expiration dating

It’s August 2007 and the Floridian summer heat felt unbearable as I carried box upon box of clothes into a U-Haul moving van.

“How many plaid shirts are necessary for one person to own?” Cory shouted while pilfering through the remaining boxes trying to snag some of last year’s looks.

I was not amused. Plaid was, and still is, my thing. I like to think that I had a hand in bringing plaid button down shirts to where they are today. “Don’t be mad you don’t own any plaid” I rhymed as I grabbed the last remaining box out of my room and onto the truck.

Cory was my roommate while I attended Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton. It was a great school if you like a second-rate education, sports teams that barely make rank, and a mixed ratio of blacks, whites, and Latinos.

While in my last few months at high school I started figuring out where I wanted to go to continue my education and really let loose. Being a gay man in a private Catholic school my whole life, I needed somewhere I could fully come out to. All of my friends were either going to Florida State or the University of Florida. I chose not to go to FSU because I wanted to make new friends and I knew that wouldn’t happen with the bulk of my graduating class going there, and I chose not go to UF because I look horrible in orange.

I finally decided to attend FAU down in Boca Raton because no one I knew was going to be there. Also it was 45 minutes away from Miami: Gay Mecca. That’s where I did most of my praying. And by praying, I clearly mean being on my knees five times a day.

Once I knew FAU was a done deal, I started browsing Myspace for potential boys to entertain me on my first week without having any classes to occupy my free time. Yes, I said the word “Myspace”. Back in 2007 Facebook was barely known or used, and Myspace was just so damn easy. Thank you, Tom, for all you did. You helped me get laid almost every month. But once Facebook got around, it turned into every week.

Cory was one of the first people I messaged on the site in the Boca Raton area. He was tall, blonde, and with baby blue eyes. Well, according to his profile. I instantly fell in love. He was sweet, fun, encouraging, and lived only moments away from the dorm I would be living at for a year. So, I started brewing a summer romance so I would have a fun date the night I checked in.

I finally arrived in Boca on a Sunday afternoon, parents in tow. We had the usual welcome breakfast where I could mingle with the other new students, show my parents my dorm room, pick up my schedule and text books, and meet my roommate.

Oh, college roommates. “You’ll be friends for life” everyone always says. And I used to agree. I was looking very forward to meeting my roommate. The dorm I was assigned was a handicapped room:  Huge big space with two beds and a private bathroom. All of the other rooms were small four bedrooms with two people living in each with one communal bathroom. That is eight people for one bathroom. Nuh uh. And me with my germophobia? I don’t think so. God was truly on my side when it came to room assignments. And for not getting killed when meeting boys off the internet at 3am. But that story is for later.

I am about to get off track for a minute with the whole roommate situation. When I first was accepted to FAU they sent me an email with my roommates name and information so I could see who I would be living with and possibly send a nice little note or muffin basket. I wrote the note. My mom sent the basket. The name was Rayshawn Jones.

“What kind of name is Rayshawn?!” I screamed to my mom when I opened the email. “It’s either Ray or Shawn. Not both. You can’t be greedy.” And with that I realized that my soon-to-be roommate, Mr. Jones, was a black man.

Now, where I grew up in Florida, we didn’t have many black people. And by ‘many’, I really mean none. Throughout my entire schooling I never had a black student in my class. We once had an exchange student from Panama and she was the most urban thing we had ever seen. I am not saying that this is the way to live life. It is just the way I did. As an ignorant, country music-listening, Fox News-watching, Catholic white boy. And now I would be living with an African American.

My parents thought this would be way too much of an adjustment so they made a few phone calls and I was reassigned. I think they might have told the Student Board that I was handicapped with special needs for the room transfer. And I was fine with that.

When my parents and I scoped out my dorm, the only thing missing was my new roommate. “He’s probably stuck in traffic. Or maybe he is coming tomorrow. Or maybe he is at Ikea picking up a bean bag chair for us!” I shouted with enthusiasm.

My parents took me out for a farewell dinner, which my mom cried throughout all five courses, and then dropped me back off at my dorm. Still all alone. With no fun chairs filled with beans, I plopped down on my enormously comfortable twin bed and logged onto Myspace. Cory was online and we began chatting about my move. He went to FAU also, but lived off campus. He was also an upperclassman. Boy, can I pick ‘em. He initially asked if I wanted to grab coffee the next morning but seeing that it was 9pm and I had nothing to do, I pushed for plans that were a little more urgent.

“Coffee sounds great! But I mean, I’m not doing anything. And you’re clearly online sitting at home bored. I guess I could come over and we could watch a movie.”

Cory reluctantly agreed and I was sitting on his couch in less than fifteen minutes. We watched YouTube videos, talked about our favorite movies and music, and he showed me his pet hamster. Yes. A hamster. That deserves one big deal breaker. At that moment when I held the tiny furry creature in my hands I knew that nothing more than friendship would ever happen between us.

And now two years later, he was helping me move my stuff onto a U-Haul from an apartment we shared. I moved in with Cory after my second semester at FAU. My roommate finally showed that October. Three months late. He was a Cuban millionaire named Danny who smoked cigars and drank whiskey instead of going to class. He would steal my money, wear my clothes, and hit on all of my girlfriends. He totally ruined my living on campus experience and I had to get out.

So Cory and I decided to move in together. At this time we were best friends and I thought living with him would be amazing. And it was. Probably the best year I have ever had. But, as you read in the beginning of this chapter, all good things must come to an end.

As I mentioned before, the FAU campus was pretty much on the beach and only a car ride away from Fort Lauderdale and Miami. Needless to say, I didn’t get anything done. I never went to class. I never did my homework. I spent all my money shopping for new clothes or splurging at expensive bars to get guys to notice me. While the guys noticed me, my teachers and bank didn’t.

In my two years at FAU I had managed to spend over 14,000 in cash and max out three $2,000 dollar credit cards. If this book does well perhaps I will write a follow up book giving advice to young adults on spending habits, cleverly titled “Paying for Your Consequences”.

As if the money situation wasn’t bad enough, my grades were atrocious. I wish I could blame bad teachers, or really tough, unfair assignments, but in all honesty, I never went to class. But can you blame me? The campus was 45 minutes away from Miami!

I had a slew of boys in the 305 and that city actually housed my first ever boyfriends. Yes, that statement is plural. The first guy to ever call me his “boyfriend” was named Will. Unlike any of my other boyfriends, we had met on MySpace a few months prior and he was attending the University of Miami. A few months in of living down South we agreed to meet. And I am not talking a drink or cup of coffee. I am talking about me driving down to Miami for the weekend, staying in his dorm, and going to a UM football game. Some first date, huh? I was psyched! I had never been to a football game – never really cared to – but it was all so exciting. Until we met.

Let’s just say for lack of any words at all, he was not my type. But we continued to date for three months. Why not? He lived 45 minutes away and had season tickets.

We broke up amicably. I was over at some kid’s house fooling around and he followed me there and waited until I was done and left and confronted me in the parking lot.

“But I loved you!” he screamed. After the suicide threats were over, I sat him down and told him that we weren’t a good match, but if he should ever have to miss a home game to let me know and I will be there in my green and orange memorabilia.

The January of that year Will and I were chatting on AOL Instant Messenger (remember that?!) and he was going on and on about his new boyfriend. Not at all jealous, I asked to see his picture and he sent me to his MySpace page.

“Yummy!” I screamed as a quickly added him as a friend behind Will’s back. He was so cute. What the hell was he doing with “I’m gonna jump Will”? Once added on MySpace, the messages started flowing and I quickly made him realize that I was the better prospect. He dumped Will for me and we went on 3 amazing dates. Only three. His name is Dan and I bring this story up because he will be in many stories throughout this book.

I am getting off track once again. What was I talking about? Oh yeah, failing out of college. I was placed on academic probation after my second year at FAU and was suspended from taking any classes for two semesters. That’s a whole year off from college. I couldn’t waste one year of my life lounging on the beach, drinking Corona’s and sleeping with a different Spanish boy every night. Wait. That actually sounds like the perfect life. Why was I moving again?

Oh yeah, my parents. When they found out I was suspended, they demanded I send out applications to every other school, university, and Army recruiter in Florida.

“You have to finish school and get an education!”  My mom yelled with her Long Island accent coming out of every other word over the phone. “Do you want to end up like your brother, mowing Lawns in this heat, or your sister, divorced and slicing deli meats up in Babylon? No. I need my baby boy to be the bread winner of this family. And plus, it is a great tax write off to have a child in college”.

To a point she was right. I didn’t want to end up like either of my siblings. However I’m not sure that my sister’s ability to keep a marriage together really fit in her argument. That night I went online and filled out every college application I could get my hands on and used my mom’s MasterCard to cover the 50$ application fee.

Three weeks later, my lease to the apartment I shared with Cory was getting close to the end and I only had two options of where to move to next. The YMCA or back with my mom and dad in their retirement community. Clearly I would have chosen the YMCA. I just wasn’t a fan of the dancing while wearing an Indian Chief costume every day.

While searching for sugar daddies to take me in, I was also waiting to hear back from the four schools I had applied to. I would check the mailbox twice a day, calling FedEx at all hours of the night.

“Sir, I understand that it is four in the morning, but I am expecting a very important parcel from Stanford. Please, as soon as it gets in give me a call back”.

As you may have guessed Stanford was a no. As well as Florida State, University of Florida, University of North Florida, which I was kind of surprised about seeing as they let Joey, the token “special needs student” from our high school attend (he was also the mascot for a semester). The only school I had yet to hear from was the University of Central Florida located in the heart of Florida: Orlando.

“James! James! You got a big package!”

“Cory, please. I’m in no mood of turning this friendship to one with benefits, no matter how big my…Oh! It’s from UCF!”

I grabbed my scissors out of my bathroom drawer (for the pubic hair trimming I did once a month) and ran over to the package. Yes, I ran with scissors and I didn’t poke my eye out. Cory only had to wear a patch for a few weeks.

I peeled open the bright yellow envelope and pulled out a beautifully matted paper with the UCF logo on it. I held it to my face and began to read it out loud.

“Congratulations James Lane! You have been…deferred!”

Being deferred meant that they “could not accommodate me as a student for the fall term, but for me to reapply in the spring”.

I was now back at square one. No one wanted me. Boys or schools. I went to the local Ruby Tuesdays and drowned my sorrows with a Ruby Relaxer and the all you can eat salad bar. By the second drink and fourth plate of cottage cheese I realized that Orlando was the only opportunity I had left, even if I had no place to live, no job lined up, and a school that couldn’t accommodate me until January.

“Orlando won’t be so bad” I thought to myself. “I can use this time to start over and redefine myself in a new city where no one knows me!”

Packing my stuff was not easy, let me tell you. I had a lifetime, well, two years, of memories crammed into that tiny little apartment, and more clothes than I knew what to do with. I attempted to drop them off at the Goodwill store, but they wouldn’t take my ‘gently worn’ clothes.

“Sir, this Lacoste polo is from 2003. I’m sorry, but no one would ever buy this. And these, are these Adidas shoes? I don’t think we have room for this stuff. Perhaps you can try the Salvation Army”.

Heaven forbid the homeless in Boca Raton wear last season’s colors.

Speaking of clothes, I have a tiny problem with shopping and getting a credit card for every store possible. I can honestly say that I am the only homosexual (lesbians excluded) that has a Home Depot credit card. I signed up for it a few months ago because I didn’t have any cash on me to buy a can of spray paint for a school project. Now, that three dollar can has now cost me well over $42.

I was sad to leave Boca mostly because of Cory. Living with a gay man was by far the best experience of my life (thus far). I had never felt so much like myself. I didn’t have to hide anything or act differently or pretend to understand football. I knew that just down the hall someone was going through the same stuff, feeling the same emotions, had no idea what a field goal was, and wanted to have sex with the punk rock barista at Starbucks. Don’t tell Cory, but I beat him to it. I may have gotten herpes, but that doesn’t outweigh the free Frappuccino’s for a month.

Cory helped me through all of my boy problems, especially my first big league crush, Amos. Amos was by far the most intriguing person I have ever met in my life (thus far). Cory and him met via MySpace – that seems to be the trend – and when they met Cory was not in the least interested in him. So he gave him my phone number.

When we met, it was love at first sight. Well, for me that is. Amos did not like me. At all. I mean, we became good friends, but there was always this attraction between us that killed me. I tried desperately to make him like me, and he just would not concede with the idea. And, through Cory’s help I realized that Amos did not want me because he knew I wanted him. This is always the case, never wanting what is right outside your door…or bedroom window at 3am.

I never and still do not understand this “game” gay men play. “If you like someone, act like you don’t like them, and soon, they will like you.” Some of the worst advice ever given to me.

It is all about the chase. We all like the people who do not like us. It makes dating interesting. I mean, who wants to date someone that thinks the world of them? And that would do anything for them? Not me. Give me the guy who forgets our plans, never returns my phone calls, and pushes me off of him on New Year’s Eve when I try to give him a kiss!

 

So, back to the beginning of the story. It is the end of the summer and it is my time to leave South Florida. I closed the hatch on the Uhaul truck, turned around and faced my old apartment and tipped my hat like I was leaving the Waldorf Astoria in 1954.

I waved goodbye to the vibrant palm trees and admired their sway one last time. At this time I didn’t think Orlando would have such an array of the beautiful saplings Boca had. I quickly realized that palm trees, like Hispanics, are pretty prevalent throughout most of Florida.

I waved goodbye to the five Jewish ladies who did there powerwalk every afternoon in the middle of the road wearing matching neon pantsuits and visors.

“Estelle, Jodie, Gladys, Mabel, and Nora: Walk on!” I shouted while obeying the 5 mile an hour road sign.

I finally said goodbye to Manty, the property manager/repair man/lifeguard/shoulder to cry on. “I think I’ll miss you the most of all” I told him while fighting back tears.

After all my goodbyes, we were off on the road. Destination Orlando.

The drive was long, hot, and boring. I of course was forced to drive the Uhaul van with the no air conditioning and tape deck because it was all “my shit in the back” while Cory had the luxury of transporting my brand new Honda Civic fully equipped with a sunroof and mp3 player. Little did he know that once he helped me unload my stuff and drop off the Uhaul, he had no way of getting back home.

We arrived in Orlando in record speed, and I faked an ankle injury which led Cory to carry up my king size mattress by himself. My new roommate, Bryan, is a friend of mine from back home. We worked together slinging riblits at the local Applebee’s. You know. The one right there in the neighborhood.

When I decided on Orlando, I saw a post on Facebook that Bryan would need a roommate at about the same time I would be moving there so it worked out perfectly! I was thankful that someone I knew could move in with me so I wouldn’t have to go back on Craigslist. This time looking for roommates instead of glory holes.

So, the school issue was settled. And the housing issue was established. Now all I needed was a steady income. I already looked into escorting, and although I had the experience necessary, there was too much competition and I didn’t like my odds.

I found my first job when I was window shopping at the Millennia Mall. I spotted a J.Crew store and their winter line had just arrived which meant I had to go in and check out the walls filled with cashmere. I browsed through the racks of Nantucket red shorts, blue and white Oxford shirts, and tried on about eleven pairs of McAllister suede boots. I was in retail heaven.

When I finally reached the counter after fifteen minutes of shopping, the total bill I had accumulated was $434.25. I couldn’t afford that! I couldn’t even afford to get a lemonade with my sandwich at Chic-Fil-A.

Trying not to panic and show fear in my eyes when those numbers flashed on the screen, they were already neatly folding the six sweaters I just had to have, I noticed an application for the J.Crew Credit Card. “I could take all these gorgeous clothes home with me and not have to pay a dime until next month. I like that idea!”

I started filling out the application when guilt struck in. Don’t you hate that? I couldn’t possibly get another credit card. I was already $23,000 in debt as it was, and my credit score was down to two digits.

I folded the application and told the sales clerk I would have to put some things back. Suddenly guilt took a back seat to embarrassment.

The sales girl looked at my sympathetically. “I understand. If I didn’t work here, I wouldn’t be able to afford any of this.”

“Wait. What did you say?”

“I wouldn’t be able to afford any of this.”

“No, no. Before that.”

“I understand?” she asked, not sure where this was going.

“No, ya dumb broad. About working here. Do you get discounts on clothes for being an employee?”

I realize I shouldn’t have called her names, but I was just getting way too excited.

“Yeah. We get 25% off of new arrivals and 40% off of everything in the sale bin.”

The sale bin!? I could get 40% off of clothes already marked down to 50% off? I was having a sweater vest heart attack.

“Hm.” I thought to myself. “I need a job. I need new clothes to attract boys. I could work here, get amazing discounts, and make some money, all the while telling people they look fat in Orange!”

I grabbed an employment application ironically placed right next to the Credit Card ones – a nice bait and switch tactic – and filled it out on the spot. I gave it to the girl whose job I would be replacing within the next few days, paid in cash for my clothes, and treated myself to a Auntie Ann’s pretzel.

A few days later I was called in for an interview, and knowing how to dress and speak to middle aged women, I was hired on the spot.

The job was easy enough. Greet customers. Fold shirts. Make new window displays for the holiday season. The people that worked there were fabulous. They were so much better than my co-workers at my summer job at the local Dairy Queen. These people cared what they looked like and never showed up to work with sprinkles ironed into their polo shirts.

It was while working at this job that I met my first Orlando boy. He worked at the cosmetic counter at the Bloomingdales and was, well, everything you would expect from a department store cosmetologist.

One of my duties, since I was the only guy, was to take out the trash every afternoon. I saw this as a cigarette break. While outside in the designated area, he came up to me and bummed a smoke.

“You’re new. Aeropostale?

“J.Crew” I said in a snide and snotty way.  ”And you?”

“Bloomies. Ya got a name?” His swift arrogance made me feel like we were shooting an old western movie.

“Ya, cowboy. The name’s James. But my friends call me Side Saddle. Yours?”

“Ramon.”

“Like the noodles?”

“No. Nothing like the noodles.”

And bam! We were making out behind the cardboard compressor at 3:30 in the afternoon.

Ramon and I made this a daily ritual of events, meeting up in the employee elevator, janitors closet, and the Victoria’s Secret storage room. He would bring me samples of Elizabeth Arden’s latest, and I would smuggle out bow ties and plaid leather key chains.

A few days before Christmas I was busy organizing Chino pants when my manager came up to me and asked to see me in her office. “A promotion? Already” I thought to myself. “Just go in, and be calm. And make sure you get a dental plan.”

“Please sit down, James.” I could never tell her mood because she crushed so much Prozac into her Starbucks coffee.

“So, what is this about? I sold a cardigan to a black lady today. Can you believe it?”

“No, I can’t, actually. But that’s not what this is about. Today I wanted to talk to you about loss prevention.”

I couldn’t believe it. They wanted to make me in charge of the loss prevention department. I would have authority. And possibly even a badge.

“Yes?” I complied, trying not to get ahead of myself.

“Do you know what loss prevention means?”

“Of course. And I think I could really tackle it. I know a lot about this and think I could really help out.”

“Well, I think you know a lot about it, too.” She responded as she took a long sip of a white mocha iced latte.

“Suddenly, I heard a voice coming from the phones speakers. “Mister Lane? This is Ted Newman and I am in charge of the loss prevention and theft for the J.Crew company.” A phone interview. I loved it. “And we have reason to believe that you…” Here it was. The job offer. “…Are stealing from the company.”

“I’ll take it.” I shouted into the phone. “Wait, what?”

“Do you know a man by the name of Ramon?”

“Yes, I do. But its pronounced Ramown. Not like the noodles.”

“Well, Ramown has brought it to our attention that you have been giving him money clips, ties, and even a few key chains kept for yourself. Do you know anything about this?”

Ugh. That dirty little scoundrel. He’s in with the feds. He tricked me. All those kisses. All those talks. All those sexual acts in the Sbarros break room.

Ted continued. “You do realize that what you are performing is a criminal offense.”

“But sir. It was just a hand job. I would never do anything more. I swear.”

“We have the police waiting outside of the office to escort you out. Your employment here as of today is terminated. Please gather your things.”

That day was my first walk of shame in Orlando. As I left the mall, I stopped in front of the Bloomingdales and stared for a minute at the black and white glossy tile floor. I thought to myself “Would Ramon even remember me? Would he find somebody from Banana Republic or Bath and Body Works to replace me with? Would he go home that night, put on his bow tie and remember the cardboard compressor?” I held back my tears as I walked out into the Orlando air.

Not only was I heartbroken, but I had to find a new job in the morning, explain to my parents what had happened, and on top of that, I had to give back the leather key chain!

Work It Out

January first brings many things: a brand new year, different promises and possibilities, and probably the world’s worst hangover ever.  I experienced only one of these on the first of January. Can you guess which one?

It wasn’t until the 8^th, a full week later, when I realized I needed to make some life adjustments and improvements. I am not one for making a list of New Year’s Resolutions, because it just sets me up to fail. Every year I say I am going to quit smoking. I refuse to buy a pack, I get mentally prepared, and I try to focus on something else. But, thirty minutes after the ball drops you can find me bumming a cigarette from someone outside.

Which is exactly what happened this year.

I also don’t like the word “resolution” because it means the act of resolving, settling, and completing. It’s basically saying “I will stop eating chocolate this year”. If you have been eating chocolate your whole life, you cannot just quit eating chocolate. When we make these resolutions, or promises, to ourselves, we are trying to eliminate an act or interest we have been doing for some time (AKA, the smoking).

I prefer the word ‘revolution’ because to revolve is to change, to enhance, and to adjust. These are much better actions than to just diminish and end completely.

So, a week after the beginning of a new year, I woke up, looked in the mirror and said, “James, what the hell are you doing with your life?” This wasn’t the first time I have asked myself that question. It usually follows a one-night stand. But this time it was different. I didn’t have a stranger in my bed. And I wasn’t covered with semen. Well, one out of the two. But I asked myself this question because I was in desperate need of a life change.

I have been living in the New York City area (I am required to say that by New Jersey Law) for over a year and a half now, and while my Facebook posts, Twitter tweets, and drunken texting show that I am having the time of my life, the reality is that I was in a slump of depression. I know, I know. Me?! James Archibald Lane, depressed? Crazy. But I was. I would spend hours watching television in bed while eating macaroni and cheese out of the pot. The first day it was great. The seventy-fifth day, it was a problem.

Many people would never have guessed I was having issues with my happiness. I’m kind of like Katie Holmes in that way. So, that morning of January eighth, I vowed to myself I would make a change. I would revolve.

I had to start out with my career. I have been happily unemployed for the past seven months. I work part time for a start-up website from home where I write posts, edit posts, and post things to Facebook.

Since I had that crutch, or “post”, I never really cared to get back out there and find a job. I was comfortable with waking up at one in the afternoon, just in time to catch the two hours of Sex and the City on the E! network, and then tune into Ellen, and then make my macaroni and cheese, and then take a nap. It was a beautiful cycle. But, like I said, this cycle had its negative side effects.

One being I gained seventeen pounds since my unemployment began. I know seventeen pounds doesn’t sound like much, but I’ll show you a picture of me shirtless and you can be the judge.

So, after I applied to three jobs on Craigslist (What? It was my first day of productivity. I need to take baby steps) I decided that I needed to get “back” into shape. I use back in quotation marks because I have never been in shape, but saying “I need to get in shape” as a 26 year old makes one sound pathetic.

Omg, I’m 26. Ugh.

I went outside to go for a run, but then remembered I live in hilly New Jersey with a temperature of 31 degrees. Who can run in that type of weather? I’m no Kenyan. So I went onto Google – The worlds #1 search engine for over ten years – and typed in “Gyms in Weehawken, NJ.” And to my surprise, there is a gym located ten minutes away from me in the same shopping mall as the movie theater and Pizza Hut. I don’t know how I missed it.

So, I put on my best walking sneakers and headed on over to the L.A. Fitness. Well, after I went to the Pizza Hut. And saw Monsters Inc. in 3D.

I was greeted by two amazingly fit workers at the front desk who looked at me like I had pizza sauce on my face. I walked up to the counter and said, “Hi. I would like to join this gym.” Easy enough, I thought. I would sign a piece of paper, hand over my credit card, and that would be it.

Well, yes, I did have to sign a few pieces of paper (some liability crap that says if a machine falls on me, I cannot sue) and yes, I did hand over my credit card (twice, for some reason) but I was not close to being finished.

The guy wearing spandex shorts and a tank top, let’s call him Jim (get it? Ok) went over eleven of the best plans for me. “If you sign up today and put $40 dollars down, your monthly payment will only be 30$, but if you don’t put any money down today, your monthly payment will be $42, but if you put half the money down, and want to buy this water bottle, your monthly payment will be $55.”

I just shook my head in confusion and said, “Look, I just want to join the gym and pay a flat fee right now. I probably won’t be living in New Jersey for that much longer (fingers crossed) so, can I please just sign up for the three month program for $100 please?”

He nodded his head in a disappointed way and started typing in my information. “You know, you won’t get the water bottle with this plan. Is that okay?”

I responded yes, that I have my very own water bottle. After receiving my L.A. Fitness key chain card, and taking my picture, I was a gym member!

“Just one more thing before you go,” Jim said. “We need to set you up for a personal training consultation.”

“Ohhhhhh, that’s okay. I am not looking for a personal trainer. I just need somewhere I can run indoors with a television so I can watch Kathie Lee and Hoda. But thanks!”

“It’s just a free meeting with one of our personal trainers so they can show you around, teach you how to use our machines, and measure your body fat.”

“I already know how to use the elliptical machine, and I already feel pretty bad about myself, I don’t need someone telling me in a percentage just how overweight I am.”

“We have an open spot on Thursday at 4pm.”

“Fine. That’s fine.”

On my walk home from the gym (I was too exhausted to stay and work out after that ordeal), I realized that I needed to get some clothes to work out in. The only pants I have that aren’t jeans are green corduroy pants I wear every St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t even have t-shirts that don’t have 30Rock quotes written on them.

I spotted an Old Navy store down the street and figured they would have some sort of an exercise wardrobe collection. I personally haven’t been in side of an Old Navy store since I was eleven and tech-vests were not in style.

I walked in and realized that in fifteen years, the store hadn’t changed a bit. There were still clothes piled in bins and signs that read “Clearance” everywhere. Literally, every item on the store had a “Sale” sign above it. As mentioned before, I don’t have any money, so “clearance” and “sale” have become my two favorite words. Well, besides “free” and “into?”

I ambled an over to the Men’s section and spotted an outfit that resembled a track suit. It was 100% nylon and 50% off. Now that I had clothes, I needed to find better running shoes. And a damn water bottle since I lied earlier.

I spent the rest of the week waking up at a decent time, going to the gym for an hour, and then going to the public library to search for jobs online. Yes, if you read my previous story, I was allowed back into the Weehawken Public Library on a temporary basis. I am actually writing this story from the library. Isn’t it funny how things can change? Or revolve? See, I just went full circle.

Oh, sorry. This story isn’t finished yet.

After two days of applying for jobs, I was called in for an interview for Wednesday evening for an entertainment writing position. It was just the kind of job I was looking for, since I do spend a lot of time watching Access Hollywood, E! News, E! News Weekend, and stalking Mario Lopez.

Instead of meeting at an office, we met at a Starbucks. It made me feel less intimidated because I am usually more comfortable around coffee beans, foaming milk, and Michael Buble CD’s.

My interviewer, who asked to remain nameless for all blogging purposes, told me about the job, about what my tasks and requirements would be, and basically what a typical day is like. Everything Benjam…everything he said sounded great and I felt that I would fit in perfectly.  We shook hands and left the Starbucks, with him promising to contact me later on that week – We’ve all heard this one before, am I right ladies?!

It was now 2:30pm and I had plans to meet up with my friend Laura for dinner and drinks at 6. Instead of spending the six dollars to go back to my apartment in New Jersey, I decided to take myself to a movie and celebrate an interview well done.

The only movie playing at the time I was free was Les Miserables. I have heard nothing but great things about the film, and decided I should give it a watch. I walked into the dark theater not knowing anything about the movie plot. I sat down in my seat and put my bag and jacket on the chair next to me so people would think my date was in the bathroom, or buying me popcorn, or, I don’t know, writing me poetry.

It was now 5:45pm. The movie had just ended. I was more confused now than I was in the boys locker room in fifth grade. I am sure some people who are reading this post have yet to see the movie, so I won’t spoil anything for you. But, damn. Did you know they sang the entire movie?! Not one word was spoken! And Anne Hathaway! She was in the movie for eleven minutes. She won a Golden Globe award, and is nominated for an Oscar for being in a movie for eleven minutes?! I don’t get it. And the story line! What the hell was that about?! All of that for stealing a loaf of bread? Seriously? I have stolen way more than that and you don’t see me singing about it. Ugh.

It was now 6:00pm and I was meeting Laura outside of her fancy new office to go out and celebrate her new job. When Laura and I first moved to New York, we didn’t really know that many people, and we didn’t really know the cool places in the city. On our very first outing, in 2011, we stumbled into this tiny little bar in the West Village that has a wing night every Wednesday and you can drink beer out of a boot. We were sold.

So, for tradition, we went back to our hole in the wall and guzzled Bud Light and as many 25 cent wings we could eat. Laura ordered six, and I, twenty-eight.

After my second plate was filled with chicken bones and bits of bleu cheese, I stopped ignoring Laura and continued in on conversation.

“Sorry, I missed half that story. I cant concentrate on the t.v., the chicken, the beer, and your story about the M train all at the same time. So, start over from the spot where you got on at Herald Square and saw Carson Daily.”

Laura rolled her eyes and said, “my story is about my first day of work and I was trapped in an elevator for thirty minutes.”

“With Carson Daily?!”

“No. Carson Daily is not in this story. I haven’t mentioned his name since 1999. Where the hell are you getting Carson Daily from?!”

“Aw, I miss TRL.”

Laura ordered another white sangria, exhaled a little too loudly for my taste, and asked me if I would like to come to Queens for dinner the next night.

Is it just me, or does everyone else just get squeamish when they are invited to Queens? I know, I live in New Jersey. But I don’t go around inviting people to come over. And whenever I roll my eyes or pretend to vomit when I hear the words  “Astoria” or “the NQR”, the person who resides in Queens goes on a huge tangent about how great it is. We get it. There is a beer garden. Enough.

“I wish I could! I love Astoria! But, I have my consultation with a personal trainer tomorrow at my gym, so I cant.”

“You have a what? Since when do you work out?” She asked in between spurts of laughter.

“Since Sunday, thank you very much. I am trying to get ‘back’ into shape this year, so I joined a gym over the weekend and have gone twice since. So, that’s almost every day.”

“Ah! I am so proud of you. Look at you working out, and only ordering 28 wings on wing night. You are a whole different person!”

“I know, I am really excited about it. So, I can’t go crazy tonight because I want to be well rested and not hung-over when I go in tomorrow.”

It was now 2:45am and I was just leaving the bar trying to hail a subway to get hack bome to Nersey.

I woke up the next afternoon with an awful hangover and an empty bag of McDonalds lying on the pillow next to me. Talk about a ‘Nappy Meal’, huh? Okay, taking that joke out once this book goes to print.

I had a few hours before my training session began so I hopped in the shower to wake myself up and then sat on the couch to mentally prepare.

My alarm woke me up at 3:30pm, so I threw on my brand new Nike Air Jordan Max 3000’s and headed out to the gym.

I walked up to the counter where a twenty-something was sitting behind reading last months UsWeekly. Last months! I scanned my ID card and told her I had a meeting with a personal trainer.

“Yes, Gustavo is upstairs, first office on your left. He is expecting you.”

“Okay, great.” I turned to walk away, but quickly turned back around. “I’m sorry, his name again?”

She replied, “Gustavo” like she was saying John, or Robert, or another common white person’s name.

I walked up the stairs to the offices and my legs were already starting to hurt and cramp. Gosh, I hope he doesn’t have me doing anything physical today, I thought to myself. I found the first office on the left, and the door was ajar, so I lightly knocked to get his attention.

He spun around on his chair so quickly it scared me and said, “Yes?”

“Hi, I am looking for, uh, Gustavo?” I asked.

He stood up, outstretched his hand and answered, “that is myself.”

I waited until he turned around to give one, big eye roll and mouthed ‘Oh, brother!’

I am sure I have mentioned this in many of my articles, stories, blog posts and bathroom wall writings that I live in a predominately Hispanic neighborhood. And by predominately, I mean I am one of the only white people in a 2 mile radius. I saw a fellow Caucasian at the Dunkin’ Donuts the other day and I just sat down across from him and formed an alliance.

After Gustavo told me to have a seat, we started going over my ‘fitness goals’ that I wished to achieve. Frankly, I don’t have any fitness goals. I want to look okay naked. That’s it.

“Why did you join a gym? Do you have anything special coming up that you want to look good for?” he asked. (Oh, by the way, I am writing everything in Gustavo’s voice in proper English so my readers will understand. He was not that eloquent.)

“Well, I don’t know. I have a wedding in April I’d like to look okay for. So, yeah. I guess that’s a special occasion.” I answered while staring at the piece of paper he was writing on. He literally wrote down the word “wedding”.

“Ah, a wedding. Congrats!”

I was confused, but then understood what he meant. “No, no, no. It’s not my wedding. It’s a friends wedding.”

“Oh, a friends wedding. So, you’re not getting married?”

“Nope. I’m single, can you believe it?” I asked to lighten the mood.

“Well, you said you have never been to a gym before, so yes, I believe it. Are there any areas you want to work on specifically? (This was a fun word for him to pronounce).

“Well, I definitely want to lose weight, I wouldn’t mind having a flatter stomach. And arms. I want to have bigger arms. My eleven year old niece can beat me up. Pretty much, I want to take off my shirt and not have people scream.”

“I see, I see. Well, we can definitely work on that. But anyways Yames, first things first, we are going to weigh you and then check your body fat percentage.”

“Can we just skip that part? I clearly know there is a problem. That is why I am spending over a hundred dollars to come to this facility.”

“Ah, Yames, Yames. It is the procedure. Come. “ Gustavo then walked me over to the scale and weighed me. It wasn’t an accurate number because I was clothed and had my keys in my pockets. So, I just told him to deduct five or ten pounds to the number given. He didn’t. Next, we went back into his officina where he handed me a strange device that reminded me of a video game controller and told me to hold it out straight and squeeze tightly. We’ve all heard that before, am I right ladies?

I did this for twenty seconds until a percentage popped up on screen. A number I was actually happy about. “Well, that isn’t bad!” I said with excitement in my voice. “I was expecting it to be 50% Ha!”

He gave me a sideways glance and took the device out of my hands and opened up a book. “No, it’s not bad, but it’s also not good, either. You are two percent above the average body fat percentage for your age group.”

“Oh.” I was now realizing Gustavo was a dream crusher.

He filled out the rest of the form and in the box labeled “Physical Ability” he just put a question mark. “Okay, now that the form is filled out, let’s go out and I’ll show you some workouts.”

I got up out of the chair just when I was getting comfortable and we headed out to this restricted area in the gym that had a sign “Training Sessions Only”. Me, at the height of my naivety, thought good ole Gus was going to demonstrate a few exercises that would help me reach my goal and then I would be free to go about my workout as planned. (Elliptical, Elliptical, Elliptical).

The first thing Gustavo had me do was jumping jacks for one minute. For a normal person, this would seem like not a big deal. But, I am not a normal person. I haven’t done a jumping jack since my sixth grade physical fitness test.

After the most grueling 60 seconds I have ever endured in my life, I was then made to hold a 15-pound ball, lifting it above my head while doing lunges simultaneously. What?

The crazy exercises continued for thirty minutes, from one-handed push-ups to jumping rope. I was exhausted. I had to stop for water nineteen times and I swear I felt my heart stop at least twice.

We then went back into the office where I was bombarded with pamphlets and brochures trying to recommend different plans for me to choose. “If you pay the $50 initiation fee, your weekly price will be $40 a week for one session, $60 for two sessions, and so on.”

I knew by my third push up that Gustavo was a salesman, trying to sell me on the joy and thrill of personal training sessions, and the whole time I was trying to conjure a great excuse as to why I cannot buy into it.

But, now that all of these facts, figures, and body fat percentages were lying in front of me, I could feel myself about to give in. I was sitting in the chair contemplating all of the different options. I thought to myself, “Well, maybe I could afford two sessions a week…The workouts weren’t that bad…This is probably the best option for me to get ‘back’ in shape…”

Luckily for my credit card (and my body) I politely declined Gustavo’s proposition. “I just really don’t think this is the type of workout I want to do. I am sorry. Plus, I am an out of work writer. I have eleven dollars in my wallet. And that eleven dollars is probably going to buy me a pizza for dinner. So, thanks, but no thanks.”

I stood up and walked out of his office, and didn’t look back. I went to the locker room to collect my belongings and call Pizza Hut for a carry out order. I could barely pick my choice of toppings, I was so out of breath.

I got home, turned on a rerun of “The Office” and started digging into my large supreme pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni and thought to myself, “Ah, this is the life.”

Halfway through my first slice, I was interrupted by my phone ringing. It was the guy I interviewed with the previous day and he offered me a position writing for a website. I was beyond excited. At the interview, I really felt that I could excel in the position, and couldn’t have accepted the job offer any faster.

I woke up the next morning with a pain in every muscle, joint, and tooth in my body. Gus told me I would be sore the next morning, but this was a little crazy. I couldn’t raise my arms above my head, so there go my high-five rituals. I could barely walk to the bathroom and it hurt so badly when I sat down to pee.

But, after all the pain and all the struggle, this time when I looked in the mirror I saw a different person. Sure, the hairline had receded a tad bit more. And sure, I was still covered in semen, but I looked at a man who was doing something to fulfill his goals. A man who had joined a gym, and tested himself. A man who had applied for a job, and was offered a position. A man who sits down when he pees.

So, I may not have the best body, and I may not have the best job, but all I know is that everything, soon, will all work out.

One uneventful Tuesday night, a good friend of mine and I were out for dinner and drinks, where she was hogging the entire conversation by babbling on and on about her new love interest.

“He’s so great! I think he’s the one. I can’t wait for you to meet him. Did I mention he is really, really great?”

I poured the remaining sangria into my glass and did what all good, single friends do: Nod and smile.

Her gushing about her boyfriend lasted throughout the appetizers and through most of our main course. I didn’t mind, really. I didn’t have too many stories about guys who were really, really great. All I had were a few funny anecdotes about a blind date I went on the week before.

Finally, as the waiter cleared our plates and dropped off the dessert menu, my friend realized that she had been stealing the entire conversation. “I am so sorry! Look at me, talking talking talking about my new relationship. I haven’t even asked what’s new in your life!”

“Oh, don’t worry about it! I am happy to listen. I really don’t have anything new or exciting going on. I went on a few dates last week, but they didn’t amount to much. Cest la vie. But I have a few prospects, so not to worry. I will find some…”

“This chocolate cake sounds amazing!” she exclaimed holding the dessert menu over her face.

“I think I’m too full for dessert” I lied and picked up the other menu.

“Now that’s settled!” She sat back in her chair, took the remaining sip of her red sangria and looked at me, quizzically. “You go on a lot of dates, right?”

“Yeah” I answered. “I guess you could say that.”

“You must have so many funny and crazy stories.”

“That I do. Some are funny, but most are just awful.”

“Well, tell me! Tell me about your shittiest date!”

I ordered another pitcher of sangria, put both menus aside, and dived into the story about my shittiest date.

 

I was still studying at Florida Atlantic University – before they kicked me out – when I met someone in my geology class. Don’t ask me why I was taking a geology class when my major was journalism. But, there I was, a hopeless sophomore taking a course about the differences between an igneous rock and a sedimentary rock.

Leigh, a girl friend of mine who was also a lost cause when it came to college, decided to take this class with my because it would be “fun”. We showed up to the first lecture wearing shirts we found at the mall that read “Geology Rocks” hoping to make some friends, and well, to be the center of attention.

Neither worked.

We ended up playing hangman the entire time in the last row of the auditorium. The only time we were ever noticed was when the professor called us out for laughing because the answer to a question was “Dykes”.

Needless to say, we were going to fail this entire class, so our attention was focused on tic-tac-toe and USWeekly.

 

I met Leigh the very first day of college. I was all moved in and enjoying my empty dorm with a glass of wine when I heard a bunch of loud screaming and cheering. I looked out my window, which faced the courtyard, and saw about 30 to 40 people all circled around on the lawn. I downed the last sip of my Cab-Merlot blend and took the elevator down to see what all the commotion was about.

It turned out that Leigh couldn’t hold her liquor. Or her top. Or, her pants.

She was running around the lawn butt naked, jumping through the sprinklers. I went to the nearest person and asked, “What the hell is going on? Is this some kind of sorority initiation?”

He just shrugged his shoulders, took a sip of his beer, and shouted “This is fuckin’ awesome man!”

I nodded politely, said something heterosexual about some sports game, and walked away. I went back up to my room and watched the remainder of the show from my window.

The following semester I ended up having ENC1102 with Leigh. (If you don’t know what ENC1102 is, go to college). We stood in class to introduce ourselves, and as soon as she went, it occurred to me that I had seen her before. When she sat back down at her desk, I leaned over and said, “You’re the sprinkler girl, aren’t you?”

And ever since then, we were the best of friends. Aside from taking off her clothes at the first taste of tequila, she also has another embarrassing habit: Peeing her pants. I’m not sure which is worse. Every time that we would hangout, one of the two would always happen. Well, once, both happened simultaneously, and I still can’t stop the nightmares.

Whether it be us at the Cracker Barrel for Saturday breakfast or in a crowded movie theater, or in the drive thru at a local McDonalds, she always found a way to pee herself. The best was when we were in my car and she “felt it coming” that I made her go to the backseat and sit on newspapers.

And now, almost a year later, we are failing out of college. Together.

 

We showed up late to a midterm review and our seats in the very last row were occupied so we had to split up and find seats somewhere closer to the front. I luckily found a seat on the end, so it was easy for me to sit down, while the only other open seat was in the second row, dead in the middle. There was no way she was going to be unnoticed.

The review dragged on, while the professor was reading notes about metamorphic rocks into magma when this kid next to me tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hey, I wasn’t here last week, do you mind if I borrow your notes to copy real quick?”

I turned to him with a puzzled look on my face and said, “I haven’t taken one note since this class began four months ago. I don’t even own the text book.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to fail the midterm?” he asked, shocked that I wasn’t taking this class as seriously as he was.

“Not really. I mean, I’m going to fail the midterm. I’m just not afraid.” It was at this moment I realized how cute this guy was – well, cute in an Elijah Wood kind of way. I could tell that he was a gay, so I asked him if he would want to get together the next day to study for the test. For some reason, he agreed, and we set a date to meet the next morning at a Starbucks.

As I walked out of the auditorium, I met up with Leigh to tell her about my interesting new seat.

“Hey, you want to drink tomorrow morning and then go putt-putt golfing?”

“I can’t, sorry. I’m meeting up with this guy, Andrew, to study for the Geology exam.”

She stopped me from walking any further. “You’re what?!”

“I ended up sitting next to this cute guy, and he is going to help me study. I’ll probably still fail it, but I might as well get laid.”

___

 

Our meet up time was eleven o’clock at the library on campus. I woke up that morning hung over and starving. My roommate ate the last of the pop tarts, so I was left with nothing for breakfast.

“There is still some milk left in the refrigerator. Have some cereal.”

“I can’t eat cereal, Cory! I’m lactose intolerant! God, you’re so stupid!” (A little Mean Girls love)

“Oh, yeah. I always forget that. What’s that like, not being able to eat dairy?”

“It sucks, Cory. It really sucks. But hey, I have to run for a study date.” I ran to the front door with my backpack. “See ya!”

“I don’t think I have ever heard you say the words “run” or “study” in my life.”

I threw up the middle finger and left my apartment. On the drive to campus, I really needed something to eat or I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on Andrew. Or the notes. But mostly, on Andrew. I spotted a Starbucks with a drive-thru on the way. “Score!” I shouted over Beyonce.

I pulled into the drive thru and was abruptly shocked when I saw a young girl scout with her mother standing by the menu board and microphone.

“Hi, would you like to support the girl scouts of America this morning and purchase a box of our world famous cookies?”

I looked at the girl, and then to the mom, and then back at the girl. I shook my head and said, regretfully no.

“But you would be helping out a great cause.”

“I’m really sorry” I shot back. “But I’m a student and I’m on a tight budget. I really can’t right now.”

The mother of the young girl gave me a dirty look and said, “But you can spend 6$ on a cup of coffee? Yeah right. Some budget.”

I was so appalled at this woman. I didn’t know what to say. I just kept praying that the Starbucks barista would come over the intercom soon so I could pull forward.

“Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t want any girl scout cookies right now. And, are you even allowed to be soliciting at a drive thru window? I’m sure there are laws against that.”

“You live in Boca Raton. Everyone here has money. Your mommy is paying for you to go to school, and for this cup of coffee I’m sure. “

“Then why don’t you buy the cookies from your daughter and leave me the hell alone?!” I shouted.

I couldn’t believe I had just said that to someone. A mother, especially. I sat there in the drive thru lane, still waiting to hear from the barista and keeping my eyes forward. Finally, she came on and asked what I wanted. I suddenly felt guilty for ordering my 6$ cup of coffee and crumb cake. I shouldn’t let this woman interfere with my day, or order.

“A venti iced caramel macchiato with soy milk and a crumb cake.”

“Ok, move forward please.”

“Make sure it’s soy milk, please.”

“Yes, sir. It’s just 75 cents extra.” she responded.

I looked at the disgruntled mother, smiled, and said, “No problem.”

I got back on the road to head to the library, drinking my delicious coffee and eating my yummy cake while texting my roommate about what had just happened at the Starbucks.

When I was about five minutes away from my destination, I had a strange grumbling in my stomach.

Maybe it’s just nerves.

Maybe I ate too much for dinner last night.

Maybe the Starbucks barista forgot to use soy milk.

SHIT!

My stomach pains were increasing, and I quickly decided I was going to have to turn around and head home. I could have been like any other, normal human being and stopped in somewhere to use the bathroom, but ever since I was little, I have had this tremendous fear of public restrooms. At this point in my life, I had only used two public toilets. One, when I was five and didn’t know what I was doing, and two, when I got so drunk I threw up at a bar on my birthday. And that’s it.

I swerved into the left lane so I could make a U-turn at the next light.

Oh, boy. These pains are getting intense.

Whenever I am in this situation where my stomach feels like it is attacking the insides of my body and I can’t breathe, I always know what’s coming. Diarrhea.

Usually, to trick my mind, I try to do a complicated math problem in my head to focus all of my energy on solving the problem. So here I was, sitting at this red light, dividing 347 by 13.

Why won’t this fucking light turn green?!

13 goes into 47 3 times.

I’ am going to explode.

And 13 times 20 is 260.

Luckily, the green arrow turned green and I was allowed to make my U-turn. Although, it was too late.

Much too late.

The second I turned my mind steering wheel, all math went out the window and I realized I was having a car accident. Now, when this happens, the last thing you want to do is panic. You admit there is a problem, and you casually think of a way to fix it. I pulled off to the side of the road to think of a way. And to unroll the windows.

I looked to the passenger seat and noticed the bag that contained my coffee cake and inside was a plethora of napkins. Instinctively, I took the napkins out of the bag and wedged them between my ass to absorb the remaining liquid. I was fifteen minutes away from my house, and I realized this was a problem I would have to take care of now, and not in fifteen minutes.

I spotted a McDonalds at the next intersection. I put my car in drive and sped along the road into the parking lot. With the napkins still intact, I got out of the car and made my way into the restaurant lobby, so I could use the bathroom.

Desperately, I tried to go unnoticed. I didn’t want the employees of McDonalds to see me walk in and head straight for the restroom, so I paused a moment to look at the menu. When I felt I had been seen enough, I made my way to the back of the restaurant, clenching my ass cheeks together and walking like my knees were glued together.

On my way, I passed a table holding six Mexican men enjoying their lunch break before heading out into the hot Florida sun to continue their business of citrus selling, when all of a sudden I felt a cool breeze enter through my shorts.  It was at this time when I realized the napkins were no longer in place.

Oh my God, I thought to myself. Where the hell were the napkins?!

I turned to look behind me, and saw the clump of brown, damp napkins lying on the ground, directly in front of the Mexican table.

The table of ese’s all put down their egg McMuffins and stare at the soiled paper on the floor next to them while I, at the same time, am trying to decide whether or not I should go back and pick it up, or act like I never saw it and run straight to the bathroom.

I stand there for about fifteen seconds pondering my questions, which felt like 15 hours. Eventually, I ran back and picked up the napkins…with my bare hands…and made my way to the restroom.

Luckily (the one thing that went right so far) there was no one in the bathroom so I locked the door and stripped down to my birthday suit. I then took that off, and got completely naked.

It’s these times when you wish mirrors were never invented.

I threw the mucky napkins, along with my favorite pair of J.Crew boxers, into the trash can and headed for the handicapped stall to clean up. I started filling the sink with boiling, hot water and added soap to saturate my jeans so the brown spot could get washed away. While my jeans were soaking, I did my best to thoroughly clean the rest of my body.

It was this moment when I heard a knock-knock on the bathroom door.

“I’ll just be a minute!” I screamed to, I am sure, one of the Mexican men.

“Andale! Andale!”

After the longest three minutes of my life, I took my jeans out of the sink and went over to the air dryer to dry them out. Of course the air dryer stops after 10 seconds, so I stood there, pants less, pushing the button every ten minutes until my jeans were a wearable moist.

I got dressed, did one last look in the mirror, unlocked the door, and headed out of the restroom to find the Mexican man holding his crotch and rushing past me towards the urinal. He gave me a concerned look, which I guess had something to do with my damp jeans.

I grabbed the keys out of my pocket and got into my car and was suddenly overwhelmed with the smell of an old egg salad sandwich. I started the ignition and made my way to the library, running the red lights and rolling through every stop sign on campus.

I ran up the steps to the library and texted Andrew that I had just arrived. I went to the second floor, the “quiet” floor and searched for Andrew at one of the work tables. My phone beeped and I was abruptly “Shh’d” and gawked at by every nerd who chose to hang out in the library on a beautiful autumn day.

Andrew was texting me to let me know he was running a little late but would be there shortly. Now I was pissed. I always come early!

Let me rephrase that, shall I?

I always show up places earlier or before the other person has arrived. Every single time! It doesn’t matter if I watch the last few minutes of that Oprah interview, or stop and get gas, or even shit my fucking pants. No matter where I am going, I will always get there first.

I found a table in the back of the library and started getting all of my study materials out on the desk. I opened the highlighter packet and stack of notecards I bought the year prior and sharpened a brand new pencil. I even took out my TI-83 calculator, just in case Andrew wanted to see me spell “Boobless” upside down.

As I sat there waiting for him to arrive, I became so paranoid that he would be able to smell shit on me. I had smelled it for the past twenty five minutes, so my nose became familiar with the stench. But this smell was going to be all new to Andrew. I should have stopped at CVS and sprayed some G-Unit cologne on my body, but then realized I’d rather smell like shit than smell like black.

 

The following Tuesday we had the big Geology exam and I felt pretty good about it. Andrew was actually pretty smart in geology, a skill that will get him absolutely nowhere in life.

I met Leigh outside of the classroom after the exam to see how she did.

“I fucking rocked that shit. Get it? Rocked it? ‘Cause the test was on rocks.”

“Yes, Leigh. I get it. Do you know who you are talking to? I am the king of word play. My first words as a child were a pun.”

 

I left campus and headed back to my apartment to eat a frozen pizza and watch day time television with my roommate and await the grades to be posted online. Naturally, Cory was lying on the couch in nothing but his boxer briefs and a Christina Aguilera concert tour shirt watching Judge Joe Mathis.

I curled up next to him and watch a landlady sue her renters for driving their car through her living room. I was very thankful that we lived on a second story and we had a better chance of a plane crashing through our building. (Is it still too soon?!)

A few hours later my phone beeped and I was promptly “Shh’d” by Cory. I was really getting over people not liking my Blackberry sounds. I went into my room and read the text message from Drew. I call him Drew now because we have reached that level in our relationship. Pretty soon and I will be calling him cute, fun nicknames like Anders or Mountain Drew.

His text message(s) read:

6:34pm Hey! The grades are up!

6:38pm How’d ya do?

6:39pm Hope you didn’t take my studying tips for granite. (granted! Ha!)

There is TOO much word play with geology.

I opened up my grade book on blackboard.com and checked to see how bad I did in this stupid rock test. A 79. That’s a high C. Wow, I was pretty amazed with myself. I texted my score to Andrew and thanked him for his help studying.

6:54pm Awesome! C+

6:55pm That’s not shitty at all man!

No, Andrew, you’re right. Unlike my day last week, this is not shitty at all.

 

As I finished telling my story, I looked over at my friend and realized her mouth was hanging open, probably in shock. But mostly in disgust.

I drank the last sip of my sangria, picked up the dessert menu, and asked, “So, did you still want to get that chocolate cake?”