CHAPTER 1
I lost it in the bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet, I started to panic when I noticed the graveyard of empty toilet paper rolls. The brown cylinders had ostensibly been placed vertically to form a half oval on top of the flat shiny surface of the stainless steel toilet paper holder. It was like some sort of miniature recycled Stonehenge in the women’s bathroom, a monument to the bowel movements of days past.
It was sometime around 2:30pm that my day exited the realm of country-song-bad and entered the neighboring territory of Aunt-Ethel’s-annual-Christmas-letter-bad. Last year Aunt Ethel wrote, with steady stalwart sincerity, of Uncle Joe’s gout, her two-count them: one, two car accidents, the new sinkhole in their backyard, their impending eviction from the trailer park, and Cousin Serena’s divorce. To be fair, Cousin Serena got divorced every year so… that didn’t really count toward the calamitous computation of yearly catastrophes.
I sucked in a breath and reached inside the holder; my hand grasped for tissue and found only another empty roll. Leaning down at a remarkably awkward angle I tried to peer into the depths of the vessel, hoping for another yet unseen roll higher up and within. Much to my despair the holder was empty.
“Shit.” I half whispered, half groaned, then suddenly laughed at my unanticipated joke. How appropriate given my current predicament. A bitter smile lingered on my lips as I gritted my teeth and the same three words which were floating through my head all day resurfaced:
Worst. Day. Ever.
It was, no pun intended, an extremely shitty day.
Like all good country songs, it started with a cheat’n fool. The ‘cheatee’ in the song was obviously none other than me and the ‘cheater’ was my longtime boyfriend Jon. My realization of his philandering arrived via an empty condom wrapper tucked in the back pocket of his jeans as I, the dutifully dumb girlfriend, decided to help him out by throwing some of his laundry in with mine.
I reflected on the resulting debate, after found condom wrapper was smacked to his forehead by my palm, I couldn’t help but think Jon had a good point: was I was upset with him for having cheated on me or was I disappointed that he was such a dummy as to put the condom wrapper back in his pocket after taking out the condom. I tried to force myself to think about the discussion, to focus on my words from earlier that morning:
“I mean, really, who does that? Who thinks to themselves: ‘I’m going to cheat on my girlfriend but I’ve got too much of a social conscience to leave my condom wrapper on the floor- heaven forbid I litter.’”
I stared at the blue and white Formica door of my stall, tearing my bottom lip though my teeth, contemplating my options, and trying to decide if staying in the stall for the rest of the day were actually feasible. Hell, at this point, staying in the stall for the rest of my life seemed like a pretty good option particularly since I didn’t really have anywhere to go.
The apartment he and I shared belonged to Jon’s parents. I insisted on paying rent but my paltry $500 contribution plus half of the utilities likely didn’t cover 1/16th the cost of the mid-town two bedroom, two bath walk-up.
I think part of me always knew he was a cheater, too good to be true. He was all the things I always thought I wanted, still believed I wanted: smart, funny, sweet, nice to his family, good looking in an adorkable kind of way. We shared nearly identical political views, ideological views, values; we were even the same religion. He put up with my eccentricities, even said I was ‘cute’ when ‘weird’ was the word I was most used to hearing about myself. He made romantic gestures. He was a wooer in a time when wooing was dead. In college, he wrote me poetry before we started to date; and it was good poetry, topical, related to my interests and the current political climate. It gently warmed my heart but it didn’t make my sensibilities explode; then again, I wasn’t an exploding sensibilities type of girl.
However, he also came from money; lots and lots of money. This was a thorn in our relationship since the beginning. I carefully measured each expense and dutifully tallied my monthly budget. He bought whatever he wanted when he wanted it. As much as I loathed admitting, I suspected that I owed him a lot. I always suspected that he or his dad, who always wanted me to call him Jeff but I always felt more comfortable calling him Mr. Holesome, pulled the strings which landed me an interview for my job.
Even after our fight, for it was the closest we’d ever come to a fight, this morning he told me I could stay, that I should stay, that he wanted to work things out, he wanted to take care of me, that I needed him. I ground my teeth, setting my jaw, firming my resolve; there was no way I was going to stay with him.
I didn’t care how smart, funny, or accepting he was; how certain my head had been that his welcoming surrender to my oddities meant that he was the one; or even how nice it was to be free of crushing Chicago rent, freeing money to spend on my precious Cubs tickets, comic books, and designer shoes. There was absolutely no way I was staying with him.
No way José.
An uncomfortable heat I’d suppressed all day started to rise into my chest and my throat tightened. The toilet paper roll that broke the camel’s back stared at me from the receptacle and I fought the sudden urge to rip it from the holder and my exact revenge by tearing it to shreds. Next I would turn my attention to the Stonehenge of empties.
I could see it now: the building security team called in to extract me from the 52th floor ladies room, decimated toilet paper cardboard flesh all around me, my panties still around my ankles, as I scream and point accusingly at my co-workers: “NEXT TIME REPLACE THE ROLL! REPLACE THE ROLL!!!”
I closed my eyes: Scratch that, ex co-workers…
The stall door started to blur as my eyes filled with tears; at the same time a shrill laugh tumbled from my lips and I knew I was venturing into unknown, crazy-town territory.
As country songs do, the tragedy of the day unfolded in a careful, steady rhythm:
No conditioner leading to crazy, puffy, nest-like hair? Check.
Broken heel of new shoes on sewer grate? Check.
Train station closed for unscheduled construction? Check.
Lost contact after getting knocked in the shoulder as crowd hustled out of elevator? Check.
Spilled coffee on best, and most favorite white button down shirt? Guess I can cross that off my bucket list.
And, finally, called into boss’ office and informed that job had been downsized? Double check.
This was precisely why I hated dwelling on personal problems; this was precisely why avoidance and circumvention of raw thoughts and feelings was so much safer than the alternative. I hadn’t wallowed, really wholeheartedly wallowed since my mother’s death and no boy, no job, no series of craptacular events could make me do it now. After all, in the course of life, I could deal with this.
Or so I must tell myself.
At first I tried to blink away the moisture of my eyes but then closed them and, for at least the third time that day, used the coping strategies I learned during my mandatory year of adolescent psychoanalysis. I visualized myself wrapping up the anger and the hurt and the raw, frayed edges of my sanity in a large, colorful beach towel. I then placed the bundle into a box. I locked the box. I placed the box in the top shelf of my closet. I turned off the light of my closet. I shut the closet door.
I was going to remove the emotion from the situation without avoiding reality.
Gulping, after multiple attempts and with a great deal of effort, I finally succeeded in suppressing the threatening despondency and opened my eyes. I looked down at myself and pointedly took a survey of my appearance: borrowed pink flip flops to replace my broken pair of Jimmy Choo’s; knee length grey skirt, peppered with stains of coffee; borrowed, too tight, plunging red V-neck to replace my favorite cotton button down; my hands smoothed over my raucous accidental afro then pushed my old pair of black rimmed glasses, replacement for the missing contacts, further up my nose. I felt calmer, more in control, in spite of my questionable fashion non-choices.
Now, sitting in the stall, the numbness settling over me like a welcome cool abyss, I knew my toilet paper problem was surmountable and I squared my shoulders with firm resolve.
All my other problems, however, would just have to wait. It’s not like they were going anywhere.
As I approached my desk-
Scratch that, my ex desk
-I couldn’t help but wonder at the circle of curious faces that lurked around my cubicle, wide eyes stealing glances in my direction. They hovered at an appropriate blast radius; close enough to watch my shame unfold but far enough away to pass for a socially acceptable distance. I wondered what this kind of behavior said about my species, what was the closest equivalent I could draw as a comparison between this action and the lesser species in the animal kingdom.
Was it sharks circling around a hint of blood? I imagined, in this analogy, the sharks would instead be hoping to feast on my drama, my dismay, and my discomfort. I indulged my ethnographic curiosities and studied the hovering group, not really feeling the embarrassment that should have precipitated my exit but instead observed the observers, trying to read clues on their faces, wanting to see what they hoped to accomplish or gain; I was still wrapped in my detachment, I drew it close around me.
I didn’t register the drumming of approaching footsteps behind me nor did I realize that cubical land fell into a hush until two large fingers gave my shoulder a gentle, but firm, tap. I turned, steady but dazedly, and looked from the hand, now on my elbow, following the line of the strong arm, rounding the curve of the bulky shoulder, over the angular jaw and chin, until my eyes met with the familiar sight of Sir Handsome McHotpants’ piercing blue eyes. I cringed.