I wore flats today. I...do not wear flats. Flats, I find, are not only physically painful, but they also upset my soul. And I wore flats aaallllll day today.
Being that it is a remarkable night – the kind of night that has just that subtle touch of chill in the air and only happens on rare summer Sundays – all I wanted to do was get home, slip into my favorite, old, broken-in-to-the-point-of-disintegration Patriots sweatpants...and my new Sanuks.
Let me preface this by saying that, while I love visiting my mom and dad for many reasons, one of the higher ranking ones is my dad's Crocs (sorry dad, I know your gym buddies are gonna wreck you on this one but I do have a point...). In his defense, they don't look like Crocs. They look like canvas boat shoes, but the sole is the sole of a Croc. The sole of an angel. There is nothing better than slipping those puppies onto your aching dogs after a long day of lounging by their pool, drinking their beer, and hanging out in their hot tub.
But, if flats upset my soul, I think you can imagine what a pair of Crocs would do to it.
In and out of years, I dedicated my shoe shopping life to finding a comparably comfortable pair of sandals. I found plenty of fabulous heels. But never any sandals.
Until the Sanuks.
I didn't just buy the Sanuks because they were the sandals I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. I also bought the Sanuks because I needed to replace the Reefs that I had bought to replace the other Reefs that had fallen victim to Rufus's excessive excitability and perpetual egoistic regression to his days as a puppy. May they rest in peace.
Whereas, in years past, Rufus just flat-out ate my sandals, this year he's changed up his game. Now, when he sees me coming, he picks up one shoe and bolts past me as soon as I open the door...and he's off...off with my shoe...into the woods. And he comes right back, of course...sans shoe.
So, in the woods by my house lies: one (1) vintage Gucci pump (don't even say anything, I'll start to cry...), two (2) black Reefs, both lefties, and...
...one (1) Sanuk.
The bastard got it. After many long and perilous years spent seeking out the perfect sandal, after finally finding them, after having yearned all day for the physical and emotional pain of the flat to end...the bastard got it.
Yeah, I can go buy another pair. I know.
But do I not give this dog everything he needs? Do I not feed him that all-natural, grain-free, supposedly-super-duper-extra-healthy-so-its-super-duper-extra-expensive dog food? Do I not rub his belly and and scratch his ears and let him "cuddle" with in the most uncomfortable positions imaginable?
Is there something I'm not doing here?
Or is Rufus just not that into me?
Lucy has relapsed. She is back in diapers.
I don't know where she went wrong. Maybe it was peer pressure. Maybe a hormonal imbalance.
Or maybe it was that the potty, an object once shrouded in mystery – nay! – in complexity, had been conquered. Ea venit, ea vidit, ea vicit. And her stance on the subject of the potty is that pissing into a diaper is a hell of a lot easier.
Wonder where she gets that 'go-get-em' attitude from...
She's only 28-months old. I know it's still early. And it's not like she doesn't use the potty at all anymore. But, it's like...it feels so good to hear people say, 'Oh my, your daughter is so advanced! My kid wasn't potty trained until at least 3-years-old! How lucky you are! May I kiss your feet and feed you grapes and fan you with palms?'
It was like...she had conquered the potty. But I had conquered the world.
I like having the kid who's ahead of the game. And I had one.
But Lucy has relapsed. She is back in diapers. I don't know where she went wrong.
I have a terrible singing voice. It's just appalling.
I can't whistle, either.
I worked at Abercrombie & Fitch.
I was, um, friendly with the boys in college. And maybe for a little while after college...
Spiders terrify me on such a deep, transcendental emotional level that even Keith Livingston would be hard-pressed to rationalize.
I suck at horseshoes. Don't ever willingly play on my team.
I got fired from Abercrombie & Fitch.
I see nothing wrong with a little over-exaggeration. Or a little bump n' grind. Or a little Prosecco on a Tuesday evening.
And there you have it. A (profoundly) abbreviated list of my imperfections. Each one an imperfection that I embrace, each one a brick in my wall.
I'm not proud of these imperfections. Specifically my stint at Abercrombie & Fitch. That was, wow...
But I digress.
Another imperfection is that I was awkward - like, really awkward - in high school. I thought I was a radically eccentric pair of Marloes ten Bhömer shoes - you know, they go with nothing and therefore go with everything?
Well, I went with nothing. But cared deeply about everything, everyone. I burnt myself out worrying about others that I didn't even know how to begin worrying about myself.
For the record, there is nothing more liberating than coming to terms with your imperfections. Except maybe flipping off the figurative world when it tries to hold them against you.
Sure, I am tempted by insecurity every once in a while. On fleeting occasions most frequently involving members of the opposite sex. Damn you, men...
But, nowadays, I am too "me" to not be me. Bullshitting is not on my ridiculously long and seemingly perpetual to-do list. I don't even know if I could bullshit if I tried.
So judge me as you will. Your opinions are as much yours as mine are mine. And sorry if I've taken the carnival out of the whole holding-my-imperfections-against-me thing, but as the cops and one stripper know first-hand, it never humbled me anyway.
As it often does, the topic of conversation in my office turned to Asians. And also as it often does, the topic of Asians quickly morphed into a discussion about Asian massage parlors.
Ah, the old rub & tug.
"That's why we love having Robin around," my boss laughed, "because she not only understands the joke, but takes it to a whole new level of dirtiness."
I am the only female at my company. The men I work with (minus the newbie) are offensive, rude, and chauvinistic. Which means I'm just another pea in the pod here.
I've been one of the guys for as long as I can remember - my life's training has fully prepared me to work amongst penises. One of my boyfriend's mothers once politely suggested that I make some female friends. I compromised and made a whole slew of gay friends instead. You wanna talk musical theatre, bitch?
Now, my best friends are my girls (unless you count my dog). And I've lost a lot of "my boys" to other girls, to marriages, to jobs, to I-think-I'm-in-love-with-you's, and once, just once, to a Saudi Arabian princess with horrible teeth.
But my boys at the office? They bring my foreign-prostitute-joke-telling, racial-slur-slinging impolitical correctness to a level I never imagined was possible.
And, of course, I'm the only one here with a pretty sweet rack, so that helps, too.
Thanks to my dad, I'm a phenomenal parallel parker. But a phenomenal driver I'm not. Which is unfortunate considering that about 20 percent of my day is spent behind the wheel.
I don't speed. And I'm not aggressive. In fact, I'm the complete opposite.
You see, I possess the uncanny ability to zone out. To disappear so completely into my own little utopian universe that I don't even notice visitors knocking on my sliding glass doors when I'm less than five feet away from them. I have this uncanny ability as a result of a lifetime of exposure to dangerous levels of aggravation.
Thanks, again, dad.
The problem is that, like a Pavlovian dog, I fall comatose at the slightest hint of annoyance. And driving is an annoyance.
Contrary to what the woman in the black Volvo on the Jamaicaway may think, it is not my intention to run people off the road. My only intention is to play air guitar to Train Kept A Rollin' (the Aerosmith version), sip my delicious Flat Black coffee, stay inspired, and avoid even the slightest nuance of rush-hour aggravation by losing myself in a fantasy-world filled with whatever it is that makes me happy at that precise moment in time.
And there are a lot of different things that make me happy. But not being annoyed is what makes me most happy. So all of the people rooting for me to become a more attentive driver? You're shit out of luck.