Neanderthal Seeks Human(2)

I didn’t care how smart, funny, or accepting he was; how certain my head had been that his welcoming surrender to my oddities meant that he was the one; or even how nice it was to be free of crushing Chicago rent, freeing money to spend on my precious Cubs tickets, comic books, and designer shoes. There was absolutely no way I was staying with him.

No way José.

An uncomfortable heat I’d suppressed all day started to rise into my chest and my throat tightened. The toilet paper roll that broke the camel’s back stared at me from the receptacle and I fought the sudden urge to rip it from the holder and my exact revenge by tearing it to shreds. Next I would turn my attention to the Stonehenge of empties.

I could see it now: the building security team called in to extract me from the 52th floor ladies room, decimated toilet paper cardboard flesh all around me, my panties still around my ankles, as I scream and point accusingly at my co-workers: “NEXT TIME REPLACE THE ROLL! REPLACE THE ROLL!!!”

I closed my eyes: Scratch that, ex co-workers…

The stall door started to blur as my eyes filled with tears; at the same time a shrill laugh tumbled from my lips and I knew I was venturing into unknown, crazy-town territory.

As country songs do, the tragedy of the day unfolded in a careful, steady rhythm:

No conditioner leading to crazy, puffy, nest-like hair? Check.

Broken heel of new shoes on sewer grate? Check.

Train station closed for unscheduled construction? Check.

Lost contact after getting knocked in the shoulder as crowd hustled out of elevator? Check.

Spilled coffee on best, and most favorite white button down shirt? Guess I can cross that off my bucket list.

And, finally, called into boss’ office and informed that job had been downsized? Double check.

This was precisely why I hated dwelling on personal problems; this was precisely why avoidance and circumvention of raw thoughts and feelings was so much safer than the alternative. I hadn’t wallowed, really wholeheartedly wallowed since my mother’s death and no boy, no job, no series of craptacular events could make me do it now. After all, in the course of life, I could deal with this.

Or so I must tell myself.

At first I tried to blink away the moisture of my eyes but then closed them and, for at least the third time that day, used the coping strategies I learned during my mandatory year of adolescent psychoanalysis. I visualized myself wrapping up the anger and the hurt and the raw, frayed edges of my sanity in a large, colorful beach towel. I then placed the bundle into a box. I locked the box. I placed the box in the top shelf of my closet. I turned off the light of my closet. I shut the closet door.

I was going to remove the emotion from the situation without avoiding reality.

Gulping, after multiple attempts and with a great deal of effort, I finally succeeded in suppressing the threatening despondency and opened my eyes. I looked down at myself and pointedly took a survey of my appearance: borrowed pink flip flops to replace my broken pair of Jimmy Choo’s; knee length grey skirt, peppered with stains of coffee; borrowed, too tight, plunging red V-neck to replace my favorite cotton button down; my hands smoothed over my raucous accidental afro then pushed my old pair of black rimmed glasses, replacement for the missing contacts, further up my nose. I felt calmer, more in control, in spite of my questionable fashion non-choices.

Now, sitting in the stall, the numbness settling over me like a welcome cool abyss, I knew my toilet paper problem was surmountable and I squared my shoulders with firm resolve.

All my other problems, however, would just have to wait. It’s not like they were going anywhere.

~*~

As I approached my desk-

Scratch that, my ex desk

-I couldn’t help but wonder at the circle of curious faces that lurked around my cubicle, wide eyes stealing glances in my direction. They hovered at an appropriate blast radius; close enough to watch my shame unfold but far enough away to pass for a socially acceptable distance. I wondered what this kind of behavior said about my species, what was the closest equivalent I could draw as a comparison between this action and the lesser species in the animal kingdom.

Was it sharks circling around a hint of blood? I imagined, in this analogy, the sharks would instead be hoping to feast on my drama, my dismay, and my discomfort. I indulged my ethnographic curiosities and studied the hovering group, not really feeling the embarrassment that should have precipitated my exit but instead observed the observers, trying to read clues on their faces, wanting to see what they hoped to accomplish or gain; I was still wrapped in my detachment, I drew it close around me.

I didn’t register the drumming of approaching footsteps behind me nor did I realize that cubical land fell into a hush until two large fingers gave my shoulder a gentle, but firm, tap. I turned, steady but dazedly, and looked from the hand, now on my elbow, following the line of the strong arm, rounding the curve of the bulky shoulder, over the angular jaw and chin, until my eyes met with the familiar sight of Sir Handsome McHotpants’ piercing blue eyes. I cringed.