to be embarrassed. Yes, I’ve got 20-odd pounds on me that refuse to leave but whatever. It’s me. And I’m OMiFuNo, remember? I just don’t GAF.
When I regain my footing on the boat the fourth and final time I dive, my reception borders on cruel, and although unintentional and innocent, takes a great deal of ignoration on my part. Their five-year old son looks me over and exclaims, “You are very fat!” At first, I thought I heard him incorrectly, because dammit, I’m not that fat. And screw you, privileged child. I bite my quivering lip and admonish myself.
WTH is wrong with you? You just internal-voice-insulted a kid who weighs all of forty pounds dripping wet…
I see his father turn abruptly and say something to him. I also see his mom shoot her husband a questioning glance, quietly telling him to admonish his son for his proclamation. I internalize my shock, speaking instead to the black Labrador Retriever, Duke. I pet him and ask him to scoot over so I could return my humiliated size 10 ass to the middle of the boat.
Further ignoring the undeserved comment, I converse with Chelsea as Jesse maneuvers toward the shore to conclude my trip. I hop back into the water at OMiFuNo Lodge after I fork over $100 of my favorite dollars and fight hideous amounts of insects to make my way back to my room. I’m exhausted. I try unsuccessfully to take a nap, then make my fat self go for a walk north on Queen’s Highway. Every muscle in my body aches. Upon finding a path to the beach, I start to cry. Surrounded by beautiful ocean and scenery, the awe that I felt while watching the shoreline from the plane has vanished. My sense of beauty as a sole and fulfilling experience has evaporated. My soul hurts.
It’s not just the kid insult. It’s…. everything. Even swimming in the ocean, my joy plummets as the fresh fingernail-scratch marks sting in the salt water. After lounging in the turquoise surf, verging between sniveling and feeling oh so lonely, my soul cries out silently for a connection with somebody, anybody I could find to soothe my lonesomeness, I succumb to despair. Feeling unworthy and fat and generally very hungry and tired and sad… Why the hell do I feel this way? I’m supposed to be having FuN. Zenning the fuck out. And I don’t like kids anyway. Where’s my goddamn yoga mat?
Screw you guys. I’m going home. In the shower, I take notice of more large welts on my skin. All. Over. Have I really been scratching that much? Using the spotty internet reception and my laptop, I research “skin irritation after swimming in Bahamas” and discover that there is currently a large concentration of jellyfish larva in the water. And really, I should have, of course, thought of that before jumping into a sparkling clear turquoise ocean. Because, duh.
I have two and a half hours to kill before meeting Freeman outside. He took pity on my hunger and asked me out for dinner at a restaurant a few miles away. I can’t wait. I hadn’t had more than bare minimum carbage in the past two days and my energy is dwindling. And then it hits me. That’s why I am so depressed and feeling so desolate. My body needs bare minimum 20 carbs per day to operate and when I tallied up what I had eaten in the past 48 hours, I couldn’t come up with more than 30. No wonder I feel dead inside. Melancholia solved.
Anyway, Freeman takes me and a few friends to a bar which blares loud music and boasts a buffet. I stuff my face with chicken and macaroni and cheese, and thanks to a nice man named Matt, didn’t spend a dime. The locals are also nice enough to load me up with plenty of insecticide since they see all the red welts on my skin. Matt even slips me a small bag of Ruffles and a Coke when he kisses my cheek goodbye. Island folk sure are generous. And slightly grabby. (Eat your heart out, Chelsea!) Back to my room, where although I am sticky and slimy with bug spray, I sit, tapping away a diary entry at my keyboard.
Undoubtedly the locals had no idea that my sadness consumed me this afternoon, but somehow, their souls heard mine lament its loneliness, and the universe answered my silent requests for company. It really does amaze me sometimes how Ask and You Shall Receive operates. What-fucking ever. Pass me the rest of those goddamn potato chips.
After another shower to rid myself of excess DEET, I lie down in bed and try to sleep. It’s only 830 PM and sleeping this early is foreign to me, except that by basking in potato starch, my mind is adrift on a sea of insulin. And itch. Itch. Itchy, itchy, itchtastic — why the fuck am I so itchy? It almost feels like something’s crawling on me. Flipping the light back on, I inspect the bed. Don’t notice anything, but take out the extra bedspread in the closet and sleep on top of it just in case. Maybe it’s still the jellyfish larva residue on the sheets.
The next day is a hiking adventure with a wonderful lady named Barb. She takes me through jungles and (almost) into caves and we swim in an inland blue hole. Very, very relaxing. Soothes my skin. And my desire for companionship, for Barb is a naturist and wonderful conversationalist as well. Unfortunately, by the time she drops me off back at OMiFuNo Lodge, the thunderclouds have rolled in and a wicked storm is brewing. Even the stray cats scramble to hide from the ferocious wind.
Having finally figured out the television remote, I have also figured out that the tv only receives one channel. And, lucky me, it’s a political channel that airs in-depth views of all the political heavy-hitters from elections season in a two-hour repeat loop. Just what I wanted to watch on my vacation. But then zzzzzzzt.
Power’s out. As in, there’s not a single light on anywhere. It’s pitch black inside as well as out and it’s only 5 PM. The wind whips up and howls outside, and any thoughts of dinner of any kind are erased because Freeman had mentioned earlier that if the storm was too bad he wouldn’t be able to make it back to the lodge. And so I’m alone. Again. Naturally.
Alone and really, really hungry. One pouch of beef jerky left, one 2 oz serving of cashews. My low-carb vacation is doing wonders for me as I’m sure I’ve already lost that 20 pounds from yesterday just by hiking and swimming so much today. Alas, I am exhausted and decide an hour’s nap during the rainstorm would be wise. And so I lie down.
And… itch, itchy, itchiness to the nth degree… This is no jellyfish larva issue. I swam in freshwater blue holes today. This has to be something in the bed. Sure enough, I lift the fresh sheets that I’ve just fitted on the mattress this morning and find several black dots courtesy of my phone screenlight. These are not the previously feared bedbugs. These are Fleas. I should know. I see this all the time. I even worked at a flea control company at one point in my contiguous United States life. I know flea poop on sight. Great for a résumé. Bad for the Now.
Because Now, along with an enormous thu-thu-thu-thunder and lightning storm outside, there’s still no electricity, my laptop’s dead, my cellphone still has no reception, and I can’t lie down on the bed. I don’t want to take a shower in the dark amid Psycho fears, and Freeman isn’t on the property. I hear howling outside. Animal? Human? Can’t tell. Not sure I want to know.
I double-check the lock on the door, and sit down in the rather uncomfortable chair that has been provided. After a mindless amount of time and several unsuccessfully attempts to meditate and bring myself to the unattainable state of bliss I so desperately desire, I give up. I surrender to the Now and suddenly, zzzzzzzzt. Power’s back on. I immediately plug in my laptop, thinking, if all else fails, I can email someone directions on how and where to find my mangled insect-ravaged, carbless carcass in the morning. Fuck the Now. The Now sucks ass.
Looking at my phone, whose only purpose is to mark the passage of ungodly desolate time on this godforsaken island of doom, I remark there are twelve hours til morning, when my taxi driver will return to take me away from this decidedly unZen-like paradise.
The tv hums with political ad after political ad, sandwiched in between shows about Trump and Hilary and Bernie. My mouth waters at the mere thought of sandwiches. I try to arrange myself on the chair and not salivate while thinking of peanut butter and jelly. Of fried bologna with mustard. A BLT. Any sort of any food-like substance crushed between two slices of thick crusty bread sounds heavenly.
Upon tearing open the last of my food stash, I cringe, biting off another mouthful of teriyucky jerky. Filling my stomach is great but now that I’m aware of my high-protein fatigue, my mind spins out of control. I swear at the cashews, snarling insults never before hurled at mere nuts. I have only half a bottle of water left (saving it for an emergency…. does this count yet??) and I don’t dare drink the tap water. One huge clap of tumultuous thunder and the tv fizzles and Yea! Power’s out again! I’m this close to throwing the door open and tearing off into the black night screaming Love Reign O’er Me. Over me, over me, over me, Whaaaoah!
Yet I don’t. Because the stray cats are outside. I know they are. Like Cujo, they probably wait perched outside the door, salivating. They have no doubt provided me with the fleas that infest my room and make my skin crawl. They’re not getting any more sustenance from me! Traitors. An hour of pacing my room later, I try again to mount an attack on sleep while perched against the desk. The mosquitoey histamine crawls across my skin, robbing me of more than a minute of peace, and the intense prickling sting of flea bites is enough to drive me over the edge.
Except, I’m too tired to even drive to the edge. Defeated, I stare in the dark at a blank tv screen. Until 3 AM, when it lights up anew, ready to treat me to the reruns of the same Trump, Hilary and Bernie shows I avoided watching earlier. Delirium is setting in. It kicks off its shoes and rests its feet on my back while I sit cross-legged in the chair, rocking autistically, cursing Travelocity and its promise of utopian serenity. The insect bites on my back become unbearable. And I can’t reach them to scratch because my arms are still sore from hauling my fat ass onto the Baywatch boat yesterday, never mind the additional swimming today.
In my desperation, I smear tartar-control toothpaste on the end of my unused snorkel tube and reach around, swiping it across the itchiest parts of my back. Jacques Cousteau, eat your heart out. The dim promise of sunrise cracks through my window as minty freshness bathes my blistered back. It’s 6 AM and I’ve decided to at least take a shower to get ready for a long day of travel. I still have plenty of shampoo and conditioner! I use the bathroom and flush the toilet. The water sucks away and doesn’t return. Perplexed, I go to wet my toothbrush when I notice a parade of no-see-um bugs (which ironically, I see in droves). They trek across the entire bathroom wall from the door to the vanity and down the sink drain. I turn on the faucet, intent on drowning at least some of the battalion.
That’s when I discover the water that I had just flushed down the toilet was the last water I would see coming out of any faucet. And so, no shower. Just one lone, half-filled bottle of Dasani I had managed to squander. And so, ravenously hungry, no-doubt dehydrated, desperately over-tired, and still somewhat itchy, I bathe myself with 8 ounces of water. Don’t ask. At 6:40, dressed and peering out my window, begging the universe to keep in mind my flight leaves in an hour and a half, I hear the toilet lurch. Curious, I twist the sink faucet. And hey! Water’s back on! So glad Freeman warned me about the nightly drought… Too late to take a shower, though.
The lady in the van pulls up and I cast a weary glance back at the stray cats, nod to Freeman and thank him for being such a gracious host. Not his fault the OMiFuNo Lodge sucks and I’ve just spent fifteen minutes furiously shaking everything out, determined to omit any fleas from my luggage. En route to the island airport, I fantasize about purchasing some vending machine food. Until I get there and realize I just tipped the taxi driver with the last of my cash and now only have my debit card, which they don’t accept. Because, why would they? That would have left me with more than one happy memory of my trip here. My stomach gurgles for another hour until my stinky stuffy plane deposits me back in Nassau.
I’ve never been happier to see an airport in my entire life. After stalking the Wendy’s the minute I land, I scarf down a whole breakfast sandwich and hash browns. I drink an entire 24 oz. bottled water. Carb me, baby! I scope out a bank of leathery chairs and sprawl my belongings out over them, hoping to catch a few zzz’s before my flight to Fort Lauderdale in four hours.
Thinking I’ll set my alarm so I don’t sleep through any boarding calls, I fiddle with my phone, which has, of course, ceased functioning. I take out the battery and restart, only to discover my device has morphed into a Way-Back machine. The time and date displayed is 9:12 PM on November 4, 2012. Have I lost that much sleep? Am I hallucinating? Then the vibrating starts. One text message, two, twelve, seventeen. All the texts from that date in 2012 feed into my small unreliable handheld piece of crap I call a Smartphone. And I’m supposed to rely on this thing to wake me up?
Near tears, I attempt sleep, hoping to God my internal clock will rouse me in time for my flight. But I never actually fall asleep. Because I’m still scratching every available inch of flea-bitten skin I own. Boarding to Fort Lauderdale on a Sunday crunches me with a full flight and other exhausted adults so no window seats and definitely no numbered Hotties. I settle my backpacks between my legs and try not to appear too catatonic.
This is when the itching reaches fever pitch. I feel something biting my ankle. I must be delirious. I bend down to inspect my lower shin, and discover a small red bite. One of those little fuckers has hopped aboard and is now terrorizing me, just when I escaped from Hell Island for good. Over the course of the next two and a half hours, I would endure at least 7 other bites, courtesy of some little six-legged varmint who will be meeting his violent death by insecticide as soon as I get home.
Which I arrange, happily. At around 9 PM. Dusting myself off, I race inside and fetch a can of flea spray (yes, I have these on-hand due to my profession as at times, I bring fleas home from client houses). I open the trunk and aerosize a bigly amount of poison over my belongings. I don’t even care if it ruins anything. That little sucking fucker needs to die.
Stripping naked in front of my washing machine, I boil all garments on the whitest whites setting while I shower with the remaining tepid water and rinse my tears down the drain with glee. I’ll never curse my home sweet home again. I have water. I have food. I have electricity. What I end up not having is a flea-less bed, because somehow I’m still being bitten two days later.
Another round of insecticide ensues, but the nightmares continue for a few more days. I eulogize my snorkel tube while I pitch it in the trash, coated with crusted dentifrice. It’s been a spectacular aid in the war on unreachable itchies.
And so finally, easing back into the workweek, I receive my usual fair share of telemarketing calls. On Wednesday, I’m going through the McDonald’s drive-thru about to order a bunless double-cheeseburger when I answer yet another call. A robovoice informs me I have just won an all-expense-paid vacation to Paradise Island in the Bahamas.
I press End Call and proceed to order a Big Mac and fries.