It was 9:01 Saturday morning.
“hullo,” I said, half awake and also trying to be as dramatic about it as possible.
“Oh! Did I wake you?!” asked my mother. She was cheerfully driving through an ice storm, because in Michigan an ice storm is just part of your day.
“yes,” I said, striving for drama, which might as well be my mission statement.
“I thought you’d be at work already,” she said, spinning 360 degrees on the ice and continuing on, waving at abominable snowmen.
“It’s Saturday,” I pointed out, noting Edsel dragging himself tiredly to my pillow, mouthing “wtf.” Even he knew what day it was.
“Oh, right. When you’re retired, all the days are the same,” said mom, as she slipped on her crampons so she could traverse the parking lot to get my stepfather.
I know what crampons are because Marvin made me watch 39493494 Mt. Everest documentaries before I finally had to divorce him. I finally had to see the other side of the mountain.
My stepfather, who is smart and so forth, goes to philosophy club every Saturday. No one called off said club due to the, you know, ICE STORM because Michigan.
“Oooo, my windshield is getting frozen over!” my mother said cheerfully.
So I got out of bed. It was the least I could do while the rest of my family was in the cast of Frozen.
Oh, and before I forget: On Friday I took Lily to work, as you do, because we had a photoshoot.
She was the only cat there. There was also a guinea pig in a skirt who killed me. Not literally. Anyway, Lily did SO WELL. “My cat would be calling the authorities if I’d brought her,” everyone said. Not Lily. She was all, “nother day on set. yawnz.”
“shoot me like one of your french fries.”
“lileee not get out of bed for less than 15,000 treets.”
Anyway, afterward she made out with The Other Copy Editor’s Pomeranian.
Oh my god, they loved each other. The saw the floof in one another. Namasfluffay.
Anyway. Back to being awakened at an ungodly hour Saturday.
So since I was up, I headed to Belt, as my mother called it once and I can’t let it go, but really it’s called Belk. I was out of my $3939329 Chanel foundation, which fortunately I only have to buy once a year, but the time was here. I mean, I still had a teensy bit left, but I had to meter it out like gold and it was getting ridiculous.
Almost as ridiculous as being phoned early on a Saturday. It was a pretty good resentment for a Saturday. The regular grouse shuffles in.
And I sit at the bar and put bread in my maw and say man, what’re my hips doing here.
There is little that makes me happier than shopping for makeup, whether I’m at CVS or the fine cosmetic-y rows of Belt. I looked at Urban Decay, like I’m not three decades too old for it. I admired the makeup on the man who sells MAC. Finally, I headed over to Chanel for my let’s-face-it-dowager-our-fun-makeup-days-are-over $393949383 foundation.
But as I made my way, I felt a little click. All morning my leg had kind of been bothering me, but as I wandered Belt, looking at purses and shoes and decaying urban, the click got worse. It felt almost like if I just kicked my knee out straight like I was Flea or something, I’d get it back in place.
I’ll bet Flea still wears Urban Decay.
By the time I’d gotten approved for the loan and made the down payment on my foundation, I was limping out of Belt like Quasimodo, or even Genuinemodo. Oh my god, it was awful.
I’d been to my trainer Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday of last week. I musta knocked something out of place or something. I was loath to alert my trainer, even though she always says to alert her should something like this happen. But she’d just sent her daughter off to Africa, as you do, for a semester. Like, that day she’d sent her.
Because I am sensitive, I texted her anyway.
“Oh, no!” she wrote back immediately, ignoring her child’s goodbyes. Then she told me to do some stretches.
I went home and did them. Then?
Sunday morning. 8 a.m.
“How’s your knee?” asked my trainer, and that is when I killed everyone and now I am completely alone but at least I can sleep in on a goddamn weekend.