“See you on the field!” Dad announces. Then, without asking, Gordy picks up the box, struggles to maneuver it while opening the door, and marches it down the hall. My father follows behind him, saluting me back.
When they’re gone, I look at Daisy, who is shaking her head.
“Do me a favor, please?”
“Sure, sweetie. What do you need?”
“Hold my calls?”
“You got it, honey.”
I go back in my office and close the door. Grateful for the reprieve from the surprise visit from Dad, I settle into my desk chair and check my email.
Really?
Grace Landing wrote me back.
Gracie
Tuesday.It’s a new day. The sun is shining, a rarity in April in NewYork.
Because I’m an expert at procrastinating, I’m also an expert at getting shit done in short periods of time. Yesterday, I hit my word count by 4:30 in the afternoon and was gratefully celebrating my narrow avoidance of death by hunger with some well-deserved fettucine alfredo and garlic knots: a proper side dish to complement my steak sandwich.
Do you ever feel like food’s just sogood? I’ve been fascinated with it since I was a kid. I love tinkering in the kitchen, trying new recipes, mixing flavors until I come up with something just (insert chef’s kiss) right. And, not kidding, I think food loves me back too, especially when I am the one preparing it. I can getdownin the kitchen, and somehow everything I cook just comes to life.
Sadly, that’s not always the case when it comes to Groupon-discounted takeout. Now, to mitigate the ramifications of all that processed cheese, this morning I’m taking my bloated, gassy self out for a run before I get started on today’s word count.
With my water bottle in hand, I’m in the elevator considering which Spotify playlist to listen to, when I’m interrupted by a ding on my phone. It’s an email. Probably spam, I figure, so I leave it alone and head outinto the brisk air, which turns out to be an issue. The brisk air, that is. Sometimes when there’s a sudden change in temperature, my body reacts by developing an instant stomachache as a defense mechanism. Like, “Whoa, get inside somewhere safe before the ice storm begins!” Usually, it passes. Well, sometimes. Okay, rarely. And it always gets worse as my bank account gets smaller, thanks to my creative brain inventing ways to stretch my grocery budget.
The only surefire way to create some relief is to let some air out of the tires, if you know what I mean. So, I glance around, and because there’s nobody within a twelve-foot radius, I let her rip. Then, I immediately begin to jog, so as not to be associated with whatever regrettable aromatic situation might be left behind in the airspace in front of my building. It only takes a few steps for me to figure out that something’s gone horribly awry.
At first, I assume it’s sweat. I mean, let’s face it, I’m not exactly in the best shape of my life. But I’ve only gone a few steps, and why would sweat emanate from my ass before the usual spots, like my armpits or the sports bra crease where my boobs meet my stomach?
Because it’snotsweat.
Nope.
That would be an alfredo shart.
I recoil once I realize what’s happened. Back in the building, I just make it onto the elevator as the doors are closing. An old lady with white hair and a white terrier to match are in the six-by-six space with me. By the time the elevator starts to move, the old lady gives me the hard side eye and the dog starts barking at me. Thank God I only live on the second floor. I should have taken the stairs.
I think this is God’s way of telling me maybe I should cool it on the working out. I mean, hecouldn’tbe telling me to make different food choices or else he wouldn’t have allowed that pizzeria to open after the last one burned down.
Well, message received. And silver lining? It’s a good thing I wasn’t wearing a thong.
I shower, because, well,obviously.Then, I slide into some comfy sweats and sit down at my desk. I let out an audible groan when I see that the new email I got wasn’t spam. It was the universe kicking me when I was down.
Yup, you guessed it—Colin Yarmouth.
Why can’t he just leave well enough alone?
TO:Grace Landing ([email protected])
FROM:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
RE:yearbook
Grace,
