Have finally made it to the office this morning after one hell of a time doing so. Do you know that dream where you’re trying so hard to get somewhere and you just can-NOT? In my version, I'm always standing at my junior high locker with that little piece of paper you get on the first day that has the combination and directions—right, all the way around to the left, then back to the right. Anyway, in my dream I’m standing and turning that blasted combination well into sixth period. Kids come out of class, they go back in, bells ring, and, still, I stand, turning that little circle. Oh, and half of the numbers are rubbed off. And the hallway stinks. And, in the back of my mind, I have the nagging feeling I’ve signed up for eight classes even though there are only six periods in the day. Must stop writing about this now because I think I’m getting close to cracking the code (or do I mean combination?) and would hate to be forced into the position of learning something about myself.
So anyway. This morning I got up late and realized I did not have time for both my run and a shower, and, in truth, these are two activities that really should exist as a pair. Shower without a heavy sweat? Anticlimactic. Heavy sweat without a shower? Just plain gross.
So I opted for the ‘just plain gross’ morning and went for the run. I DID clean up, as best I could, with a frenzied mass of baby wipes and talcum powder which I believe I’ve had since birth. Stuff has a fantastic shelf life. Really.
Then, for the ‘icing on the cake,’ or, the. . .(and this is where it would be great to know French). . . ‘the piece de . . .’ You get it. So I spotted a rogue InStyle magazine on my coffee table, which is odd seeing as the only magazines I generally have lying around feature things like the latest trends in locker combinations, and I grabbed it and sniffed it, and, sure enough, the thing was saturated with perfume samples. Very excited with myself for ferreting this out, I flipped through to the first one I saw. Pleasure. Tore it out and rubbed it all over myself, even places I’m sure my doctor would not have approved.
Let me just say this, rather than giving you the gory details, there is a reason perfume comes in BOTTLES with SPRAY DISPENSORS and NOT on small, rectangular pieces of paper, COVERED with SHARP EDGES. I am now sitting, legs crossed, ever so GINGERLY, typing this warning to all other PERPETUALLY RUNNING LATE CHEAP BASTARDS like myself. Please wake up on time. Please take a proper shower. And please buy perfume in a GENUINE BOTTLE DISPENSOR. Serious pain here, people, and not the type of wound you’d willingly show your doctor.
Have also been secretly wondering if STD’s can be passed through paper cuts. The girl in the ad for Pleasure (the irony of this name, I assure you, is not lost on me) appeared to be wasting away from some horrible flesh-eating disease. Must go Google ‘flesh-eating diseases’ and ‘models’ and ‘perfume sample paper cuts’ and ‘uber-loud alarm clocks’ and 'the shelf life of talcum powder' and. . .
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