The one where June says “eye purveyor” like it’s a thing

I am still on the floor, with a mat underneath me, holding my laptop on my, you know, lap. I just got done with m’trainer. But hang on. I gotta get more coffee.

…I have returned. This room is a mess. The mat is splayed across the floor, resistance band on the mantle, weights all over the place. Especially on m’hips. BAHAHAHAHA. I’ll clean it up when I’m done, as I have gotten oddly tidy during this, our break. I’ve been oddly tidy when absolutely no one comes over and sees my oddly tidy house.

My trainer told me a funny story whilst we were stretching today. Years ago, she had a new client and they were walking outside my trainer’s neighborhood. She made me do this too, sometimes slinging weights around like I was a mall walker. Anyway, said client had been through a bad time and had gained a lot of weight. She was telling her story to my trainer, saying how bad she felt about herself and how heavy she’d gotten.

“BE QUIET, CHUBS!” said my trainer, then looked in the horrified face of her new client.

The neighbor’s dog, Chubs, had been barking at them, and without thinking of the dog’s name, my trainer — well, you understand. Then my trainer was laughing so hard it took her a moment to explain to her new client. Who stayed with my trainer for 7 years and they are still friends. And by the way, she lost the weight. So the neighbor had to change her dog’s name to Slender.

Today, said trainer made me lie on the floor. I could do that part. I was a champ at that part. Then I had to bend my legs and sit up without any government assistance. She made me do this like 10 times. I struggled with this.

“Is it hard on your back?” she asked.

“No. It’s hard because I’m a fat fuck,” I said, and then my trainer said I had to be kind to myself, and give me a break. I’m the reason I’m a fat fuck. Why can’t I be honest with myself? If I’m not honest with myself, who will be?

So, that’s how that’s going, and I’m still Nooming. I know I just told you yesterday that I was joining Noom and I’m all proud that I stuck with it for a day. Really, I think this is day three. Or maybe four. Whatever. Am I rail-thin yet? Why not?

I used to be one of those people who was really really thin due to zero effort on my part. Then I wasn’t. I have always found that unfair. If I’m gonna have this nose, I should at least get “she can eat what she wants and never gains weight.” But no. I get both of those AND THIS HAIR, TOO. Come on.

At least I was blessed with this personality.

Today I have to scream over to the eye — not doctor. To the guy who sells me my glasses and contacts. What’s he called? Eye purveyor. I have to go to the eye purveyor, as I am plumb out of contacts and let me tell you: Working out in glasses is a pain in the ass. Not to mention these are the glasses I bought on Propofol, so careful readers will realize how old these glasses are.

2015. I bought these glasses in 2015. I had that outpatient procedure where they knock you out on the Propofol and look down your throat, and when I awoke, they said, You will feel normal but you are not normal.

I mean, God said that when I was born.

But they said, You will FEEL normal but you are not. Do not drive. Do not make major purchases. Do not run to Vegas and elope.

Ned, who was in charge of me that day, naturally insisted we use our “day off” after my surgery to run errands. So while we got cat food and shopped for kale, I remembered my contacts were ready at my eye purveyor. I use dailies so I have to go there every 90 days, same as cash. So we headed over there to pick up m’quarterly contacts.

I believe I really should have been resting but Ned is not a resting person. It’s one of his annoyinger qualities. Ned has no resting heart rate.

He owns zero footrests. Or headrests. You get my drift.

Anyway a few days later I got a call from the eye purveyor. I really need to stop saying that.

“Your new glasses are in,” he said.

“My what?”

Turns out I’d tried on and purchased new frames that day, the day of the Propofol. I was Michael Jackson, buying everything up. And thanks, Ned, for stopping me. “You seemed normal,” he said, clearly not listening to my aftercare instructions.

But the thing is, I did GREAT buying my glasses on drugs. They are a black-frame cat-eye, with teensy rhinestones on the tips. I look like a secretary from 1956, which is of course my whole point.

I have gotten new frames since then but they hurt. They assault my ear. So I still wear the scratched-up, wrong prescription, this-is-your-purchasing-power-on-drugs Propofol frames.

God, I was rich when I lived with Ned. We each paid like $550 a month on rent. We split all the utility bills. And he was rich, so he paid for most frills, like dinners and trips and shit. I used to be able to go to Banana Republic and just get a sweater without thinking about it. I know that’s not, like, how Bill Gates determines if he has wealth, but trust me. A $90 sweater is major for me normally. It really was nice to be rich. I paid tons of debt off that year and so did he. If only we weren’t over there murdering each other every other week.

Ned was describing that year to a friend not long ago. “We’re talking right in each other’s faces, screaming as hard as we could at each other,” he said. Yep. That’s how it went. But we sure had extra cash!

I’d better go. First of all, this shirt doesn’t breathe and I’m all hot and it’s annoying. Second, I wish to straighten the room even though Edsel is now fast asleep on the mat looking cute. I had a weird feeling today. I let him out first thing, as per usual, and as I watched him wander to his poop portion of the yard, I thought, “One day I’ll be letting a puppy out here instead of old Eds.” Then I got a terrible chill. I always want a puppy. But I don’t want a puppy instead of Edsel.

I don’t know why I do that to myself. The whole time I had my magnificent cat Mr. Horkheimer, the whole time, I thought about how one day he’d die. I could never enjoy him because that thought was always there. I mean, I did enjoy him. I adored that giant, unflappable cat. But the thought was there. By the time he did die, I was all mentally prepared.

I guess this whole post is about the dumb stuff I tell myself. I didn’t mean for it to have a theme. But there you go. We have ourselves a theme.

OK. Ripping off this sweaty sticky shirt and heading for the showers in the locker room, where I will playfully whip my towel at the other men.

Life. Boy.

June

36 thoughts on “The one where June says “eye purveyor” like it’s a thing

  1. Your “Be Quiet, Chubs” story reminded me of a funny story about my dog, Ruby. She grunts like a pig when she wants something instead of whining. She does it sometimes when you squeeze her too, so her nickname since she was a puppy is PiggyPig. She is a little bit afraid of people so when I take her out somewhere, I take treats and praise her when she focuses on me rather than worrying about people. So, one night we are at the frozen yogurt place and this woman comes out carrying a paper bag with her yogurt. As the woman walked by her, Ruby didn’t even notice, so I very excitedly said “good job, Piggypig!” My husband said that woman turned around and gave me the dirtiest look. Whoopsy. I try not to use her nickname out in public now.

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  2. Great post, June! If I had been your trainer I would have been horrified at myself and apologized 20 hundred times. Your trainer clearly has the right personality for her job to laugh it off and keep going. My plan in early 2020 was to hire a trainer at the Y to design a series of workouts with me like lesson plans that I could follow on days we didn’t meet, but whomp, whomp – pandemic. When I feel comfortable returning to the Y I’m doing it! I hope she has a personality like your trainer.

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  3. Loved this post – lots to enjoy and ponder!
    Be quiet, Chubs caused a giggle-snort up in here.

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  4. Love this one! Without government assistance. When is your book coming out? I hate to say this but I have the kind of anxiety where I worry about my 56 year old husband dying a lot. I mean, he dies only once, but I worry about it a lot. Sigh. Thanks for making me laugh.

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    1. I knew you meant he dies only once. But I am giggling at the part where I might’ve thought, Wow, she’s worried about him dying, like, 50 times. Like Kenny in South Park.

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  5. Today I learned that Propofol side effects are similar to Ambien side effects in that you SEEM normal but you AREN’T normal and do things in a blackout state.

    “Be quiet, Chubs!”

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  6. Well our one dog died last year at the ripe old age of 15 and he had a good long life but for the 2 years leading up to his death we were always preparing. Like this is Chopper’s last Easter, his last Christmas on and on. Well eventually one of those were his last and although we were sad he had been steadily declining and I know he had a good life with us and was very loved. I also started giving him chicken and rice for food and he gobbled down his last breakfast like it was his last meal. We said that when we were talking about his last day and everyone looked horrified until my husband and I smiled knowing he had a good last meal! Our other dog died a few months back suddenly of a heart tumor at only 7 and man, that has been the worst. I can’t believe how broken hearted we are every day, I really think preparing with Chopper helped and if our other dog lived longer we would have started preparing for him being gone.

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  7. So much funny in this post! I should have been drugged for my last pair of glasses they kill my nose. I’m wearing my old glasses again. I won’t allow myself to think about my aging cat.
    Life. Boy.
    Tee

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  8. Your comment about Eds made me think of The Oatmeal’s post about his dog, Rambo : https://theoatmeal.com/comics/dog_paradox

    Maybe that was on your mind.

    My dog is also in her elderly years – not yet to the point where the value scale lets me know that it is time to let her go – but that day isn’t far away. I caught myself imagining a built-in where her crate currently sits… and about could not stand my own company for the rest of the day.

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  9. Just wanted to say I loved this post. I hate buying/picking out new glasses. You may be onto something. Get drugged and glasses are easier to decide upon. I can never make up my mind.

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  10. This whole post is cute. I know that’s probably not the “look” you were going for, but I just mean it makes me smile and wish I were friends with you IRL.

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  11. Without any government assistance had me snorting.
    My high school gym teacher and the instructors at Elaine Powers never called me chubs to my face. Heaven knows what might have been said behind my face. I was in my best physical shape while I belonged to Elaine Powers. That was in my twenties. Becoming a driving suburbanite when I moved to New Jersey increased my size immeasurably.
    I am going to check out the park here soon. It’s on a big lake called Mirror Lake and the name is Reflection Park. How pretty is that? Pretty enough to make me want to get off my fat ass more I hope.
    I pictured my late husband dead because of his cancer. I thought it would help me prepare. I could do it early on but not so much at the end. Nothing could prepare me and he had a good death considering the circumstances.

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  12. “Be quiet Chubs” made me snort Diet Coke out my nose and I spent 5 minutes coughing and laughing. You’d think I’d know at this point not to eat or drink whilst perusing the Book o’ June.

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  13. Lovely post Coot. (my predictive text automatically types this now)
    I go to PT twice a week. Last week ny therapist had me do some new stretches which are suppose to help me raise my arm. I was crying through it and he yelled out dont be a sissy. But what he really said to his coworker was I dont see Sissy (another pt patient). Now when I complain about a stretch I say and I’m not being a sissy.
    Also have the what if about my little dog. He is 12 and I see him slowing down and becoming an old man. I catch myself thinking about a puppy.

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  14. Oh man, the CHUBS story is priceless. One of those stories that never gets old.

    Pretty sure Ned was supposed to take you home to rest and the ordering of the glasses is hilarious. Here’s me bummed that I lost my cheaters on my walk yesterday. I bring them in case I need to read a text while I am gone, because why take a break from text messages. My glasses must’ve fallen out of my pocket. It was in the 60s. Today I am not planning to walk because it is in the 40s, so I can’t look for my glasses. I was able to keep them for a little over a year. This was the thing I said I was going to try not to re-purchase when you asked all of us what we might try not to buy again. Was it like January 2020?

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  15. Renewed my license yesterday, and the new photo is totally C.H.U.B.S. Am so appalled. Ready for a neck update and maybe my jawline will emerge from the depths of my face. Hello spring changes…

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  16. Be quiet Chubs is the best line ever – but then again so is you seemed normal – you are a hilarious story teller.

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  17. When we met my husband had a cocker spaniel named Duke, but everyone in the family called him Spook. They lived down the street from a VA hospital, out there in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes the patients would walk off, and walk down the road where my then-boyfriend-now-husband and his family (next door!) lived.
    One patient, a man of color, was walking down the road in his hospital attire and the dog started raising a ruckus and ran after him. My brother-in-law yelling “SPOOK! STOP SPOOK!” scarred that poor patient for life.
    He was totally talking to the dog. It’s a family story now.

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    1. Oh my gosh! I was not going to tell this story – but it is so like yours, Andrea.
      I was having a yard sale and a really sweet lady was leaving, walking down my driveway. My little dog was named Spooky – she weighed about 5 lbs and usually never left my side.
      Well, she started to follow this nice lady – a lady of color – yes, you already know.
      I hollered – “Stop Spook – get back here Spook!
      I was mortified but fortunately the lady understood…. Sheesh

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  18. I first must note how tickled I was when Mother commented yesterday that YOU were her f.a.v.o.r.i.t.e. Too funny.

    I’m with you on the being honest with oneself – I mean, they say admitting there’s a problem is the first step. Unfortunately for me, I’ve been stuck on step one for a few decades now.

    Lovely post June – so much here that had me nodding along. You’ve got a way about you.

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  19. Hi June,
    My dog is 13, and this winter seems more like an old an old man than ever, so I do that same thing. I think it IS to mentally prepare, but I know it won’t matter–it just extends the grief to where there shouldn’t be any.

    CHUBS! Oh, jeez. I would have died if that had been me.

    Lovely post, lovely June!

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      1. He’s a bichon maltese mix. He is super aloof and will often leave the room if you go in and sit down to keep him company. (Jerk.) But he is squishy and sweet and we all love him. Our first dog lived to be alllllllmost 17, but my childhood dog died at 14. This is when you begin to steel yourself. And, he also hates crows and anyone walking by the house–so I, like you, sprint to get him inside when he gets the first woof out.

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  20. I’ll be thinking of, “BE QUIET, CHUBS!” all day. That, and, “You seemed normal” are my two favorite quotes today.

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  21. Back in my college days, I got my ears pierced, while drunk, at what was basically a head shop in Georgetown (DC) (RIP Commander Salamander). Buying glasses while roofied, seems mild in comparison. (But also delightful! Love those glasses!)

    Chubs. Gail! I love this place.

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  22. It is so entertaining inside your brain! Have to admit that I have the same thoughts about my sweet dog.

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