The Killing Fields

It was April a few years ago and I was traveling back from a long weekend in Kennebunkport with my mom and dad. We pulled off somewhere in Connecticut to refuel the car. Four hours down, four more to go. Across the street from the gas station was a Marshalls. My mom and I noticed it as soon as we exited the highway but we delayed breaking the news to my dad until the gas cap was back in place. He agreed to let us shop if we agreed to let him stay in the car.

“You’re buying this,” my mom said as she dragged a six foot tall fake plant over to the shoe department where I was sampling the latest offerings.

“Why on earth do I need that thing?” I asked, hopping over to a mirror in a pair of killer kitten heels tethered together with a three inch piece of string.

“For your apartment, Paige Jennifer.”

“I don’t need a plant. Plus, it’s….holy crap, that thing costs a hundred bucks?”

“You need something to give the illusion of warmth. And we all know you can’t keep a real plant alive. Speaking of which, I think it’s time you tossed that brown twig you still fondly refer to as an orchid. Anyway, this is the next best thing. No water, no sunshine, no love. Just a corner.”

I stood my ground and I didn’t buy the plant. But my mom did. It was her way of making a point. The only saving grace was that she didn’t go so far as to make it part of my birthday gift.

A few months later, my dad decided to fire the service we’d been using to water and maintain our little office jungle. The fee was ridiculously high considering we had all of five plants. Unaware of my not-so-green thumb, I was put in charge of the watering can. I set out with high hopes but killed them one by one. Some I watered too much. Some I watered too little. And apparently some plants don’t thrive off leftover Diet Dr. Brown’s Vanilla Cream. Who knew? While my dad came to refer to the office as The Killing Fields, one lone potted plant held on.

The sole survivor eventually became the basis of a hundred dollar bet. My dad was convinced I’d kill it and I was convinced I’d keep it alive. The bet went on for a good twelve months. Over that time, the plant continued to drop leaves and slowly work its way toward three sparse stalks. I never gave up, figuring as long as there was one iota of green, the plant was alive. Then things took a turn.

“Is that a bud I see?” I asked as I strolled into my dad’s office where the plant resided.

“Er, um, maybe,” he said with a sigh. "Though I'm not fully convinced you didn't come in over the weekend and crazy glue it on."

Granted, the plant wasn’t a prize winner but it somehow survived enough to sprout some new leaves, along with a curious, sticky pollen substance that sorta reminded me of the slime from Ghostbusters. Regardless of the goo, the plant was not only alive but on the up and up.

I won the bet but we ultimately tossed the three leafed survivor in the dumpster and rehired the plant service. Let’s be honest. I can barely take the necessary steps to keep myself alive. People, on Sunday I knowingly used milk that was nine days beyond the stamped sell-by date. I’d already poured the Life cereal in a bowl and I was both too lazy to force it back in the box and too cheap to just throw it out. Payback came in the form of painful stomach cramps. It isn’t any wonder I killed each and every goldfish I brought home from the Purim carnival. I’ve got to be honest here. I’m not sure if I want to have kids but in the off chance I do opt to reproduce, I’m a little concerned I’ll fail miserably. From what I’ve been told, it involves a lot more than biweekly waterings.

Picking Up the Pace

I suppose my athletic drive can be summed up with the fact that I competitively play kickball. I own a treadmill, a bench press, various dumbbells and a balance ball. They all get used but not as much as they should. Okay, I’m lying. The balance ball just sits in the corner like an oversized beach ball and taunts me. I’ve yet to learn how to workout on it without doing a face plant. But I use everything else anywhere from one to three times a week. And by "use" I mean engage for the purpose each item was designed. Okay, I'm lying again. Sometimes the treadmill doubles as a coat rack.

The other day a friend sent an email inviting me to join his wife and a gaggle of girls to train for a mini Triathlon in Philadelphia. The first leg is a swim. According to my likely flawed metric conversion, you're in the water for three quarters of a mile. Then you bike seventeen miles before heading into the home stretch with a three mile run. The middle part on two wheels would be a piece of cake. I haven’t saddled up on either my road bike or mountain bike in a few years but I know I could kick out seventeen miles without a hitch. I got stuck on the activities sandwiching the ride. As far as I'm concerned, just floating in a pool is fatiguing. Forget projecting myself forward. And the ongoing joke in college was that the only time friends ever saw me sprint was when Bloomingdales had a sale. Sad, but true.

“You’re joking, right? You clearly didn’t mean to include me in this triathlon email,” I replied to my friend.

“Come on. You can totally do it! It isn't an Ironman. And I think you’d really enjoy the rush of completing it all. Plus, you could finally tell people you're athletic.”

“Wait, where's the swim?” I asked after pausing to visualize my head affixed to a toned body breaking through a ribbon finish line.

“The Schuylkill. Yeah, this tends to be the point where people opt out.”

“Isn’t there toxic waste in that river? I think I saw Erin Brokovich taking water samples down there the other day. Listen, I’ll still ponder it all but I’m probably gonna pass.”

A few days later, still evaluating the triathlon, I headed over to play kickball. After good-game-ing our opponents, one team mate complained about injuring her right quad when she made a sprint for home. I didn’t want to say anything aloud but my left quad was a tad achy from my erred decision to do a ballet-like leap instead of a slide into first base. I landed a little hard and exactly one inch short. I hit a pathetic athletic all time low.

So last night, I slipped into some lycra and sneakers and set the television to Dr. 90210, because anyone who says beauty isn’t the true inspiration for working out is a complete liar. As I stood on the rails of my treadmill in preparation to altnerate some running with my usual walking, I glanced over my left shoulder to confirm what exactly I might slam into if I misstepped and ended up flying off the back. Confident I wouldn't sustain anything worse than a mild concussion, I stepped onto the belt and started walking. After five minutes and a long deep breath, like the kind you take before being stuck with a needle or having a band-aid ripped off, I upped the speed. I lingered at a running pace for five minutes before ultimately dropping it back down so my burning lungs could recover. I walked for a little bit. Then I cranked it back up, aiming to run for another five minutes. But I hit my wall at two. Oh well. At least I did something to warrant owning four pairs of running sneakers, one of which is currently on my balcony with doggy doo stuck in the tread.

I got into the office the next morning and picked my dad’s brain. “Why did my lungs burn when my legs were fine?” I asked the one-time athletic super star.

“Because it was cold outside,” he replied.

“I was on my treadmill. Inside. With the balcony door closed,” I curiously stated before realizing he was making a joke at my expense. "You suck," I said, walking back to my desk and leaving him solo in a fit of laughter.

So I called Leslie and asked her the same question.

“Because you’re out of shape,” she answered without skipping a beat. "Like if-you-entered-the-Special-Olympics-you'd-get-your-ass-kicked out of shape."

“Hey, I work out,” I defended.

“Sex doesn’t count.”

"Let me tell you something. The last time I had sex, I awoke the next morning with aches in muscles I didn't even know I had. Clearly that was a workout. Wait. What if I incorporate some peck flies whenever I'm in missionary? Or push-ups when doing it doggie? Would that count?"

"La la la la, I can't hear you," Leslie sang before hanging up the phone.

Even with my immediate family mocking me, I’m not giving up. Not this time. Tomorrow night I'm going to try and break my international world record and run for a whopping eight minutes. After all, I just might be training for a triathlon. Hey, stop laughing!

Reading: Round Two

“Any thoughts about tonight?” Reading emailed on Friday morning, trying to iron out our third attempt at a second date.

“Comfy casual? Like take out and a movie,” I replied. It was raining and I was wiped out from a non-stop week at work.

“You read my mind. Can you come to Reading?” he asked.

I agreed to accommodate him. First of all, he’d already clocked three hours in his car and it was only noon. The furthest I'd traveled all day was on my desk chair rolling between printer and computer. Plus, me going there meant he wasn't coming here. In other words, I could bypass cleaning up my condo which was pretty much an explosion of dirty clothes, clean clothes and miscellaneous crap that needed to be put away. I printed out the detailed directions he forwarded and then briefly stopped home before making the trip north. Or is it west? Who gives a shit. It’s the middle of nowhere.

In light of my long week and the pending long drive, I decided to load up my messenger bag with some essentials. Just in case I didn't have the energy to drive home. Shut up. I swear to God. I wasn't preparing for a booty call. Listen, if I were, I would have slipped out of my cotton intimates and into something less practical and more lacey. Anyway, on top of my usual handbag clutter, I added three Netflix movies, one pair of extra panties, one toothbrush and one lace trimmed but casual cami sleep-set. I tossed my bag on the passenger seat and pulled my car onto the first of three highways separating me from Reading.

An hour and fifteen minutes and two u-turns later, I was parked in front of his house. It was so far from Philadelphia that the air was actually crisp, reminiscent of New England nights. As I looked up at the sky, I noticed that each and every star was visible. I gathered up my things, locked up my car (out of city slicker habit) and headed to the front door. Standing in the chilly night air was Reading. In jeans, a t-shirt and socks, he patiently awaited my arrival.

“You made it okay,” he said as I neared him in the darkness.

“First of all, gas is silly cheap up here. I might just drive around in circles so I can buy more of it. Second of all, you must be freezing.”

And as I came within reach, he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulled me into him and kissed my lips. Once and then a second time.

“I’m making up for not kissing you on our first date. Okay, now it’s cold,” he said, reaching for the door and waving me in.

I slipped out of my layers, dropping my pink scarf and Old Navy fleece in a tidy pile on top of my handbag. And then I headed over to the sofa where he was already settled in. Something silly was on the TV. I wasn’t paying attention. I sat down next to him, resting my back against his chest. He wrapped his arm around me, laying his open hand on my stomach. We lingered like this for a while. Sometimes I layered one of my hands on top of his. It was one of those moments that felt like a long exhale.

“So seriously,” he started to say as the credits rolled on the television. “Reading isn’t that bad, right?”

“I can’t believe I’m going to admit it but yeah, right about now, I'm enjoying Reading,” I confessed.

"I'm sure you'll feel the same way tomorrow morning," he said.

I leaned my head back against his chest and looked up at him as if to question his last remark. The corner of his mouth was still upturned in a slight grin. "I'm just suggesting," he casually explained.

"Suggestion noted," I replied.

Eviction Notice

This time last year, I got in my car and drove up to Albany. It was to pick you up at the airport so we could spend yet another fall weekend mingling with old people turned on by the changing foliage. As far as I can tell, leaf peeping is like Alaskan cruises. You need to be collecting Social Security to relate. Not that this mattered to you. "I have an AARP card," you proudly announced at thirty-eight. You got it for the discounts. I got why you got it but I didn't really get it all.

So I drove. While you flew. “It’s so far from DC,” you whined when I asked you to train it to me so I didn’t have to make the five hour journey solo. I gave up fighting and just let you have your way. I even went so far as justifying your flight because it saved you time and money. Yes, you. It saved you. It saved me jack shit. That was how things wound down in our relationship. It became more and more about you. When I asked you to help me paint my condo, your answer was no. That you worked your banker magic and gave me a great mortgage rate with the understanding I'd use the savings to pay someone else to paint. I didn't realize my mortgage had strings attached. That wasn't the point. You didn't want to paint. You didn't like to paint.

After picking you up in Albany, we worked our way into Vermont. “You’ll love staying at a B&B,” you said. I hated when you told me how I’d feel. And no matter how many times I asked you to refrain from erroneously predicting my emotions, you continued. “You’ll love the leaves,” you said as we drove through the pouring rain to the B&B. We drove past that godforsaken inn three times because the sign was hidden behind an overgrown Pine tree. The driveway was muddy, the rain was heavy and I was getting sick. “You’ll love it,” you said as I trudged into the B&B located ten miles down the road from where I really wanted to stay.

The rain never let up. New Hampshire declared a state of emergency from flooding. The innkeeper made quite possibly the crappiest breakfast ever. A baked apple and something else Vermonty. So we went on a mad search for ice cream. For you. It didn’t matter that you told me a month ago I was too fat to fuck. That the ten pounds I’d put on since dating you, the same ten pounds you’d put on, were hindering your ability to find me sexy. Interestingly, I was still sexy enough to give you head. But I digress. So I’m trying to lose weight because I want to and because I now feel self conscious and you’re dragging me all over Woodstock in search of the best ice cream ever. “You’ll love it. Just get some,” you said when we finally landed at the counter with a teenager waiting to take our order. I’ll admit I loved the pumpkin ice cream but it tasted sour going down. Every time I put the spoon to my mouth I hated myself. More than I hated you.

We stopped in Saratoga Springs on the way back to Albany. We had a fight. I don’t recall what it was about but it didn’t matter. I was too sore from the fat comment to like you any more. Because you knew how much it’d hurt me. Only a few months into our relationship I had a meltdown on that yellow leather sofa of yours. You said “sit on it, you’ll love it” as my eyes teared up. I told you how I hated my body. That the only time I didn’t was when I starved and pill popped myself down to a size zero. Otherwise, I think I’m fat. Even at a six I felt fat. Now I’m at a twelve and know I’m fat. I didn’t need the person who was supposed to love me through good and bad use it against me. I didn’t need to be informed that my poor self image was thought by other people.

I remained calm throughout it all. I didn't want to be one of those girls. The kind who yells and cries woe is me. I went the rational route as a response to your irrational comment. “What if I get cancer and lose a breast?” I asked when you told me I was too fat to fuck. “What if I get MS and turn out like my dad?” I asked to drive the point home. Sure, my body could be better. It could be more toned. My ass could be smaller. My tits could be firmer. You know what, it isn’t about that. Okay, it is. But it isn’t all about that. Oh my God, and that you even had the balls to tell me you thought I wasn't thin enough all the way back on our very first date. I wanted to take that dick of yours, tie it in a knot and then shove it up your ass.

Yeah, it’s been a year. And I’m still mad. At you. No one else. Okay, wait. I’m mad at me too. That I loved you flawed and you didn’t reciprocate the sentiment. Sure you were on the short side. You had a weird obsession with the grain of wood. You ran like a girl. You ruled out entire food groups just because. You lacked exposure to culture. But I accepted all of it because of the whole of you. The warm smile you’d flash me from across the room. The softness of your hand as it reached for mine as we strolled down P Street. The way you’d make me laugh at myself and the rest of the world when I was stressed out about life and where I was going with it all. There’ll always be good and bad in the pot. Not only good. I’m just mad I dated someone who refused to accept this reality. Oh well, the people who know me, the ones who really know me inside and out, never understood how you messed up something that was so much better for you than it ever was for me.

So it's been a year and here I am. Going on dates, busting my ass at work, writing like a fiend. And I'm finally back to being happy. Really happy. I don't want to hate you any more. And I don't want to be your friend. I have enough friends. Quite possibly more than enough. Plus, I'd never linger in a friendship with someone as selfish as you are. Funny how that works. I'd date you but I don't want you as a friend. I'm emptying my head of you. I'm letting you go once and for all. This is it. The last hoorah. I'm purging my heart and my head of you because it's like a useless pile of bricks just taking up space. And it seems some other people are interested in taking a look around.