I think I broke up with someone I’m not dating.
Friday night, after several months of casual get-togethers and mostly hooking up, I got hung up on. I think. His cell phone drops calls often and at the most inconvenient (and perhaps convenient) moments. That the line turned to a hum after I said something akin to not calling anymore is a good indicator my sex life has abruptly halted and I shouldn’t expect a holiday card.
He said I kept flip-flopping, changing my mind about him. I think when I told him truthfully what I wanted, and what I didn’t, he tried to became that in the moment, only to feel taken advantage of later. Admittedly so, I can be a tough nut to crack when it comes to the relating part of relationships, and we agreed to be casual with few strings. Then his words tried to convince me I was lacking because of what I don't want, at least right now. I choose to eat from the appetizer menu, small tastes and new flavors. I’m not ready to order. He wants a dinner portion and "to go" box.
Technology has dumbed down a generation. At the dry cleaner Saturday morning the clerk brought out my white trench coat, one that had endured a rough autumn and layers of ground in dirt. I squealed in delight, “Oh! It’s pristine!” The girl behind the counter stared at me blankly, I stared back. “Um…” I finally offered, “It’s really clean.” She didn’t even LOL.
Playback Theater West is an improv “dramedy” troupe out of Boulder and one of the best I’ve seen. Improvisational comedy seriously tickles me; sharp and witty and intelligent, I’m in awe of actors who can evoke and entertain in a moments notice. At a sold-out show Saturday night, the cast literally threw themselves, physically and whole body, into performance art. They build scenes from shared audience stories, playing back and animating words with humor and slapstick and pathos and warmth.
I considered sharing my story of Christmas Day a long time ago when Santa returned to take our toys away. After fighting for hours, like kids do, Mom and Dad demanded we bring all the holiday booty - clothes, candies, GI Joe with the Kung Fu grip - to the foyer. We were bad children and Santa wanted his crap back. The next morning, everything was gone, down to the tiniest crumb and Barbie fuck-me pump. A week of sadness and disingenuous sucking up passed. That Sunday, arriving home from church, we found our goodies had re-appeared. I don’t know if the lesson was one of love thy sibling or you must earn affection, even from Santa.
Wish I’d been brave enough to share how alone I felt in a small theater, filled to capacity, surrounded by patrons paired two-by-two, or three or four. No one to drive home with.
Boulder is an odd city, its population contrasted-and-compared by $55 Abercrombie & Fitch plain white tees and thrift shop wear, the Hummers and the hippies. I realized in the ladies at intermission, I don’t fit so much anymore. I went to college in Boulder, lived on and off there for years. Still find myself enthralled by the surprise beauty of the foothills. But now I’m Denver. I pluck my eyebrows and own no hand knit caps. Picture me in Max Studio short tunic dress, black cropped tights and pointy flats washing palms at a bathroom sink next to the new Mom, baby tied to her chest in a pink scarf, Timberlines and pants too tight in the crotch, loudly and soulfully humming “Silent Night” and you’ll get the juxtaposition.
I adore bath products, perhaps because one uses them while warm and naked. A hot soak, especially one that lingers on the weekends, is ritual. Sunday afternoon I lined up bottles and potions and razors for all patches on the tub ledge, saved a spot for a class of Chardonnay. The philosophy Candy Cane salt scrub smells like heavenly peppermint, invigorating to skin and senses and amazing on feet and outer thighs. However after scrubbing under otherwise sensitive arms, I maintained a curiously strong, all-over minty sting for an hour.
I brought the latest issue of O Magazine into the tub, the one with Oprah heralding weight troubles on the glossy cover. The article blamed and blamed, calling upon her diagnosis of hypothyroidism (the “Get Out of Fat Free” card) and side effect of meds on her body and (mostly) head. The pages of “O” are an endless stream of platitudes and gratitudes, extolling the joys of the “authentic” self, a concept lost in the airbrushing of some of the now 200 pounds from her frame. And much like Who Moved my Cheese it’s stuff you already know; do unto others, let a smile be your umbrella and always put the seat down. Oprah just sells it with cashmere slippers.
And how was your weekend?