The other day, I was alone with a man in a laundry room, and exuberantly I said to him, ‘I have a really nice rack!’ Well shit, not that kind of rack. ‘MY EYES ARE UP HERE, PAL!’
A couple of months ago I said to a male colleague, ‘If you add an avocado to your smoothie, it will make it creamy like a dream.’ WHO IN THE ACTUAL HELL SAYS THAT…EVER…TO ANYONE? Dear Lord, please make it stop.
One time at a Subway restaurant, this nightmare unfolded. To the male sandwich artist behind the counter, I directed this question, ‘How big is a six-inch sub?’ As though he was talking to the thickest person on the planet, appropriately, his response was, ‘Six inches.’ Under his breath, I heard him whisper, ‘You fucking idiot.’ Clearly, he had missed my point, so to prove I wasn’t as stupid as I had just made myself out to be, I began gesturing with my hands my estimation of six inches and asked him if he could show me. As you would expect, things got super weird, and we both just stood, staring at each other in silence. Without saying another word, I hightailed it out of there because I had unintentionally taken us to a very dark place and by this point, neither of us were thinking about the same buns and inches I had come in there wanting to put in my mouth for lunch. When I entered Subway that day, my intention was not to be a dumb pervert; I just wanted a goddamn sub.
SEE? There is something seriously wrong with me.
It’s not just the things I say; it’s also the things I do that leave me scratching my head. So often I am astounded by the level of stupidity at which I operate, and wonder how I have managed to live for as long as I have.
At work, I am on the ball. My boss trusts me to handle big projects and knows I am capable of communicating efficiently with anyone; she just doesn’t have to worry about me. When shit goes sideways, I figure it out and handle it. Plus, I work with a great team and have a vast amount of knowledge at my disposal day in and day out. But the moment I am not focused on work, or am outside of the confines of my office, the hamster in my head screams ‘WHOOPIE’ and begins aimlessly flailing around like a drunken tween.
I am not even sure I should be allowed to go through life unsupervised anymore; me merely being is a hazard.
But this isn’t new. Oh no, I have been hazarding all over the place for years. Let’s go back in time, shall we?
It’s 1986. I dare any of you to tell me where on the maxi-pad box it said that the sticky side goes down. WHERE? It took me two days to realize that losing skin and whatever hair was down there was not part of the monthly protocol. What the fuck was this absorption thing I had heard so much about? When I finally got the idea to put the sticky side down, I may have wept in celebration. TWO. WHOLE. DAYS.
Total head scratcher, right?
It’s 1987. As I walked down the hallway at school and the cardboard applicator shot out of my vagina like a rocket launch I had the sense that I had done something wrong. Nobody reads the instructions provided in the Tampax box. NO. ONE. I did. Over and over again. Despite the hours I spent studying each word, nothing led me to believe that all of the pieces didn’t stay up in there. Obviously, it was imperative I didn’t drop out of school since the meaning of the word ‘applicator’ hadn’t even tipped me off. DUH. When I finally got it, I understood what the commercial was talking about…dammit, I could have ridden a horse if I had wanted to. Especially after not feeling like I was being stabbed every time I sat down. There are few things I view as the greatest invention ever, but tampons, when used correctly, are one of them.
Some of you right now are probably wondering what the hell you just read. Perhaps you are even regretting what you can never unread; I get it, you didn’t ask to read about the improper use of pads and tampons. But you’re welcome, anyway.
Here is my takeaway.
Life is hard. We are forced to navigate a barrage of negativity on a daily basis and throughout the years, are expected to keep smiling when our hearts are crippled by pain, loss, and excruciating heartbreak. This I know all too well. It’s hard to keep moving forward and to keep smiling, but those things are our only option, aren’t they?
When I think about these few things I have said or done (so. many. more. things.), they make me laugh. Shit, if I didn’t laugh, I would never leave the house. Laughter has saved me. Despite the awkward and embarrassing situations I have put myself and others in, I am so grateful for them. In my lifetime, I have laughed more than I have cried, and have surrounded myself with people who are more than willing to laugh with me and at me. It makes all of it so much more bearable. And man, have I ever had fun.
My friends, my message is this. Laugh. Even when it hurts, laugh. Don’t beat yourself up when you make a fool of yourself, laugh that shit off. We’re all fools. And, keep in mind that I am probably out there doing something even more ridiculous than you, so…its not that bad.
Laugh, you guys.
And remember, the sticky side always goes down.