In fact, here’s a fun riddle for you. What do you get when you cross a rusty razor with an inflated ego? Yup. A lacerated labia.
Holy. Sweet. Jesus.
Blood drips into the bowl as I moan aloud. I hop into the shower, smearing blood onto the toilet seat and dripping some on my bathroom rug. It’s running down my leg like a biblical river—surely, one of the plagues has befallen me. I cross my legs tightly and unclip my muddy bun, rinsing the dye so I don’t end up overprocessing and frying my hair with chemicals. This is a horrible idea. A noxious stream of 6G makes its way directly to my crotch, as if pulled there by a magnet, only to incite a riot among nerve endings already under siege.
I rinse, and rinse, and rinse some more, until finally the water runs pinkish-clear again and my body goes into that shock of when the pain is so much that you can no longer feel it. I scrub down everything except theonepart that should be the cleanest with a bar of Dove soap and then wash my hair with shampoo and conditioner.
Finally, after what feels like an excruciating eternity, I wring out my hair and step out of the shower. I dry off with a white towel (mistake number three) and notice there is still fresh blood. Unsure of how to proceed, at least for the foreseeable future, I grab a Band-Aid and affix it horizontally across both lips, sealing them shut like the world’s tiniest chastity belt.
Hopefully, it will clot.
Now, to the bedroom to try and figure out an outfit.Oh, shit. I need to put the laundry in the dryer.I throw back on the sweatpants, almost losing my Band-Aid more than once, slip a hoodie over my freshly colored head, slide on my sneakers, and head back downstairs.
In the elevator on the way back up, I consider our dinner options. I feel a lot like Presley in the story—should I try for a fancy restaurant or just go with pizza? I don’t want to look like the kind of girl who needs a man to take her out to an expensive dinner, but, if we’re being honest, I’m still a little scarred from the pizza incident from last night. The only place I can think of forniceItalian is Luna Bella, a waterfront restaurant on Emmons Avenue. It’s kind of romantic, but maybe that’s okay. I mean, this wassupposedto be a phone call.Colinis the one who upgraded it to a full-on date.
Luna Bella it is. I go back into my apartment and call them to make a reservation—a table for two at 7:15 overlooking the water.
Since the laundry is in the dryer and there might be something in there worth wearing, I head back into the bathroom to dry and style my hair, an operation that—when I care about how I look—can take upwards of an hour. The blow-drying part takes about twenty-five minutes, largely because I have so much hair. I use a round brush and section it, and to be honest, I typically do this while sitting on the floor reading a book. But seeing as how my bathroom presently looks like a murder scene from CSI, I realize I need to clean it first.
Twenty minutes later, after the toilet, sink, and bathtub have all returned to their proper shade of white, I’m seated on the ground, and instead of a regular book (I just don’t have the headspace for that right now), I drag my laptop into the bathroom and open up my manuscript.
When you’re a writer, sometimes you reread your work and wonder what spirit took over your body and wrote the things on the page. Like, am Ireallycapable of turning the features of a condo into the basis fordirty talk? Did Ireallyput a guy in the closet and then have his wife stab him in the ass with a pair of scissors? Did Ireallyrefer to potential sex aspelvic sorcery? Worst of all, did I really use the not-so-clever name “Connor Yates” for my main male character and thensendthe story to Colin? Who allowed this to happen? I even made Connor the star of the high school soccer team and then went on to describe his backside in full detail.More than once.
I think I need to consider a lobotomy. I am clearly a danger to myself.
I close the laptop when my hair is dry. I look like Diana Ross—even though I try to work my mane with the brush, the only thing that can get the natural curl out is my straightening iron. I plug it in to let it heat up, and then go back into my bedroom to assess the situation there.
The bed is unmade, which is fine, because I own exactly two pairs of sheets and I plan to put the fresh ones on for this special occasion. For insurance, you know. Just in case we end up in there (assuming my botched labiaplasty heals in time). It’s like how you should always have a box of condoms in the nightstand. Which I do. They were Scott’s but once I realizedIwas the only one he was using them with, I decided I should be allowed to keep them when we split. Take that, Scott! That’s nine dollars back in my pocket!
I strip the bed and shove the dirty sheets in the bottom of my closet for the time being. I replace them with the clean sheets and make the bed. Since I don’t have time to wash the comforter, I spray a healthy amount of Febreze on top and light my cinnamon-scented Yankee Candle to freshen up the room a bit.
Next, I head back to the bathroom to handle my hair. I try to focus on my breathing. Tori’s girlfriend, Kiki, teaches yoga, and she always says, “Conscious breathing is the body’s most natural form of meditation.” I am an awful meditator. I just can’t get my mind to shut down like that. In order to try and think about nothing, I close my eyes and try to focus onmy immediate surroundings, and then I’ll remember something totally irrelevant and asinine, like how the man stretching next to me has an obvious ingrown toenail and how maybe he should invest in a pair of yoga socks so as not to visually violate the rest of us with the inflammation protruding from his nail bed. And then, I start to giggle. Usually uncontrollably. Kiki tells Tori that she really likes me but has cordially uninvited me to participate in her classes. It’s not personal, I know that. I can’t help it if my brain is ticklish.
Since I am not a well-trained deep breather, I’m finding it awfully hard to calm down right now. I tell Alexa to put on zen spa music, which she sees as an opportunity to remind me that I might want to order more maxi pads. (Who programs Alexa, anyway?) I finish my hair in silence, listening to the thumping of my clogged arteries and wondering if this is all some elaborate scheme from the universe to shit on me like a jealous seagull circling a beach picnic.
I head back down to the basement of the building to get my laundry, the Band-Aid reminding me with every step of my earlier bathroom blunder. I fold my clothes in my apple-pie scented bedroom and try to decide on an outfit.
A dress? No. Too fancy.
Nice jeans? Hmm. Too casual?
A skirt? Nope. Makes my hips look too wide, like I’d have no problem birthing a small calf.
Slacks? Sure, if the date is with my grandmother.
I go back to the jeans in my closet. I thumb through the pile and remember, I have one pair of black jeggings—you know, those pants that are half jeans, half leggings. Super stretchy and comfortable. Good for eating Italian. I can dress these up, for sure. And if I drip sauce on myself, these will hide any potential stains.
Yes.
Thank you, God, for these black jeggings.
I choose a black tank top over a black push up bra. I gently and carefully remove the Band-Aid as I change into my only pair of black lace panties—full coverage, because all the thongs are gone, but still sexy enough. Over the black tank top, I put on a sheer metallic gold sweater that accentuates my padded boobs and healthy curves, and that matches my gold sparkly belt. For shoes, I’ll go with the trusty tall black riding boots so I can wear socks underneath and not feel like my feet are going to explode with blisters if I have to walk a block or two. I add big gold hoop earrings, a few bangle bracelets, and a spritz of perfume on my wrists, and check the mirror.Amazing. I look like a real human woman.
I refold the contents of my closet, which are now strewn about all over my bed. Gotta keep the bed neat! Then, I head into the living room to see what cleaning needs to be done in there. Dorian Gray is asleep on the couch. Asleep! At a time like this! A dog would have picked up on my mega-nervous vibe by now. A dog would try to console me. Hell, a dog might even try and talk me through this crisis. But not Dorian Gray. He opens one eye and closes it again. I grab the vacuum and go over the carpet.Thatwakes him up and sends him running. I love Dorian Gray, but sometimes he’s a little bit of an asshole, if we’re being really honest.
Once the rug is free of crumbs and I’ve wiped the dust off the surfaces, I take a breath and check the time. It’s 6:15. Unbelievable. I use the remaining forty-five minutes to put on makeup and nervously pace my apartment until, at 6:50, my phone dings.
Hey, the text says,I’m here. Should I park the car?
