I called my friend B. this afternoon to complain about the newest dilemma I had wrenched myself into. B. is a very smart guy, not just because he went to an Ivy League university, but because he exercises logic in times of disarray, an activity that I, no matter how hard I try, can not seem to master.
I delved deep into the details of my conundrum, details I made loud and clear as I traipsed my way into a coffee shop in Harvard Square while babbling on the phone. Onlookers stared in horror as my five or six tote bags full of miscellany swung about wildly and created victims out of stray napkin dispensers while I attempted to simultaneously maintain the conversation with B., order a latte (and a cookie) and extract my Visa card from my wallet with my teeth.
“I just can’t have this mess with my writing,”I whined to B as chunks of chocolate cookie splayed down my super-trendy peasant blouse that fit a bit too snugly for hipsterdom over my D-cup breasts. “But I can’t figure it out.”
“You’ve got to cut this whimsical bullshit,” retorted an exasperated B., getting right to the point as a man about to take the bar exam should. “I’ve never heard you like this.” He paused. “Or, at least not this bad.”
You try explaining logic to a girl who used to risk suffocation on a nightly basis by hoarding 23 stuffed animals into a twin sized bed with her because she was afraid that if she didn’t include and every plush creature she owned that she’d hurt the excluded teddy’s feelings.
Yeah, 26 was a tough year.