The Grim Burrito

I'm no fan of malls in general but in particular I've determined that my local mall is a bizarre and mysterious place and quite possibly the set for some grotesque horror movie. It's super depressing. There's no real reason it should be so morose, it's brightly lit, it has a decent Barnes & Noble type bookstore full of books and shiny novelty things, it has a coffee shop, a national chain drugstore, a Safeway, an electronics chain store and a dearth of cheap shops filled with a mixture of possibilities and trash.

But it's just not a happy place. There's an undercurrent of loathing and decay.

At one end there's a hopelessly depressing department chain store, filled with over priced but ill-made knock offs of designer goods, surly cashiers who can't seem to get anything right and frowning customers disputing prices.

The coffee shop is swarming with senior citizens, sipping coffee. I'm pretty sure they each nurse that one cup the whole day. They are not the happy, sprightly or cheerful breed of senior citizen enjoying their retirement by socializing with their friends, they are all stern and quiet, their eyes following you as you walk by as if to say, "What are you doing here? We would like to suck out your brain with a straw." I'm pretty sure the regular elderly population forsook that mall years ago for greener pastures, when they figured out the mall seniors are actually zombies.

One day when I'm in there on an errand, I fully expect the electric doors to jam shut, the lights to dim and the entire mall to go into some deadly lockdown as the mall-zombies come out to feast on the few unsuspecting customers who dare breach their territory.

Thank God that department store stocks chainsaws.

Today though, I wanted jeans. Mainly because my current main pair are sagging at bit at the butt and no one wants saggy butt jeans, right? I stopped wearing diapers years ago, I don't need to look like I've started again. Besides, I'm going on a trip in a couple of weeks and no one likes to go on vacation in old clothes, right?

It started, as things sometimes do, in the shower. A new lotion that smelled like fresh spring limes. Warm water. All good. You might think this is a cue for an ensuing pornographic scene. It isn't.

"What's this?"

Something that doesn't belong. A lump. A lump in my upper lady place, where no lumps should reside. One of those dark monsters you hear that other women find, but who're never supposed to haunt you. Certainly not me. I am indestructible, remember?

I reacted maturely by deciding I was going to die. Probably by tomorrow and most likely in a severely painful dramatic manner while everyone I know sobbed around my bedside and a sad song played on the stereo. Something heart wrenching.

I broke out in a cold sweat of dread. My breathing got hard. I burst into tears and rested my face against the soaking wet tile, terrified.

It's nothing.

It's something.

It's normal.

It's just hormones due to it being the first day of my period.

I'm going to die.

Those are the thoughts that go through your head all in about three seconds flat.

While I was drying off and putting on clean clothes that smelled of lavender, my mind raced with the possibilities until, a minute later, I had already said all my tearful goodbyes in my head like some overly emotional movie scene, died a hundred dramatic deaths, called myself a "fucking moron" for being so morose and decided that panic was not my friend.

I didn't tell anyone about the lump that day, or the next. I didn't want to acknowledge its existence. I didn't want it to have any power. It was going away.

Next day, I felt it again. Same place and method as before. So I panicked again. Because you know, I really am immortal. And full of menstrual hormone demons. How dare this stupid lump not recognize my immortality, my unshakeability?

I can't be sick. I won't allow it. I don't have time. I have stuff to do. Futures to plan. Debts to settle. So. Much. Stuff. To. Do.

I thought I'd wait and find a nice perfect moment to tell my boyfriend about the situation, because keeping these things to yourself only makes the burden greater. So the following day, waiting in line at the auto shop, while buying a new muffler whatchamadoodle for the car, I blurted out, "I also need a bulb for the signal light and I have a lump the size of a grapefruit on my breast and am probably going to die."

My boyfriend, once he'd deciphered that sentence, walked me outside, sat me down on a bench and while no one was around had a covert poke at the diseased boobie. "It's the size of a dime!" he said, "And you shouldn't panic, they happen all the time and you need to go see a doctor who can tell you what it is."

Because he's really immortal and unflappable and maybe not so dramatic.

He did a ton of research and reassured me with things like, "Hey, 80% of breast lumps are not even dangerous!" and such nuggets of wisdom.

Today, the day after my period ended, I can hardly feel the lump unless I poke around quite severely. It's smaller, less noticeable but still apparent in some form. I went to see the doctor early this morning. She was a small, cheerful Indian lady with a big smile and a reassuring touch. While she was kneading my boobs like dough, she talked to me about the weather and the summer so far and if we were in for a cold winter, as though we were conversing on a park bench while sharing a sandwich.

I babbled mindlessly like a lobotomized idiot.

"I really don't feel anything too abnormal there." she said finally, after a good two minutes of prodding. "Just a little thicker tissue in the area you said but I wouldn't even call it a lump particularly. I think it's probably completely natural. Certainly, it doesn't feel suspicious to me at this stage at all."

I had the burning urge to stand up, throw my arms in the air and yell, 'Everybody lives!" like in Doctor Who.

"I'm not going to die?" I asked, cautiously. "Not yet, no." she said with a frown.

"However..." she stated, because there's always a however. "That's just my medical opinion. You need to get a mammogram just to be 100% sure, because my hands can only tell you so much. I don't think you have much to worry about, but the mammogram will tell you for sure if you need further tests or not and then you can relax."

She told me that even if it did turn out to be something more serious, it was likely so early it would be treatable pretty quickly and that there was no rush in me getting an immediate appointment. "The next few weeks is fine." she said.

"Even if this did turn out to be breast cancer," my boyfriend told me triumphantly once we'd gotten outside. "Deaths from breast cancer are now 1 in 28. That's pretty good odds!"

"Stop doing research now." I said. "You're freaking me out."

So now I'm feeling a bit better. I'm waiting to get my boobs pancaked between two, cold glass plates, which happens in just over 2 weeks. And drinking a cup of hot coffee. And definitely not freaking out about biopsies and surgeries and other pleasant things.

Not much anyway. Maybe later.

I've also been nursing my sick car back to health by paying more in repairs than the car is actually worth, given that it is old, temperamental, a positively strange color and looks like the sort of vehicle you'd expect to see a geriatric, safety conscious gentleman driving, while carefully observing the speed limit. An old Republican gentleman who likes to golf on weekends circa 1998 and wear expensive but sensible loafers. So naturally it suits me to a tee, as I am none of those things. But at least I have a " feels like new old car" now that doesn't stutter and seem diseased when it rains and better the devil you know than paying out that money on a new "used" car that might die in a month, right? That's what I'm telling myself. Heaven forbid I go out and finance something new.

I'm actually thinking of adding a "You kids get off of my lawn" sticker to the back windshield. I feel it might be redundant, however, as driving that car, it's already implied. Instead I draped a hot pink blanket over the back seat, my one concession to not having an elderly penis and declaring the car "me".

On that scintillating note, I do hope you've all had a delightful summer so far?

I didn't say anything. I understand primal lust. And what's more primal than a sweaty, puffing, frizzy-headed woman in no make-up, wearing a metallic blue cycle helmet, ancient cut off jeans and chipped toe polish? I was just relieved they were able to control themselves from pulling me from my bike and ravishing me right there in the dust.

As I neared the group of workers, standing around chatting while leaning on their instruments, they all fell silent and watched me pedal closer, cycling against the strong breeze, face red like a glowing, Martian moon. No one said anything. As I passed you could hear the gears churning beneath me.

I sighed with relief.

Just as I was almost out of earshot one of them shouted, "Nice ass!"

Working road construction must be pretty boring.

Or be pushed.

It's that no matter how bad some people in the world can be, there are others who cancel out the darkness by glowing white in the gloom. They hold you up, they fuel you with inspiration, they teach you to fight, to be strong, to conquer. They laugh with you when you succeed, they don't mind you soaking their shoulder when you don't.

I always anticipate any trip to the beach as a day removed from the rest of the world. There's just something heavenly soothing about lying around in the glare of the sun, napping on a blanket on the sand and swimming in the cool water that just seems so apart from the rest of the week. The traffic, the people, the jobs, the negotiations, the chores the bustle.

Of course there's also the sunscreen thing. I never seem able to master the application of sunscreen. Visions of perfectly bronzed, never burning Adonises fill my brain and I slather on the lotion with the fervent zeal of a fanatic, while I wait the prerequisite 30 minutes for it to settle into my skin. I pass the time sensibly, shielding my exposed flesh with a towel and reading a book, before throwing myself, filled with enthusiasm, upon the mercy of the waves where I bob, swim, float and pour myself into the inflatable dingy I brought along so I can continue reading on the water. Sometimes this is a dangerous exploit. One engaging chapter and you can glance upwards to find yourself in an entirely different zip code.

Still, I always hope the reading on the dingy will trick my brain into believing I am afloat upon a millionaire's yacht in the Mediterranean, mere yards from a fully stocked cocktail bar, a cold seafood buffet and the sparkling, clear aqua sea. It works too, so long as you don't look up at the sometimes murkiness of the water or the tremendously well-fed citizens with farmer's tans wearing tiny bathing suits, laid out in the sun like cured turkeys.

But back to the sunscreen. I apply it thick and even and pay attention to the most easily neglected areas, my ears, the insides of my knees, under my chin. I miss nothing. Yet still, five hours and many cold beverages and sunscreen re-applications later, I notice I managed to burn anyway.

I also note that it isn't in any logical manner. A red patch here, a white one there, a red strip in the inside of my leg, one burned knee, both feet escaping the sun but one ankle looking scarily scarlet and angry. My nose and forehead, concealed under a trucker's baseball cap, are sunkissed but not burned, however my chin looks as though it was possibly employed as a punch bag for Muhammad Ali during his heyday.

I fear I will never master the art of tanning gracefully and painlessly. But when you add things up, it's really a small price to pay for a day of serene, waterside therapy. I'm almost looking forward to getting things done this week, now my batteries are sufficiently recharged.

It's really too bad that summer has to end.

While weighing up the possibilities (for example, do I take some time off and go for a bike ride or do I bake some cookies or otherwise procrastinate work?) I decide it might be wise to dress my freshly showered self, instead of sitting around all day like a bum, so I whip off the oversized t-shirt I slept in. I'm about halfway into a bra and not yet at the familiar dock of clean t-shirt bay, when I hear a sudden loud mechanical whir and turn around to see a young man, in a lawn mower, breezing past my window, a few inches from the glass, peering in at me, eyes darting around trying to see, like a blind man trying to get a focus on a conversation. I give an involuntary squeal and grab the nearest object to cover myself which happens to be an old teddy bear I've had since birth, who sits on a chair by the closet.

So in my attempts to cover up and look less like one of those possibly mythical sex-starved housewives you hear about, welcoming workmen to their homes while donning negligees and purring low voices, I now look like a sex starved lady who enjoys dressing as a pouty pre-pubescent school girl, standing there like a Playboy Bunny caught in headlights, sporting panties, a teddy bear and a fine case of bedhead.

Delightful.

As soon as he's passed the window I whip on my t-shirt and some pants with the speed of a superhero. He passes again several times over the next five minutes or so and while part of me considers closing the blinds and hiding, the rest of me smirks at the idea of upping the ante somewhat by waiting till his next pass then sporting a Sharpie Hitler mustache and passionately showing him my middle finger.

I close the blinds, but I give him the finger, anyway, just for good measure. Plus it's easy to be full of bravado when he can't see me.

Now I might make those cookies.

Today I decided to spend some money for once, just for some small semi-necessary things and in doing so I actually feel quite liberated and cheerful. In the sales I purchased some new utility type cargo pants (this always makes my mom sigh, since even after all the years she's been my mother, she still harbors the vain hope I might one day turn into a proper lady and buy a dress), a couple of new books to read for if I manage to get to the beach next week as planned, a new swimsuit as my old one is held together literally by a safety pin and tenuous good luck, a delicious aromatic candle called "Soleil" that smells like the beach on a sunny day (I'm seeing a theme here) and some aqua blue nail polish for my toes. I know blue toes are normally a sign of hypothermia or some such thing, but I figure there's no reason blue can't be cheerful too. I topped it all off by heading to the park with a nice cool Stewart's soda and a girlie fashion magazine, which is an occasional guilty pleasure despite my decidedly non-fashionista, utilty pant-wearing ways.

Retail therapy. It does work!

Driving home I thought about the last time I spent any money buying anything for myself. I couldn't even remember the occasion. I know in the end the scrimping will be all worth it. Like most people, I have debt and I'm determined to get out of it. Plus you know, not spending money means that on the odd occasion when you do, you really kind of appreciate the things you buy.

Even the hypothermic blue nail polish.

This is nice if it's a good dream. If you met interesting people, or spent time with an impossibly hot movie star or went somewhere tropical, soothing and serene. It's less pleasing if your dream involved a complicated past, of someone you lost, that continues to break your heart. Which is where my subconscious went last night.

It was one of those things where someone you miss and will never see again, comes to you in your sleep and surrounds you with love, even though you know while dreaming it, that soon, you will have to leave them again and go back to the world. To reality.

Then you wake up and you go to work and all morning you are sad - so sad that when you stop and think about the dream, the coffee sticks in the lump in your throat and you hope you can work inconspicuously, that no one will talk to you. Because that dream revealed your innermost grief and despair. Things you've been desperately trying to shield from ever seeing the cold light of day. You can't stop thinking about it and now it's affecting your real life.

Then you feel a familiar sensation in your gut and realize that your period is starting. Damn those being a woman hormones, making everything ache so hard. So you go take care of business and on the way back to your desk you buy a Twix from the vending machine, to feed the crazy hormone beast and you talk to a coworker about her weekend plans and movies you've both seen and you feel a little better. Sometimes it's hard to remember that you're not alone. That being around people can be like surrounding yourself with a moat.

That's the thing about this grim burrito. There are all kinds of fillings. You just need to find yourself a good one and if it's not there to be found, you make your own.

Anyone out there reading this, be sure to have a happy weekend.

You might be snuggled down into your luxurious couch, sunk deliciously into a ploppy pillow, comfortable in your newly washed, super soft sweat pants and a favorite t-shirt, sipping a mug of fine brewed, aromatic coffee, feet propped up beside you, feeling at one with the universe around you. At that moment anything is possible. Problems? No problem at all. Everything is karmic. Everything is achievable. Harmony with the world around you is yours.

Until the commercial break. Then all hell breaks loose in your velvety, cushioned, perfectly balanced world.

Because you are reminded. You are not good enough. Why did you eat that sandwich and a handful of potato chips for lunch? Ladies are supposed to eat a small, fat-free yogurt and smile while doing it. What's more, we are supposed to emerge from this feast, full bellied and satisfied and perhaps moderately orgasmic from the experience. This keeps our digestive tracts in optimal working condition and allows us to be supermodel skinny, which everyone worth their salt knows, is the most important prerequisite to finding and keeping a man. And what would any of us be without a man? So put down that sandwich, fatty, and repent. And you sigh, because you don't particularly enjoy yogurt, despite its obvious benefits. And you have always viewed it as more of an appetizer, or a snack between meals. Or maybe breakfast. But now the guilt has its tentacles tight around your mind and you vow that tomorrow, you will buy a yogurt.

Or at least you will only eat half of that ham sandwich and omit the chips altogether.

But before you can get too depressed we've moved on. Some other lady is trying to sell you some fitness equipment that will "get rid of those love handles nobody loves". Because, fatso, how is anyone ever going to respect or love you, if you don't have zero body fat? Ladies, you have to get that man, remember? Did you already forget the grave message of the yogurt commercial? You don't work out nearly enough. You walk to and from work each day and you play badminton twice a week and sure, you jog three times a week, but it's not enough, you gluttonous, unfit wench!

You sigh and put down the coffee, lamenting the two spoons of sugar you melted in there earlier. It's not so enjoyable now. It's mocking you. And before you can contemplate it further, some glowing, airbrushed sally is administering yet another grave warning. Wrinkles. You can get them. You will get them. In fact, you probably already have them! Even you there - young, pretty, 22 years old, fresh out of college, full of optimism and youth, you need to start thinking about preventing those crows feet. It's never too early for a good moisturizer and some sunscreen, but you need the right moisturizer.

As for you ladies over 30, you don't have to look so haggard and old. There's still hope. Buy this product and your wrinkles will magically disappear. You will look almost human again. You can go out in daylight without making men cry. Because no one wants to look at someone who's spent the past 30 years laughing. You're supposed to look like those models on the front of magazines. If you don't use this product you will be worthless, loveless, pointless. This is airbrushing in a cream, ladies! If you don't want it, then I feel sorry for you.

While you're thinking about it, use our ageless body wash and our full line of cosmetics too. Remember that man we told you about earlier? He doesn't want to see lines. If you can see lines, you have failed at life.

By the time the show recommences, you have two choices. You can be ashamed of your food eating, fat, wrinkled self or you can say, fuck it. I'm normal. I'm alive. You can take our insecurities and blow them up to billboard size and shove them, along with those millions of mythical men who are demanding a perfect android for a girlfriend.

We are beautiful and we are revolting.

People try to talk to me, but words are impossible. They're swimming around inside my skull but they can't find a route out into the world. I try greasing them up with coffee. Hard and black and sultry. But still they tease me by swimming back into the dark recesses where they can't be uttered.

I like coffee. That dirty, dirty slattern. That bewitching harlot of the dark.

I also have a Club Soda because I'm hot, it's pure and the fizz is tantalizing.

Today I'm feeling good, despite a buzzing in my head from too little sleep. I have a lot of things to sort out and today I will make only a tiny dent, if any, in them. Imagine trying to claw your way out of a quarry using a spoon? That will be me, trying to un-grim the burrito. But I will not be thwarted. I have steely will, I have desire!

I have coconut gelato in the freezer...

There is nothing that cannot be accomplished.

We lounged at the river's edge, bulky plastic tape deck by our side, blasting the latest Duran Duran album and announcing which band member we intended to marry. Or rather I did. Cissy was unimpressed with their angular shoulders and pretty burgundy tinted hair or lilting English accents.

And possibly it could be. But not in this case. It is merely a bad metaphor for life. Life is a grim burrito. Maybe it's fattening and bad for your heart? Perhaps it's too hot or it's icy in the center? It may be that the spices sting your tongue like a thousand tiny, red hot bees? Sometimes it is just right, tasty to a fault. The correct blend of just what you need. And other times...it is not.

I'm an optimist. I don't really believe life is grim. I believe it can be. I believe it has temporary insanity ingrained into its very genes. I believe there are monsters and evil and dissolving black shadows. But those are passing demons. Unlucky happenstance. Mostly I believe that life is full of possibility and wonder and beauty and emotion.

And sometimes I actually experience it. Even though right here, right now, the burrito is a few days old, not quite rancid and possibly savable, sort of like a Twinkie, filled with nasty preservatives and still edible after three years buried in a shoe box in the garden.

So if you're reading this, hi. And if you're not, well.

It hardly matters does it?