“I’m finally, after three months, getting my brows waxed at lunch today,” I announced to the other copy editors in my row. “Three months! It’s not like me to let myself go like this.”
They stared at me a bit.
I’ma go ahead and tell you right now, I’m not like other copy editors. If you wanna be Michael Jackson about it.
Other copy editors, and I think I speak from experience as this is my 22nd year of doing this job, tend to be more, well, low-key than me. I don’t even know why I’m a copy editor. Yes, I do. Marvin told me to be one, in 1997. I’m a copy editor cause of Marvin. Marvin also told me to be a blogger in 2006 and that’s why I am. Now that Marvin’s not here anymore, who’s gonna tell me what to be?
Anyway, I’ve let myself go, mostly due to my move, and I told the other copy editors this pertinent fact.
“I’m looking at you right now, in full makeup and hair, with giant earrings and cute shoes, talking about how you’ve let yourself go,” said another copy editor, who by the way was wearing a skirt with little proofreader’s symbols all over it and I COVET IT.
Nevertheless, I persisted with my theory, and stampeded to the brow wax salon and got properly groomed. It didn’t take long, so I had time to dash in and pick up something for lunch before heading back. Food, yay!
There’s a new restaurant in town that’s supposed to be healthy. Naturally, Ned had a city-wide parade to commemorate its opening. Naturally, I’ve never even considered going there.
But go there I did, post-brows, because it was less than a block away and my other nearby choice was Hardee’s. I considered walking to said healthy place, but there are no sidewalks. So I drove a few buildings down, turned left
and entered hell.
It was like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, without the fun. There was plenty of screaming and vomiting and Ryan Seacrest, though. The ENTIRE WORLD was in that tiny parking lot, and you couldn’t turn around, or leave, or do anything really except hope everyone ate and digested and left so you could finally do ANYTHING with your car long about 3 p.m.
I ended up going the wrong way down a back alley, which sums up my life, and parking in another parking lot that warned I’d be towed if I weren’t going to that particular restaurant. Oh, I wanted them to try. Oh, how I did. Because you’d have read today about how a middle-aged woman with giant hair and good brows disemboweled the entire car-towing industry with the foil edge of her contacts container. It’s all I have in my purse to disembowel anyone. I’ve thought it over.
I walked ON THE STREET to get to the restaurant, and when I entered, it was one of those places where you curl around the outer rim of the store and order at a counter, like Ponderosa only without any fun steak or pudding. My choices included a lot of quinoa and kale, two of the saddest words in our language.
And oh, did the white ladies love this place. Who ARE you women in yoga pants at noon? Why don’t you have to work? Also, if you don’t have to work, MUST you stream into restaurants between noon and 1:00? You’re already a trophy wife. You win. Let us have our goddamn lunch hour. We get ONE HOUR A DAY. Let us have it without waiting for a parking space, a waiter and a table.
When I began that line yesterday, I still had a glimmer of hope left for my future. By the time I left, I had the haunted look of those miners who were trapped for weeks.
Finally, after 12 hours, there was only one person left ahead of me, and she was a simply beautiful young girl with smooth hair and slender legs that didn’t touch in the middle. She had on those ankle boots all girls under 30 insist on wearing, and while I’ve caved and bought some, I always feel vaguely like chubby Peter Pan in them. Peter Pan if he’d let himself go.
The entire time she waited in line, Slenderella, over there, Puss in Boots, up yonder, crossed one booted ankle behind the other.
Why? Why do you need to do that? How are you even balancing? And furthermore, why?
When she got to the counter,
are you holding onto your hat?
When she got to the counter, she MADE A CALL. I could not hear what she was saying, but she had 8 million questions for the beleaguered person behind the counter. The ENTIRE WAY UP that endless line are little signs and menus telling you where EACH DAMN PIECE of food is sourced from, and how everything’s made, and what allergens are in them, so WHAT did Bootenanny need to know that HADN’T BEEN ANSWERED IN THAT ENDLESS LINE?
She stayed on the phone the entire time, like she was at a Christie’s auction, ankles crossed, and I envisioned fricassee-ing her on the hot surface behind the counter. Hog-tying her would have been easy; she was already halfway there.
I got a chicken bowl with purple rice (why?) (the rice probably crosses its ankles when it stands) and black beans and avocado and resentment and WAY WAY WAY WAY too much lettuce. No one needs that kind of lettuce in their life. No one.
Anyway, I got back to work IN A MOOD, and can anyone else tell me if this bothers them or if I’m just a cross (ankled) person in general…
If you eat at your desk, does it bug you when people want to discuss what you have? We sometimes have food trucks at work, and inevitably, someone will say, “Oh! Is that from the food truck?”
No. I brought a cheeseburger and fries from home and placed them in this handy open cardboard container. It’s a wonder it’s all still hot, isn’t it?
I got to my desk, did I mention in a MOOD? And poor Fewks, the guy next to me, was all, “Eating healthy today?”
Guess who did not have good health after that. Was it disemboweled Fewks?
It probably would have been better for my blood pressure to go to Hardee’s.