Back on my bullshit

This train of thought is heading toward a gap in the tracks, but I’m going along with it for now.

Here is the thing: I am annoyed about the “post breakup glow-up” thing that is not happening. Instead I gained 15 lbs, then lost 2 lbs and hit a plateau, because meeeeeh. I need to give more than half a shit if I want to get anywhere, but I don’t have any motivation. I have depression and a toaster oven.

Well, you know what motivation works for getting buff, besides horrible crushing stress? A horrible crushing crush. It worked in my 20s anyway, but anxiety has been doing all the heavy lifting since then. I feel like maybe it would be fun to have a crush again. The question: can my brain still do that? I don’t know. I definitely don’t want to date. I don’t even really want to talk to anyone. But that is not the trick here - the trick is tricking myself into catching feelings just enough to get stupid and make protein shakes and fit into cute pants again. (My own.) People can get a crush on anything - a person, a fictional character, binging noises on your phone. How hard can it be?

OKAY THEN. As soon as I clapped my hands and fluffed my hair, feeling ready to go out into the world and make a fool of myself in the name of self care/revenge, Zenny decided to start Teenage Bed Wars*, and it shot a hole in my confidence. My hair deflated. OKAY, TAKE TWO. After work I bought a Guinness and watched The Fall Guy (my emotional support movie). Now I have a soundtrack and a leather jacket, let’s go.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, exactly. I don’t know anyone, and I don’t go anywhere, and I’m not signing up for any apps. On cue, campus filled up with firemen. Just dozens and dozens of firemen, all corralled in the student lounge between training sessions. I don’t have a special thing for firemen, but I know a romance trope when I see one, so I went skidding in there to get some packets of creamer and have a quick look at the situation. Well, well, well. The weather has warmed up, the coats have come off, and… all these firemen still look like potatoes. That’s ok. Everyone likes potatoes, right? I just have to figure out how to tell them apart and find one that tells jokes or has a cool tattoo or something. 

While I was roaming around on lunch break, one of the janitors caught me staring into the staff fridge at my boiled eggs and yogurts. 

“What’re y’at?” he said.

“I was hoping some other kind of food would appear if I looked long enough.”

“You like classic rock?”

This guy is about 70, watching a 1960s guns-and-cars kind of show on the staff tv. “Yeah, I do, I like Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath -”

“Peter Frampton, John Fogerty, David Gates, Willie Nelson,” and he went on, just naming a list of musicians, mostly ones I absolutely would not classify as rock. Then he folded his arms and said, “The Guess Who is Canadian, you know,” with a bit of challenge in his voice. Oh no, this was one of those dudes-testing-a-chick kind of conversations. 

“Yeah, So Long, Bannatyne was a good album,” I said. 

MISTAKE. He started naming bands faster. “Al Stewart, John Prine, Rush-”

I started naming bands back. My mother was one of those 70’s teens who spent all her money on subwoofers and vinyl, and I was an unsupervised only child in the 80’s, COME AT ME, BRO. “Deep Purple, Moody Blues, Alice Cooper -”

“Alice Cooper! His big hit was Only Women Bleed!”

“It was not, it was School’s Out, and that wasn’t even the best song on the album!”

Goddamn it. I was supposed to be trying to find an imaginary boyfriend, not fighting with a septuagenarian who likes Ted Nugent. I grabbed a boiled egg and slammed it on the counter to crack it, “Gotta go, I have an egg!” And I ran for it.

Now he’s been haunting the library, hoping for a re-match.

This is going to take some work. At least if I’m avoiding the staff room, I can’t eat all my snacks.

I hear firemen in the lounge, engage your core.

* I asked her to make her bed, she wouldn’t. I patiently made her bed for her, she threw it apart. I impatiently made it again, she tossed it. I made it a THIRD TIME, not-at-all-patiently explaining my lowest-bar expectations for teenage housekeeping, she snuck in 1 minute later and trashed it. I threw all her blankets and pillows on the floor and made a noise like a t-rex. We went to work/school. I cracked a beer when I got home at 4:30pm and dropped fresh sheets on her bedroom floor like I didn’t give a shit, she looked alarmed and thought she broke my brain. She made her bed.