I quit my job.
Did you ever have one of those dreams where you got up and went to school. After the whole day was over including pop quizzes and lunches full of banal conversation you wake up and realize you have to do it all over again? I felt like that, only it was real. I woke up to the sun shining through the blinds. I walked to the bathroom and brushed my teeth just like I did every morning. Unlike every other morning, I actually cared about what I was going to wear. So instead of khakis and an ugly pull over, I put on the black slacks with the butterfly embroidered on the calves and this gorgeous blue shirt that matched it. I mean this shirt was silky and shiny but not too shiny with sequins around the bust line. It was more suited to a night on the town than a customer service job in no Starbucks town like Tullytown but whatever. I was feeling so fine I put on the matching black sling backs that I refused to wear on normal occasions because they hurt my toes. I left my giant bag on the counter and instead grabbed the tiny black purse that made me look like a giant. I brushed my long normally muddy brown hair to a cinnamon sheen and left the house in my piece of shit Geo.
How fast do normal people drive? Fast, right? Well I drive 2 miles below the speed limit. That’s right, I’m that driver and I know what you speedy people say about me behind my back and with hand gestures. But this morning I was cruising along at 60 mph in the 55 and I just blew into work like a sequined hurricane. I plopped down at my desk, ready for another mind numbingly dull day of data entry. I flicked on my computer and here’s where it gets weird, I just…don’t remember anything else. There’s this huge blank space where my morning should have been. I was back home in my pajamas.
I lay there with a weird feeling of half hearted panic. Oh I could speculate on what had happened but really I had no idea. I would think and my thoughts would slide away from it like water off of obsidian. Funny but it reminded me of that time Brittany and I drank tequila for the first time and woke up in Reno. Did I have a bad moment? Did a co-worker yell at me? My machine clicked on and Annie, the secretary the really bubbly and happy all the time type, was talking in the saddest voice I’ve ever heard and she just said, “What the hell were you thinking Andy? We get paid vacations.”
I quit my job?! Wow. What the hell? How am I going to pay the rent?
The phone rang again. I was collapsed flat onto the bed and I glanced over at the white and purple phone that was girlie and sexy at the same time. Not that I was sexy. The second ring sounded as I depressingly contemplated just how deeply the bed sagged underneath me. My hands were pudgy. Who has pudgy hands? God, no wonder I quit. Too many mirrors at work…Too many angles to see my hugeness.
The answering machine picked up and a perkier version of me intoned, “Hi this is Andy McNealy. I’m not in leave a message.”
“Hey there Andy’s machine, it’s Cindy! Don’t forget tonight a certain show about a certain doctor I’d like to do a certain X rated something to is on tonight at nine. Call me when it’s over so I can tell you all about the dream I had last night about him and what lustful things it’s making me want to do to my TV. Oh and that was a really weird message you left me earlier. Did you really quit your job? Call me. Byeee!” The machine beeped.
A few seconds later the phone rang again. The answering machine picked up and the perkier version of me drove home how miserable I was right now, “Hi this is Andy McNealy. I’m not in leave a message.”
“You are too in, and you should be answering your damn phone. Yo, Cindy said you quit your job and let me tell you, Bravo.” Brittany was my best friend in two or three universes and some other dimensions according to her. She sometimes thought she was psychic. I sometimes thought she was…well it began with ‘p.’ “You have exactly ten minutes to pack up all your stuff and be ready to travel. This message will self destruct in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”
“Oh God!” I jumped five feet in the air as an air horn blasted through my answering machine’s speakers. I crashed down, smashing my metal bed frame to smithereens. The mattresses crashed to the hardwood floor with me. “Ow…”
I rolled off the bed debris onto the floor and laid there. I felt kind of empty…sort of like an old candy wrapper. There was no way I was going on vacation. I was just going to lie on the floor until I died. Or maybe until some hot prince showed up after a hundred years to give me a kiss and take me away to some faraway land where plump was in and thin was against the law or something impossible like that…He would love my curves and feed me chocolates because our love-making had made me lose a few pounds…except for my boobs which would remain as enormous as always.
Ten minutes passed. I was no longer alone. I didn’t wonder how she had gotten in, best friends always have a key. As I lay there I considered the wisdom of this cardinal rule.
“You’re on the floor,” Brittany said.
“Yes.” Above me were those famous brown eyes fantastically framed in perfectly dyed platinum blonde hair with no hint of dark roots…ugh. Her heart shaped face was perfect, complete with a model’s cheekbones and plump pouty lips. At this moment I was not excited to see someone better looking than I felt at this moment. That eliminated most people on earth except for my mailman, Quasi-Postman.
“So, you’re not packed then,” she asked with a hint of annoyance.
“Um, no,” I told her, “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
The closet opened. A suitcase plopped down onto the ruined bed. Drawers opened. My clothes flew across the room landing in the case, on the floor, on me. I lay there seething. Why couldn’t she just ever leave me alone when I wanted to lay on the floor and contemplate how crappy life really was? I was jobless, useless and ugly. I needed to process…not party.
A sock hit me in the face. “I am not going!” I shouted. Sitting up I threw it back at her. “Damn it Brittany I don’t feel like going on one of your stupid ‘break up cures.’” Oops. I wasn’t supposed to know about Johnny or Bobby or whoever she had last dated and dumped yet.
Brittany stopped with my huge bra in her tiny hand. “Yeah okay, Cindy’s dead.” Brittany’s happy mask cracked but only a second giving me a double image of a depressed quivering mass and a beauty queen. I blinked and it was gone. “No, this isn’t…a break up cure or whatever. It’s a vacation. We’re going on vacation, to the beach. We’re going to do all kinds of fun things together like stay in a crappy hotel, eat too many fries and get on rides like we did when we were little kids. Because we’re both single and we both don’t need men. So it’s not a break up cure, it’s a celebration of life vacation.” During her speech Brittany’s petite five foot two inch frame stretch to its fullest height and her eyes glowed like gold coins in her tiny perfect face. Uh oh, righteous girl power… One more negative word out of me and I was toast. Reluctantly I pulled my bra out of her hand. So much for my issues…
“Fine. Where are we going?”
“Wildwood, New Jersey of course, where else? Now stop thinking bad thoughts.” Brittany slammed my suitcase shut and I felt portends of doom…
And lo it was that we piled into my POS and headed for the beach. I drove as per the Brittany/Andy Friendship Treaty of ’99. Brittany put her hand out the window and let it go up and down in the air currents. I was thinking about how much I despised myself and also about how creepy it was to have a big blank space in your memory. I was also thinking that I was going to die alone. But I was always thinking that I might die alone. I wasn’t getting any younger and the men weren’t beating a chocolate coated path to my door. She glanced at me. With a flip of her pretty blonde hair she repeated, “Stop thinking bad thoughts, Andy.”
I glared.
Brittany didn’t even look a bit abashed. She just kept right on talking and surprise, surprise it was another, ‘Why Andy Sucks’ speech. “And don’t even think about saying you’re not. You’re face scrunches up and your eyes look watery. Seriously, I have never met a girl as negative as you. Completely unattractive on a lady and by the way scares off all those hot men you’re always pining over. Frankly, it’s a good thing every one of our friends has a regular job and can’t come with me or I might have thought about ditching you for one of them.” Brittany winked. None if our friends ever go on her wild escapades. They’re kind of afraid of her. To be honest, I’m kind of afraid of her. It’s amazing how intimidating she can be. She’s a munchkin compared to me. Me, as tall as I am, couldn’t intimidate a mouse, let alone a large network of close friends. Impressive for her, not so impressive for me: i.e. the big wuss.
Brittany growled, “Stop it.”
“What?” I rolled my window up. The wind was jamming too much of my hair into my mouth and switched to the air conditioning. After a minute I was able to drive and yank a huge hank out of my mouth.
“Stop comparing me to you.” Brittany said. She did not roll up her window. Instead she leaned her head out the window like a dog. Her tongue even dropped out to taste the air. After a few lungfuls she fell back against her seat and said, “There is no comparison. There isn’t even any reason for comparison. No woman is better than any other. Just some of us know it and some of us don’t. I know it. Cindy knows it. You seem to be the only one I know who doesn’t know it.” Brittany stuck her head back out the window laughing at nothing. And that nut bar gets dates. Brittany always had a man and not only that, she always had a good looking man. No lonely Friday nights for her, just her pick of studs and it was pretty obvious why. She was gorgeous. I was not.
Damn it, I was comparing us again. Fine. Okay as long as I’m being an idiot according to Brittany and not knowing that there was no need for comparison or whatever other crappy cliché a hot girl can just drop with no consequences, I may as well do it right. Let’s run the numbers:
Brittany vs. Andy
Brittany |
Andy |
Boyfriends = 100+ |
Boyfriends = 2 |
And now the good part, the physical descriptions: I am basketball player size at six foot two. That’s not exactly a nice feminine height. I’m also not delicately boned. My bones are thick as tree trunks. Not to mention the thick round layer of fat overtop of everything. It’s like a fine coating of homemade mashed potato over heavy steak bones body and to make matters worse, I jiggle…everywhere! Put me in front of a mirror and you’ll see my sad blue eyes with their permanent watery look. My nose is too big; my chin too small. My hair is a mess…My legs are way too thick and have the consistency of cottage cheese. My hands are oversized like some distorted giant and nothing fits me right. I feel like a fat long lumpy cucumber with plastic bags wrapped around me. And we top it all off with my bitter, thin lipped mouth. My natural expression is depression.
Then we have Brittany… Brittany is tiny, pretty and thin with great looks and a wide mouth. She was always laughing. She had these great puppy dog brown eyes that glow gold when she’s excited or extremely angry. Her skin was flawless…no stress pimples for her. She dresses like a super model and they only thing she ever shakes is her ass. After careful analysis: Brittany equals awesome. Andy equals whatever the exact opposite of awesome is. Craptastic?
“Sometimes it’s a lot of pressure being your friend,” I complained but I couldn’t meet her gaze. I just felt there was nothing I could do to shine beside her. There was no way in hell I could never measure up to how pretty she was. No wonder people looked straight through me to her, fabulous her…less than fabulous me. Why did I agree to come? Unemployed for the first time in forever and I’m going to spend my time off reading romance novels while Brittany lived them. My floor was calling.
“Ugh, can I go home now?”
“No,” Brittany said and rolled her eyes at me. “Half your problem is your horrible attitude.”
“What because I’m not happy I’m fat?” I asked. Annoyed with myself for getting into this discussion again with Brittany the perfect, I fiddled with the radio settings trying to find something from this century to listen to. Brittany sniffed at all of my choices. She only listened to 80’s music. I stared her down and begged, “No more Prince for ten minutes, okay?”
“There is nothing wrong with the artist known as, formally known as or currently known as Prince. He has a great voice and a greater ass,” Brittany said.
Still feeling disagreeable I took a potshot at her. “Raspberry Beret is played. Admit it and move on with your life. Why don’t you try listening to something from the 90’s. In about ten years or so you might get to hear something from today.” I finally hit some Offspring but yep, you guessed it. The song was ‘Get a Job.’ Disappointed, I flipped back to her stupid ass 80’s station.
“You can’t resist Roxette and you know it,” she said with a smug smile. I stewed and we sat in silence for twenty or so miles before Brittany said urgently, “Listen, get in the left hand lane.” Here we go. Every damn trip to the shore…
“I know where the rest stop is.” I flipped on my turn signal.
Brittany bounced a little to show me she was serious about the needing to pee thing. “Then how come you miss it every time? Look we’re almost there. Will you merge already?” She leaned over to grab at the wheel. I slapped her hands away. She grabbed the dashboard. “You drive like an old woman….Ugh you’re going to miss it! Just merge. Merge. Merge. Merge.”
“Hey, Friendship Treaty of 98, okay? You do not drive, you do not think about driving and you do not, absolutely do not touch the wheel when I am driving! This is so not making me calmer,” I growled. But mentioning the pact seemed to make her less ready to grab the wheel. My hands slipped on the wheel because my hands were sweaty. Why are my hands sweaty? I’ve merged a million times. It’s not scary. It’s not scary. I glanced out and checked my blind spot and then I checked it again and again and then I checked my mirrors and then… “Ah shit.”
“See? See! Damn it.” Brittany grabbed the wheel and pushed it left until I was in the lane. “Now hit the breaks and back up.”
“Can’t you pee on the grass?” Exasperated I pulled to a stop. My heart did not stop. It just pounded ten times faster. It’s going to explode.
“I’m going to explode.” Brittany said. She put the car in reverse. “Go now.”
I backed the car up at five miles an hour. When I was close enough, I shoved the car into drive and we bounded forward into the parking lot. I parked the car and turned to scream at her fro breaking the terms of the treaty but she was already bounding off toward the building. With a long suffering sigh, I climbed out of the car and followed her at a normal speed.
And after the peeing there was: Eating at the rest stop. We chose to head towards a table lit up with sunlight and I stared at our meals. “How can you eat that?” I asked. Brittany chosen had a wilted salad from the burger place and I had the real food, a burger, fries, diet coke and parfait.
“Because I’m going to eat your fries, I just don’t want be seen ordering them…” She said breezily. Brittany coasted past a table full of young guys with surfer curls and big grins. She paused just long enough for the hottest one to get a clear look at her and then she winked once slow and deliberate. Then she just walked a few tables away from them and plunked herself down like nothing ever happened. I swear the hottest one’s friend drowned in a puddle of his own drool. See? This is the crap I am talking about, right there. I could never do that. At least the table was bright and sunny, oh and she hadn’t been lying. She ate most of my fries.
The whole time we’re eating I can feel the eyes of those guys burrowing through my back to get a glimpse of her. I even turned to prove to myself that it was an illusion on the part of my messed up brain but yeah no. Not only were they staring but one of them motioned to me to move out of the way. Annoyed, I motioned to him with a finger. They returned the gesture.
“Great you’re learning to communicate on their level.” Brittany snorted, drinking down my diet coke. I pulled it out of her hands. “Hey,” she complained, “I was drinking that!”
“Then pay for your own! You make good money.” I pulled out the straw and stared at the berry pink lipstick on the end. Yuck. I tossed the straw at the table full of surfer curls. They got up and left. Good.
“See that! That is why you’re single. Right here! That is exactly why you’re single.” Brittany leaned back and crossed her arms over her perfectly sized breasts as if she had made the most important discovery ever in the whole damned universe. And here I was just thinking I had gotten rid of an annoying bunch of jerks…I rolled my eyes.
“Yeah see!” She pointed at me. Why I have no idea. “There was no reason to be mean to those guys. All you had to do was smile at one of them to win them over.” She shook her head at me.
“Uh, I don’t think they wanted to be my friend,” I told her and pointed at her breasts. “They wanted to be friends with your friends.”
Brittany rolled her eyes at me. “Shut up. You’re being dumb. You’re just as pretty as me and your boobs are bigger! Much bigger, like size of my head bigger! I am tired of you constantly thinking you’re not pretty enough or thin enough or any of that other crap. When I was dating Jim you were all, ‘I could never get a guy like that,’ and when I was out with Rob you kept saying he was so perfect and why couldn’t you get a nice guy like him…But then when I took you to that bar and introduced you to Mandy’s friend you got all weird and didn’t talk to him. He thought you had mental issues. You know you’re not ugly and you’re funny as hell not to mention smarter than me but damn. Your attitude sucks.”
Your attitude sucks. I repeated in my head in a variety of cool mocking voices that were not at all childish. “No it doesn’t. I’m a realist. I know that what guys want is short, thin and blonde…preferably permanently made stupid by a tragic car accident that leaves them with a perpetual need to f-”
Brittany stood up and dropped her uneaten salad in the bin. She turned her back and walked out of the rest stop. I saw her walking back to the car through the glass. I stood up, pocketing my parfait and tipping the rest of my wrappers into the trash can. By the time I got outside she was more than halfway to the car. I called out a couple of times but she didn’t answer. Finally I said, “Hey, wait up.” She didn’t and I puffed a little to catch up with her. She didn’t notice or care.
I got back in the car and she got back in the car but we didn’t talk. So we didn’t laugh and make fun of Stacy’s new hair and Amy’s new boyfriend with the uni-brow. The radio was switched to my alternative station and Brittany didn’t complain at all. The wind rushed by and the sunshine was bright and warm… and well, it sucked. Thoughts zipped around and around in my brain like a nightmare squirrels. Maybe I do have a bad attitude but please, look at her. She can’t just be all, “It’s not how you look.” When she looks like a damned junior supermodel. I mean how fair is that? Pretty people always think its attitude. They have no idea what it’s like to not be one of them. Guys tell me to my face I’m ugly. Why should I smile and let them do that to me over and over again, right? Better to cut them off before the insults scar me, right? I stewed and took the exit down to the Rio Grande. After another twenty minutes of being angry I started stewing in the other direction.
Maybe if I were more positive somebody might say something nice to me. Like, nice boobs fatty or maybe…No something really nice like I have a great personality or I’m really smart. Right before they ask me if Brittany’s seeing someone. Damn it, that’s not positive. Maybe I could do them a favor and introduce her to them. Put in a good word. Maybe after they get together I can make them breakfast in the morning. What a good friend! My brain gave me thirteen different scenarios where I ended up alone or making breakfast until I just couldn’t take it anymore. Damn it I hate my brain!
Okay, so if I can’t be freaking positive, I’ll just be really freaking honest. I hate my life. I hate being the ugly one, the fat one, the invisible one. I hate being the friend of the girl who gets all the guys. I know it’s not her fault. She can’t help being pretty all the damned time but geeze… This sucks. In utter desperation I blurted out, “I don’t want to be your fat friend anymore!”
“So go on a diet.” Brittany snarked.
Great, first thing she says to me since the rest stop and it’s more crappy advice…Okay, be positive. Explain it to her in terms she can understand. “No, dumb ass, I don’t want to ‘not be fat anymore’ although that might help. I don’t want to be the ‘fat friend’ anymore.” I looked her in the eye as best I could while driving down long stretch of road next to the ocean. The smell of salt, sand and dead fish laced the air. I took a full deep breath of it, mentally filtering out the fish. I wonder what would happen if I just walked out into the water. Would I become the fat friend of a pretty mermaid? One can only hope, right?
Brittany looked at me long and hard and annoyed. “You’re not my fat friend. You’re my best friend.”
Dispassionately I thought, she is just not getting this. She’s just too… pretty. “Brit listen to me, it has nothing to do with you, oh wait well it’s not all you. I mean, well it is you. I guess if my best friend were a hideous hunchback I’d get noticed but I’m friends with you. You’re perfect.”
Brittany snorted, “I am not perfect.”
I didn’t back down. I just kept trying to explain it, “Yeah whatever, you’re like the damned sun to these guys. They look at you and they can’t see me at all. They just see hot girl. Not ‘Hot Girl’s not so hot friend’. I feel like a damned lamp sometimes or any other boring old pieces of furniture you would walk past. And I’m tired of it. I want to be the hot girl. I want to be looked at and drooled over. I want to look so good that everyone just has to say, ‘You look great Andy.’”
Brittany shrugged, “Done.”
Now she was making fun of me. “Done? Done. Bullshit done,” I said. “You can’t just wave a wand and make me thinner and shorter or give me a nose job and laser hair removal surgery or Brad Pitt’s phone number.” Bullshit. Yeah I would love those things but it’s ridiculous. I mean maybe if I hit the lottery and got liposuction. Than a personal trainer like Oprah had…oh it was hopeless. I told her the flat out, absolute truth as I saw it, “you can’t make me pretty.”
“No,” Brittany snorted. “I can’t make you pretty.” Her trim, well maintained eyebrows waggled. “But I can make you hot.”
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