since I’ve had one, but I know they’re brought on by stress.
I bet I’ve escaped this problem until now because I could always rely on cigarettes to blow off steam. Now that I’m no longer smoking, all that tension is pent-up inside me, just waiting to erupt.
Is it any wonder that my reflection reveals a big, ugly red blemish, thanks to the living hell that is Abate’s Summer Barbecue campaign?
Mental note: stop for cigarettes—I mean, Clearasil—on way home later.
There’s some in the medicine cabinet at home, but I noticed when I was rummaging around in there the other day that it expired in ’03.
I know, you’re wondering why I don’t just toss it.
Because it’s Jack’s, that’s why. The last time I got rid of one of his decrepit belongings—a single stray gray-white nubby gym sock that had been kicking around various surfaces in the bedroom for ages—he was annoyed.
No, I don’t know why. But I decided on the spot that he would be responsible for disposing his own useless crap from there on in.
And I’ve noticed he never does, even when I call his attention to stuff like expired medication, single socks and aging takeout leftovers he never should have saved in the first place.
Magazines are the worst. Thanks to his media job on consumer electronics and men’s personal-care products, he gets comp subscriptions to just about everything but Modern Bride. There are towering stacks everywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if, near the bottom, there are cover stories on the pope’s passing, the Red Sox World Series or Nick and Jessica’s divorce. Their wedding, too, probably.
Oh, well, that’s a fault I can live with, in the grand scheme of things. Nobody’s perfect.
Nor, to my dismay, is my complexion.
That’s a big fat ugly zit on my nose, all right.
But I’m not here at Sushi Lucy’s strictly for pimple verification. I’m actually waiting for my friend Buckley to meet me for lunch so I can finally share my big news. I wanted to do it yesterday, but it was such a zoo at the office that I couldn’t get away.
Today is a zoo, too. I shouldn’t be here, I should be working.
But I want to tell Buckley about my engagement in person before he hears it from someone else because…
Well, partly because I still haven’t been able to relish the pleasure of telling anyone in person. That will happen when we meet Jack’s mom and sisters for dinner tomorrow night, I’m sure, and when Raphael comes home from his honeymoon, and again when we fly up to Buffalo in a few weeks to tell my family—the soonest we could get an affordable flight.
But I’m dying to share my news in person right away with someone who will appreciate it. And I’m sure Buckley will, because he’s my friend….
Except…
Part of the reason I want to tell him in person is that maybe there’s a lingering teensy, tiny shred of something other than friendship in our relationship.
Did I mention that Buckley and I almost hooked up a few years ago? And that it overlapped with me and Jack, but not really with him and Sonja…?
Oh, right. I did mention it.
I guess I’ve just been thinking about that a lot lately for some reason.
Ever since I got engaged.
I wonder why.
Maybe because when you’re engaged, you realize that you will never ever kiss anyone else ever again. Not just kiss, but…fool around with.
I mean, you’ll fool around with your fiancé, of course—and you will go on fooling around with him after he becomes your husband…
(Unless you listen to Latisha, and I’ve chosen not to. The next time she starts in about the postmarital lack of sparks, I’m going to stick my fingers in my ears and sing “Love and Marriage” at the top of my lungs.)
Anyway, being an engaged woman, you can’t help but wonder about what you might be missing from here on in.
I can’t help but wonder that, anyway.
But just about Buckley. No one else.
Probably because Buckley is the last person I kissed before Jack, and
I bet I’ve escaped this problem until now because I could always rely on cigarettes to blow off steam. Now that I’m no longer smoking, all that tension is pent-up inside me, just waiting to erupt.
Is it any wonder that my reflection reveals a big, ugly red blemish, thanks to the living hell that is Abate’s Summer Barbecue campaign?
Mental note: stop for cigarettes—I mean, Clearasil—on way home later.
There’s some in the medicine cabinet at home, but I noticed when I was rummaging around in there the other day that it expired in ’03.
I know, you’re wondering why I don’t just toss it.
Because it’s Jack’s, that’s why. The last time I got rid of one of his decrepit belongings—a single stray gray-white nubby gym sock that had been kicking around various surfaces in the bedroom for ages—he was annoyed.
No, I don’t know why. But I decided on the spot that he would be responsible for disposing his own useless crap from there on in.
And I’ve noticed he never does, even when I call his attention to stuff like expired medication, single socks and aging takeout leftovers he never should have saved in the first place.
Magazines are the worst. Thanks to his media job on consumer electronics and men’s personal-care products, he gets comp subscriptions to just about everything but Modern Bride. There are towering stacks everywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if, near the bottom, there are cover stories on the pope’s passing, the Red Sox World Series or Nick and Jessica’s divorce. Their wedding, too, probably.
Oh, well, that’s a fault I can live with, in the grand scheme of things. Nobody’s perfect.
Nor, to my dismay, is my complexion.
That’s a big fat ugly zit on my nose, all right.
But I’m not here at Sushi Lucy’s strictly for pimple verification. I’m actually waiting for my friend Buckley to meet me for lunch so I can finally share my big news. I wanted to do it yesterday, but it was such a zoo at the office that I couldn’t get away.
Today is a zoo, too. I shouldn’t be here, I should be working.
But I want to tell Buckley about my engagement in person before he hears it from someone else because…
Well, partly because I still haven’t been able to relish the pleasure of telling anyone in person. That will happen when we meet Jack’s mom and sisters for dinner tomorrow night, I’m sure, and when Raphael comes home from his honeymoon, and again when we fly up to Buffalo in a few weeks to tell my family—the soonest we could get an affordable flight.
But I’m dying to share my news in person right away with someone who will appreciate it. And I’m sure Buckley will, because he’s my friend….
Except…
Part of the reason I want to tell him in person is that maybe there’s a lingering teensy, tiny shred of something other than friendship in our relationship.
Did I mention that Buckley and I almost hooked up a few years ago? And that it overlapped with me and Jack, but not really with him and Sonja…?
Oh, right. I did mention it.
I guess I’ve just been thinking about that a lot lately for some reason.
Ever since I got engaged.
I wonder why.
Maybe because when you’re engaged, you realize that you will never ever kiss anyone else ever again. Not just kiss, but…fool around with.
I mean, you’ll fool around with your fiancé, of course—and you will go on fooling around with him after he becomes your husband…
(Unless you listen to Latisha, and I’ve chosen not to. The next time she starts in about the postmarital lack of sparks, I’m going to stick my fingers in my ears and sing “Love and Marriage” at the top of my lungs.)
Anyway, being an engaged woman, you can’t help but wonder about what you might be missing from here on in.
I can’t help but wonder that, anyway.
But just about Buckley. No one else.
Probably because Buckley is the last person I kissed before Jack, and
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