Spooning (27 page)

“Yes. Well, no.”

“Ha, but—” The bell rang. Whoever it was had actually climbed the stairs.

“I got it,” I scoffed. “You know, since I have the vicious voice.” I made a pathetic attempt at a Zorro-type sword move as I removed the chain and flung open the door. In a full lunge with my arm poised in a defensive move, I came face to face with Mr. J. P. Morgan. In his hand was a bunch of red roses.

“Whoa, hey,” he said taking two steps back and holding his hands up in a surrender stance. He gave me that adorable lopsided grin, “Don't kung fu me!” he laughed. My stomach dropped. I stood back up. I suddenly felt lightheaded. Bright spots appeared in front of my eyes like fireflies or paparazzi flashbulbs. But I wasn't in a fairy-filled forest nor was I posing on a red carpet. I was staring at my sort-of boyfriend. Who was standing smack dab in front of me with roses in his hand on Valentine's Day.

“Hey,” I mumbled running my hand through my messy hair. I hadn't looked in a mirror since lunch and I was sure it must be a disaster.

“Here,” he said thrusting the roses my way. All the tingling in my fingers stopped. Here? That was all he had to say after almost three weeks of nothing? Here? My eyes left his face and wandered down to his extended arm. In his left hand were the said red roses. They were a dull red and were even wilted around the edges. Obviously the man at the bodega on the corner
had not done a good enough job pulling the rotting petals from the stem. He must have been really busy to sell this sorry looking bunch to J. P., or J. P. had simply not cared enough to pay attention to what he was buying. The buds were barely open on their short stems. Besides, every girl knows that true Valentine's Day roses are always
long
stemmed. Not only are they long stemmed, they are in full bloom. Not only are they long stemmed and fully bloomed, but their fragrance envelopes all those lucky enough to be standing near them. I took a deep breath. All I smelled was Ms. Fignucio's cooking from down the hall. I took another deep breath—this one to steady my nerves.

“Huh,” I sighed. I could hear J. Lo in my head whispering, “Who wants the basic standard in life … the cookie cutter … life's too short for store shelf goods …”

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Actually, we're in the middle of something.”

“We?” he asked, looking over my shoulder. I closed the door partway behind me.

“Um, what do you want?”

“These are for you!” he said with the eagerness of a schoolboy.

“Thanks. But actually, no thanks.”

“No what?”

“No thanks.”

“Oh, just take them, Charlie. Don't be this way.”

“Are they a peace offering?”

“A piece … no, I want more than just a piece,” he chuckled, giving me that flirtatious grin again. I took the roses and leaned forward for a sniff. Nope, no scent at all.

“You know,” I began, looking toward the ceiling for divine
inspiration and to keep from crying, “Roses are so, so unoriginal. They're cliché, trite, uninspiring. And even worse, they're pedestrian.”

“Pedestrian …?” he questioned.

“Pedestrian,” I stated emphatically. With a final flourish, I dropped the sad bundle on the floor and daintily stepped on them with my tiger slipper. As I felt the blooms smoosh and the stems snap, I stomped with greater force and a bigger smile. Thank you J. Lo! My inner diva had finally arrived.

“Oh, okay,” he paused. “I guess I should go?”

“Yes, please.” My mother would have been so proud of my graciousness and tact. One nonverbal blow-off deserved another. I tried to close the door in his surprised and confused face, but unlike in the movies, the door bounced back open and hit my elbow. The crushed roses were in the way of a dramatic finale. I kicked the mashed mess out of the way, slammed the door, and stalked back over to the couch where I flopped down on the cushions. As I reached for my ice cream, Macie began to clap. She leapt to her feet, whooping and hollering.

“Spoken like a true diva! Good for you! I am sooo proud.”

“Yep,” I sighed.

“Don't you feel good?”

“Nope.”

“Don't you feel vindicated?”

“Not at all.”

“Why not?”

“How does one crushed bunch of flowers make up for three weeks of mental anguish, days of staring at my cell phone, and hours of fingernail biting?”

“Not to mention a million minutes of roommate therapy,” she added.

“Are you trying to make me feel better?” I asked as tears began to flow down my face. Great, at least I was getting a cheap facial.

“Sorry.” Macie ate another spoonful of rainbow sherbet, broke open a pint of chocolate marshmallow swirl, and handed it to me. Just what the breakup doctor ordered.

I couldn't believe he would just show up. Why now? As I headed into a deep pit of wallowing, Macie got up from the couch, scooped up the petal mess on the floor, and disappeared. I slowly sucked on a spoonful of ice cream. Did he find himself alone on V-Day and start reminiscing? Did he remember that morning we'd woken up and couldn't even leave the bed? And when we did, we ended up on the floor and then on the kitchen counter? I couldn't make a peanut butter and Fluff sandwich for months without thinking about him. Why couldn't he have just called me once over the past few weeks? If he had only picked up the phone once I might have given in to his pedestrian red roses. Ugh!

“Macie! I don't think I'm ever going to get married. He doesn't want me, nobody will want me,” I sniffed. My nose began running at this point. “I'm going to be an old spinster with eight cats who will only feign love for me because I feed them canned food, and speaking of canned food, I am doomed to eat canned SpaghettiOs for the rest of my life since I can't even make a simple casserole!”

“Okay, it's all ready!” Macie's calm voice interrupted my panicked tirade.

“What's all ready? A life of eternal loneliness?”

“Come on. Come see.” She emerged from the bathroom and held her hand out like the mother hen that she was. Feeling about two years old, never mind two inches tall, I stood up,
grabbed her hand and followed. She gave my hand a squeeze before opening the bathroom door. We were met by a cloud of fragrant steam and Macie had written “
I am a princess
!” across the foggy bathroom mirror. I smiled and then saw that the bathtub was filled with voluptuous suds. Floating on the bubbles was a smattering of red rose petals.

“A bath of rose petals, exotic rose petals, to smooth the skin and the ruffled feathers of my fair princess,” she grinned. Leave it to Macie to find a better use for cheap roses. I sat down on the toilet.

“Thanks,” I said. She bent down and removed my tiger slippers as if they were made of glass.

“And to make the picture complete …” she hit play on the old boom box we kept on the toilet tank. Suddenly Steve Perry's voice filled the air:

“Don't stop believing, hold on to the feeling … yeaahhhhh …”

I stopped for a moment to reflect on what a good friend she was. I had met Macie the first day of our freshman year. During orientation, we had been assigned to certain themed dinners depending on our schools. I had applied to the School of Medicine with grand aspirations of being a doctor like my grandfather. I had aced frog dissection in high school and was positive that I could handle any gory pre-med courses thrown my way. However, no one had warned me about organic chemistry. That night though, I made my way to the freshman orientation organ-themed dinner, Organ-tuous Organza, wondering what would be served as the main course. Everyone else on my hall was in the College of Arts and Sciences and was being treated to a buffet, fitting since they were the undecided majors. I ended up in line behind this short, stunning girl. As we wound our way toward the blood-red soup she suddenly
turned to me, “I'm Macie. Wanna go grab some pizza?” That's all it took—Macie's spontaneity coupled with my dislike of red soup.

From that moment on Macie and I were best friends. She was my practical friend, but practical with a wild side. She could party with the best of them while getting top grades at school. She was never one to disgrace herself with silly late- night antics. She never blacked out. She never regretted anything, sexual or otherwise. She was my heroine! Especially now.

“Remember that breakup mix you made the second week of school?” she asked.

“The one I made after I was dumped by Billy the Toga King?” I asked.

“Remember, we warned you that he didn't look so gallant without his polka-dotted sheet.”

“So true, so true. But regardless of the fact that I didn't have your support, I did manage to survive the demise of my three-day romance with the help of ABBA.”

“Well I'm glad you said that because I've resurrected that mix for the occasion.”

With that perfect timing of hers, Macie turned up the radio and those sweet words that eased my pain so many times came blaring through the speakers.

You gotta love friends. Change is good and I decided to implement a whole slew of changes, especially when it came to you-know-who. Thank you, J. Lo and thank you, God, for friends.

Lying back against the tub pillow that Macie had somehow produced out of thin air, I felt my taut ligaments loosen. If Macie could rearrange a pathetic bunch of flowers into a bubble bath, I could rearrange my love life—I could! I drifted in and out of consciousness in between ABBA choruses. After about an hour, I wrestled the bathtub plug loose with my shriveled-up fingers. I sat naked and cross-legged in the tub and watched with the utmost satisfaction as the petals swirled down the drain. The drain made a satisfying sucking noise as it swallowed each petal with hungry vigor. I loved the idea of Mr. J. P. Morgan's roses wallowing in the New York City sewer system far away from my soon to be freer, happier self.

Give It to Me Guacamole

Mash up the avocados. Add the rest of the ingredients and mix. Serve immediately with tortilla chips and some ice-cold beers on a beautiful early spring day
!

G
od, I am so frickin’ pale!” I happened to catch a glimpse of my pasty-white stomach in the bathroom mirror as I got out of the shower. At least I was manless at the moment. I wiped the steam off the mirror in order to get a better look at myself. But as the remainder of the condensation evaporated from the edges, it revealed something that was so ghastly, so horrible, that I couldn't even keep looking.

It had been four months—okay, maybe more like five months—since my body had seen the light of day. Ever since the leaves changed and the winds shifted in October, neither my thighs nor biceps, nor breasts nor butt had been exposed to direct sunlight. While long strolls along the snow-covered paths of Central Park and ice skating on the rink at Rockefeller Center are fun, they don't melt away those extra pounds acquired from holiday Krispy Kremes. The transition between two seasons can be startling and downright unkind to your body image.

So here we were. It was March and my skin had hidden behind bulky sweaters and oversized coats for way too long. Overall, I would say that on a scale of one to ten, I was an eight—at least on the inside. Mentally, I was faring much better since the horrible V-Day incident. I was no longer crying randomly at those diamond engagement ring commercials set in Italy. Nope, I was much better. However, my outside self had taken a severe beating. On a scale of one to ten, I would have to be a two right now. Snow White may have been revered for her fairness, but what I was dealing with was not pretty.

As I continued to inspect my fair flesh, I happened to notice the light dappling my right thigh. Like sunlight on the water, a trail of dimples was forming interesting patterns on the back of my leg. I whirled my body around so that my backside was facing the mirror and shifted my head to get a better look. Up until this moment, I don't think I'd ever really, and I mean really, looked at the back of my thighs or butt in a mirror. Sure, I'd caught a glimpse or two in the Bloomie's mirrors from time to time, but everyone knows to dismiss those images since the mirrors are distorted and the fluorescent lights are misguiding. But today I saw them, and it wasn't pretty. Gone were the smooth buns and the ripped soccer legs from my teen years.
Hello baby cellulite! So depressing. Sweet Jesus, was this what J. P. Morgan had been staring at during our sexual escapades? Those vile little puppies were not there a few mere months ago. At least, I don't think they were. Wouldn't I have noticed such a drastic change in my body's topography? I felt my neck for evidence of a chin wattle. As I got ready for work, I begrudgingly accepted my newfound friends, but also recognized that something needed to be done and it had to be done quickly.