Every time she sneezes, she makes me angry. I resent ragweed, or whatever it is that she's allergic to. I can't sit at this desk facing her's any longer. I can't listen to her make phonecalls, her polite banter. She reminds me of a 73 year old granny.
"Oh dear", I hear her say into the phone. "Indeed!"
I hate Mondays (or in the case of this long weekend, Tuesdays). I cringe everytime someone asks me how my weekend was. My weekends are fine, so it's not that I had a bad one and I don't want to talk about it, it's just that I can't tolerate these cookie cutter questions, these polite exchanges, this meaningless drivel.
I've got to get out of here. My chest feels tight, my pants are cutting into my stomach, I can't sit in this chair for another minute.
So I think of how, since I didn't take lunch and I came in a little early, maybe I'll leave at 4PM. No one but my conscience really cares... I get lost in calculating and bargaining with myself, and I jump when the phone rings.
"Rachel Gold."
"Hey Rach, how was your weekend?"
"Hi Lana. It was fine. Yours?"
It is all I can think to do. I turn the question around. Make them talk about themselves, cause we all know that's really why they're asking. I seeth and listen and seeth and prompt.
"Mmhmm?"
And at the first possible moment, I say I have to go. I hang up and turn back to face my monitor, looming with nothing important. At least if there was something beckoning me, pressuring me, maybe it wouldn't seem so suffocating, but there's not.
And so I stick my sunglasses on so that she won't see me crying again, and I make like I'm straightening up in preparation to leave. I grab my keys, and head for the door.
"'Night", I call over my shoulder. I don't give her a chance to say anything. I don't give a shit that it's only 4:15 PM and I'm saying 'goodnight'.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't such a damn girl. If I was a guy and I was upset, I'd go out for beer and wings, get laid, or shoot hoops. I guess girls can do those things too, but instead my hormones make me do girly things like cry and obsess over my appearance. I considered trying the boy thing, but the last thing I need is to eat more, especially wings, and if I went out and picked up some rando I'd probably fall in love and my heart would be broken. It's my hormones. I can't help it.
I guess that leaves basketball...
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8 comments:
and sometimes if you're a man and you're upset you forgo all that stereotypical shite and go home, pour three fingers of cold, straight gin, and crawl into your favourite hole.
Replace the gin with chocolate chips, and we ain't that different...
I go to the gym and hit people. But they hit back. Which is fine for me. I need not worry about staying pretty.
Rachel:
I've been there. The other day I heard Into the Dark (Deathcab for Cutie) on the way home from work and I think I stopped crying about two hours later. Hrmph.
Rachel:
I've been there. The other day I heard Into the Dark (Deathcab for Cutie) on the way home from work and I think I stopped crying about two hours later. Hrmph.
and I heard Soul Meets Body by Deathcab and I don't think I stopped smiling until about two hours later.
Nebraska, I forgot about hitting. I could do that, but I'm not so sure I'd like to be hit back.
VofF and LX, great songs, both of them.
It's nice to have a little estrogen around here - something tells me these boys wouldn't cop to the whole crying thing.
well...SOME of us boys hear that almost every day--so a little break would be nice. oh...and i know all about estrogen.
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