The water beats down around me. It washes away sweat, sweat that is beginning to dry and would leave a fossil-trail of salt if it weren’t for the outpouring of hot water around me. I’m still sweating. I feel my face red and hot and looking like a heart attack. I need to shave. I’m going to wear a skirt today. The hair on my legs will not do. I lather up the left leg. I shave off the little weeds that poke up from under my skin. I lather up the right leg. I begin the trawling of my razor up my calf. I’m halfway through the right leg when there is a little tapping on the thick plastic door that separates me from the rest of the gym.
“Hello?!” I peak out the inch or so I have cracked open the shower door.
A lady in a gym uniform calmly and with authority informs me that the fire alarm has gone off. “You have to get out now.”
“You’re kidding, right?.”
The smile she gives me tells me that she is not kidding and that she is sorry she has caught me so ill-prepared.
“Would you like a bathrobe?”
Duh. Of course.
“That would be great. Thanks!”
As I wrap my hair in my towel, turban style and slip into the terry cloth robe provided by the uniformed gym lady, I hear the very same uniformed gym lady informing some other hapless showerer that their daily hygienic routine must come to an abrupt halt. My fellow showerer* does not take it with the same pleasant grace with which I greeted the news. I hear a woman’s voice raised in consternation. I don’t make out the exact words, but surmise that the uniformed gym lady has just been told to fuck off.
So burn in hell if you want.
I have time to slip my feet into my sandals, which I’ve uncharacteristically left out of my locked locker and neatly tucked under the changing bench. Head in towel, body in dressing gown, feet in sandals, I shuffle through the mysterious tunnel which I never knew until this moment existed and is the path to save oneself from burning alive.
Out on the street the sun is shining.
Thank god it’s warm.
The pavement is littered with other homegym-less types. 2 or 3 others dressed like me. A number of sweaty men and women standing idly in track shorts, trainers. Across the road on the other pavement I see a couple – a trainer and a whatever you call a person who receives personal training – carrying on with their personal training session. One of those two was clever enough to have brought the dumbbells out with them.
I haven’t anticipated my current state of self-consciousness. Whilst robing up I didn’t think anything about stepping out in the wardrobe dictated by the current circumstance. Just minutes ago my attitude was a shrug of the shoulders. Now, in the glare of the sun, I feel like a joke of a sun myself. All eyes on me, the centre of this little solar system of outcast athletes. I don’t know where to look. I look up. I look down at my toes. I realise how incongruous my sandals look with the white terry cloth robe.
These shoes don’t match.
Despite my relative discomfort, I see the humour in my present situation. I don’t have any super duper important meetings first thing this morning, so a wrinkle in my routine won’t put my nose out of joint. It’s like a scene in a movie.
* As in had been showering at the same time as me; NOT as in had been showering with me
I ignored the intention I had had 5 hours earlier when I first woke up and stretched my limbs. The 1/2 full . . .
1/2 empty – all depending on how you look at it!
. . . bottle of wine beckoned when I opened the refrigerator. I paused. The bell peppers were my immediate objective. Tesco had over-delivered and Petunia had under-used the fresh vegetables in her refrigerator. The ritual of weekend food consolidation between our two households resulted in my having to deal with 1 green, 3 red, and 2 orange bell peppers. A recipe that had sat in storage in a basement in middle-America for the first 5 years of my life in England would help me take care of the 2 red and 2 of the orange capsicums, a word I have never before used.
I wavered.
I took out the requisite peppers, left the refrigerator door open as I placed them on the kitchen counter, pulled the ½ empty / ½ full bottle of wine from it’s pocket in the refrigerator door, opened the kitchen cupboard where the wineglasses are kept, and poured myself a glass of white to keep me company while I split the peppers in half.
It was 12 o’clock.
I have nothing against a midday glass of wine. I suppose what concerns me is my flagrant snubbing of my very own intentions. At the moment I stood in front of the open refrigerator door whilst the wine beckoned, I did not take the time to process the justifications for my wayward behaviour.
The bottle is already open. You might as well finish it before the week starts.
It’s Sunday. Today’s your day to relax.
Cooking’s not cooking without a glass of wine.
The justifications had made their case; I suspect I had already known, albeit unconsciously, that I was going to finish that ½ empty bottle of wine even before I opened the icebox.
Best to look at it as ½ empty when you’re looking to finish it off.
I finished the ½ empty bottle before the meal was even ready to eat.
Best pop next door to get a bottle to go with the Bell Pepper Pesto.
Most of the newly acquired bottle went down (my throat*) nicely with the meal. The next thing I remember, the Mista telling me he’s worried about me; the Mista asking, “What kind of person passes out on top of their dog?”
*Petunia tends to drink beer. The Mista abstained.
What the …? Where the …?
Suddenly I was, if not upright, at least fully awake with my head still on the pillow. The panic of not waking up to my wedding band nicely lodged on the appropriate finger got my mind working. I remembered the arduous task of taking off my wedding band and plopping it into my coin purse.
I had to take it off for the Easter flight.
The Mista, Petunia, and I had been talking about this trip for almost a year after we saw the girls on America’s Next Top Model do it. We meant to do it in June, then August, then November. We finally got round to the planning. We did our research, made the booking, and rented the car we needed to get to the exciting destination of Milton Keynes.
I can just about hear the collective gasp of those of you who know anything at all about Milton Keynes. You ask, “Milton Keynes? For God’s sake, why?”
To fly!
I have to admit. I thought it was going to be a rip-off: the price of the rental car. The trip up to Milton Keynes. The general headache of the overall journey. Not to mention the cost of the flight itself. All the cost and aggravation for 2 minutes in the flight chamber. I was poised to pooh-pooh the whole ordeal.
As we sat in a line on the bench in the antechamber, my nerves began to attack my stomach. Despite having agreed that the Mista would go first, somehow Petunia found herself positioned to be the first of our little group, followed by me, followed by the Mista. She got up to enter the chamber, and my heart dropped into my gut. I had to pee.
For Christ’s sake. It’s not like you’re jumping out of a plane!*
My turn came. I focussed on the position as described by the instructor in the “training” session. I floated! I flew! Up and down and side to side! An irrepressible grin consumed my face, much like Butters when she’s running through the high grass at Hyde Park.
All the aggravation, the price of the car, the price of the flight: all worth it. I want to go back!
My wedding band is now back where it should be.
*I have actually properly jumped out of a plane, so the fear of entering the indoor flight chamber strikes me as absurdly irrational.
We got off at Clapham Junction, which was probably a mistake. I hadn’t had a proper look at the map that was attached to the mail that detailed The Plans. I had assumed the Clapham location of Riley’s pool, snooker, and poker club would be easily accessible from Clapham Junction. The Claphams always do this to me: they mislead me into thinking that they are a small, tight-knit group; so tight-knit, I assume that they are one and the same, these Claphams: North and South and Common and Junction. They are deceptive and spread out. In fact North and Common have more in common with Brixton than they do with their distant cousin, Junction.
Petunia and I realised our mistake when we didn’t immediately spot Wandsworth Road outside the Clapham Junction station.
God damn it. Should we have gotten off at Wandsworth Town?
We examined the map hanging behind the plastic glass at the bus stop and wondered aloud where the hell we were going. We had the address but no map. A polite young lady overheard us and told us how we ought to go to get to Clapham Common, but I wasn’t so sure we wanted to go to Clapham Common, so we pretended like we were grateful for her advice then went to wait in the surprisingly long line at the taxi rank.
The guy behind us in the queue was talking to his mate about his allergies.
“Something’s wrong with my nuts.”
I thought I was on the verge of an opportunity to submit to this site, but the vein of the conversation didn’t continue as it had promised. Something about being allergic to grapes, but not believing he could be allergic to grapes because grapes are a fruit and people aren’t allergic to fruit. I don’t believe that; it’s just what the guy said.
We got to Riley’s where we handed the surly-faced lady behind the counter a couple of vouchers we had downloaded from the internet to avoid the £5 pound entry fee for non-members. I wondered if she was just generally irritated or if our avoiding the entry fee had put her face out of joint. A quick look around Riley’s, and I settled on the former. The fluorescent lights, the cheesy purples and blues, the constant sound of balls crashing together, the ugly uniform she had to wear complete with ‘www.poker.com’ embossed above the breast pocket. If Riley’s were a fabric it would be polyester. Not so far off a bowling alley, but less family orientated. If I had to work at Riley’s, I’d be a surly bitch, for sure.
A couple of the guys were already there. I played 3 games and sunk two balls. Pool (billiards, snooker) has never been my thing. The cue doesn’t feel comfortable in my hands: too loose, my shots too gentle, me too conscious of what my ass looks like when I bend over. Nevertheless, I enjoyed it.
I learned Brits don’t say ‘scratch’. The say ‘foul’.
I’m altering my routine and trying to convince myself to go to the gym after work instead of before since 6:00 to 6:30 is now predominantly taken up with playing with the ORGP*
So, I get to work early. I’m the first one here. According to my wristwatch, I’ll be here for 8.5 hours if I leave at 16:30 and don’t take lunch. I never take lunch. I feel guilty even just thinking about leaving before the general exodus. Consequently, the internal justifying works overtime.
I am working longer than I’m obliged to.
I get my work done.
I log on from home and respond to issues.
Fuck it.
I’m out of shape and making what I believe to be extraordinary efforts to make it to the treadmill. I pry myself away from my desk at 16:45, pull on my knapsack, and guiltily bid my colleagues an adieu. I sense my departure raises some eyebrows.
Bastards. Who was logged on and adding value before 8 this morning. Bastards.
I stroll toward my gym. My guilt evaporates somewhere near Covent Garden. I’m actually looking forward to the gym. It’s been a while.
I walk past the aisles of lockers until I reach the last, secluded row. I turn to go to my normal locker space and am stopped dead in my tracks by a bouffant hairdo and a horseshoe tattoo. I don’t believe it. I am quite literally gobsmacked: this is the lady who had graced the Style magazine of the previous days’ Sunday Times.
Holy Crap! Is that? Can it be? It is! It is! It’s a star! A musician! And she’s in her underwear!
Just me and the crooner. She’s getting dressed. I’m getting undressed. Her back is to me. I’m trying not to star, but heck, her back’s to me … she doesn’t know I’m transfixed. She’s on her mobile and talking to someone about an event, an event like a Bar Mitzvah and the press.
I stare unabashedly at her legs. I’m no expert, but the rumours appear to be true: she’s less than thin. I think of the holocaust.
Oh dear.
I want to ask for her autograph, but I’m afraid it might be intrusive.
*Our Rapidly Growing Puppy
Given the fact that I am generally* more patient, and consequently generally more handy, than the Mista, one might imagine that I am generally more adept with our limited supply of tools.
The notion that I use tools well, coupled with the promise (possibly fallacious, possibly irrefutable) that I am a smoking hot babe**, might go some way to explain the disproportionate focus on the drill among the list of my recent purchases. 30% of the whopping 6 commenters*** fixated on the drill, which was only matched by the packet of latex gloves.
Interesting readership. Who are you sick people? 
This got me thinking about men’s fascination with tool-wielding women. Scantily clad, big lipped, even bigger breasted, bombshells should do, no? What is it about putting a tool in her (our) hands that puts a little drool on the gaga-ing of men? Do sexy women really become sexier or is it the promise of someone else taking over the daily drudgery that you men find so appealing?
I hadn’t intended to give it more thought. No academic decomposition of the mysterous workings of the male hypothalamus. No bra-burning feminist bunk on the objectifying of women, for I’m not rankled by the juvenilesque male reaction to female beauty. On the contrary, it makes me laugh.
But, I couldn’t stop my thoughts. Suddenly, it dawned on me: I had done it all wrong.
Shit! What was I thinking?
The Mista and I had just one more picture to hang: an original 1979 poster of Spider-Man in The Dragon’s Challenge.
The handyman called. He couldn’t make it. His car had broken down.
Seemingly out of sympathy for the handyman’s car, the Mista blew a gasket.
“Goddamn it! Why does everything take so expletive long in this expletive country?!!
In a hurry to complete the final touch of our home-decorating project, the Mista and I ventured into unknown territory: the local hardware shop, where we became the tentatively proud owners of a new drill.
And this is where I should have done things differently.
I didn’t send the Mista to the pub to get a nice cold brew. I then didn’t go home where I stripped down to something more comfortable ….
my swimming costume? — no! no! it’s far too utilitarian — my one and only matching bra and pants set, yes! that’s the one!
I didn’t put on a pair of high heels to match the lacey black underwear set. I didn’t grasp the drill in both hands and thrust out my derriere. I didn’t wait in this alluring position so that the Mista would come home to find his drill-bearing, buxom wife getting alluringly ready to drill Spidey.
Again:
What was I thinking?!
No. Rather, the Mista and I walked home together, unpacked the strange new Black and Decker creature, and stood staring as if waiting for something to happen, screwing up our courage. The Mista moved first. He picked up the drill and the funny little attachment that we were told was required. With surprising ease he ‘assembled’ the necessary appendage.
What did I do then, while the Mista swept into action, using another brand new purchase (a leveller) measuring and marking the wall with pencil?
Nothing much. I stood. Dumbstruck.
I was only roused from inaction when the Mista had drill to wall, at which point, I asked, “Aren’t you going to practice outside first?”
I’ll do it differently next time.
*NB: ‘generally’ implies that there are exceptions to the generalisaiton made. That implication, in this case, would be correct. There are indeed occasions (infrequent, yet not to be glossed over) during which the Mista demonstrates far more patience than myself. The Mista’s precise handling of tools would suggest that he actually took Shop. He’s got a certain healthy respect for tools.
**I didn’t make this up! NB: “Clarissa- When I see your comments I picture you as a super hot buxom blond lady with big thick sexy hips and full boobies”
***That’s right: 2. So, you’re good at maths. So, 2 is hardly a representative sample. It’s what I got. I’ve got to work with it.
I used to think I was pretty smart. Not a first rate thinker with original, BIG ideas, but suitably clever. Clever enough to catch a mouse. Or so I thought.
Turns out neither the Mista nor I are that clever.
It took a mouse 2 evenings to teach us that lesson in humility. The cheeky little bastard waited until The Mista and I were well entrenched in our ritual TV viewing, at which point he darted out.
“Did you see him! Shit! What should we do?”
Before our butts had left the sofa, the clever little thing darted back to the safety of the radiator.
“Quick! Get the extra duvet. We’ll throw it on him!”
That was our master plan: to use the guest room duvet like a net.* We didn’t think about what we would do once we caught him. Sometimes it’s better not to plan too far ahead.
We pretended to watch tv, but kept the duvet close at hand. When he crept out, we pounced.
I didn’t realise I could pounce and freak out at the same time.
I can. The Mista was quick to point it out. Just like the pair of woman’s feet that sometimes makes a guest appearance atop a chair on Tom & Jerry.**
Unfortunately, I cannot pounce and freak out AND throw a duvet upon a scurrying mouse all at the same time. I had multiple opportunities to give it a go and failed on each occassion. The Mista, while foregoing on the ‘freaking out’ fared no better. London mice aren’t just clever; they’re impressively fit as well.
The indignity of the situation reached its peak when we let down our guard for just the briefest of moments. We sat watching both the radiator and television when suddenly we felt the presence of our little guest. The little bastard had somehow made it across the room to join us on the sofa.
Unmatched freaking out ensued.
*Guests, you will be glad to know that the mouse was far too quick (or we were far to slow) and, so, the duvet remains suitable for your visits.
**How I surprise myself living up to stereotypes. Egad.
A poor financial year and a vote of the generally disgruntled drones culminates in this sad, scrooge-like state of affairs: the company Christmas party is cancelled.
Management puts it so:
Due to the disappointing 3rd quarter performance, immediate cost saving measures have been evaluated. Beginning immediately, all expense reimbursements will be re-evaluated. Any non-essential spends will be summarily rejected.
Additionally, the seasonal festivities offer The Company an immediate opportunity for immediate reigning in of unnecessary expenditure. Rather than invest unnececssarily in our typical lavish Christmas fete, management propose either to host a modest event (a glass of wine or beer in the canteen) or to gift each employee a modest Christmas bonus, which will be subject to 2005 tax. Because The Company values the input of our employees, we will put this important decision to a vote. Please complete the attached ballot and put it in the voting box in the canteen by COP Friday.
Despite the electoral results (the Employees opted for cold-hard cash in hand regardless of the post-tax measly sum), not all employees of The Company submit to corporate malaise. Somewhere amid the cubicles a cheerful heart still beats; this cheerful heart gets busy organising an unofficial Christmas bash. When management gets wind of the not-so-clandestine affair, they make sure to issue a statement.
The Company is encouraged that its family of employees has pulled together to sponsor a Christmas do. Please note, however, that said event is by no means sponsored or endorsed by The Company. The Company will therefore not be held liable for any misadventure that may result. Furthermore, the use of The Company time or assets (email included) in planning for the event or participation for said event is prohibited.
Wishing all employees a Happy Christmas, The Company.
The cheerful hearts that still beat under corporate servitude gather in the corner of a hastily booked, and thus overcrowded, venue. The wait for a beverage exceeds an acceptable allottment.
Consequently, the revellers order two drinks at time. Oblvious to alchohol content, I double-fist a pair of Stellas.
Consequently, over-inebriation is guaranteed
Consequently, I dance. I sing. I might, in the process, stumble and slur. Just a bit.
By the time my good sense steps in to take me home, the tube has shut for the night. From my cross-eyed perspective, the queue for taxis at Liverpool Street Station stretches for an impossible distance. It will be dawn before I get home.
A colleague in much the same shape as myself joins me in a search for western-headed transport. We walk from Liverpool Street Station to Bank. An all nightbus approaches. It is heading west. I flag it down. My colleague opts to wait for a more certain bus home. We part ways. The bus indeed heads west. But wait!
No! No! NOOOOOOO!
It turns onto Waterloo Bridge. The bastard is heading south, which causes me to dismount and begin the slog back over the bridge back to my original trajectory. The streets here are not full of Christmas cheer. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The cold and quiet have sobered me up. I’m on the lookout for dubious types as well as buses or taxis or some means home.
I walk. I walk. My feet hurt. My bladder hurts. I need to pee. Too much beer in there. Along the embankment. No taxis. No buses. Hurting feet. An urgent need to wee.
Up Villiers to Charing Cross to Trafalgar Square, and I am once again safe, surrounded by others full the Christmas Cheer. I know of a bus that will take me home if I reach Picadilly; but, I really, really do need to wee.
I have no shame (which will become shame tomorrow on the retelling of these events). I find a dark corner south of Picadilly, east of St. James Square. I squat. I adopt a nonchalant pose of someone waiting. I drum my fingers on lips. If anyone spies me, they won’t know what I’m doing.
Ahhhhhhhh.
A shake, and a wipe of the hands on a handy wipe which I happen to carry in my bag, and I´m good as new. I continue my stroll.
In Picadilly, I´m confronted by the smell of grilled onions. I haven´t eaten red meat in over 20 years, but the allure of the onions is too great. I´m drawn to the siren who is selling hot dogs outside the Virgen Mega Store. He smothers a hot dog with onions and mustard and ketchup. I take a bite. Nothing has ever tasted so good.
Shit! There´s the bus.
I look at my lovely hot dog. I look at the bus. I still have no shame. It will come. I board the goddamn bus hot dog in hand. Despite the hour (approaching 4am), the bus is packed. All those revellers heading home. Not one private corner where I can discreetly savour this exquisite treat.
Fuck it.
The guy I sit next to smirks.
Fuck it.
I savour each and every mustardketchuponionisitpork bite. It´s gone. It was delicious.
At home, I´m careful to make little noise as I fumble with keys and slam the door shut and trip over the Mista´s briefcase, which is inconveniently where it always is. I fall into bed where the Mista tells me, ¨You smell of onion.¨
The Company is not liable.
