Flashback Friday: Fat Clap

What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I be like normal people? Why can’t I be a calm, cool, collected individual? The anxiety, the rash decisions, the guilt. It’s all too much.

I’m useless, mental, insane, compulsively-driven at the very sight of…of cupcakes. I know. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The other day we had a staff meeting where cupcakes were present. They were brought out at the very start of the meeting. They were for a birthday, so tradition dictates that you don’t partake until ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung. Um. Why you people gotta play with me like that?

The.whole.time I sneaked peeks over at those beautiful confections of sugar goodness. It was mean, really.

They were taunting me.

How can you expect anyone, particularly one with an unhealthy relationship to cake, to actually pay attention to the matters at hand when there are cupcakes RIGHT OVER THERE? 

I think I know what we discussed at the staff meeting, but really, all I was concerned with was whether or not I would have time to eat my cupcake before the school day started.

During the height of my anxiety, when I was contemplating how bad it would look if I just snatched one and ran out, I began to notice everyone else.

They were all just casually drinking their coffee and jotting down notes.

I’m having the sweats and I’m feeling like an animal in heat and these people are cool as fucking cucumbers. Really.

It’s moments like these, during staff meetings where I have to abstain, with temptation taunting me, when I wonder how I’m not 400 pounds.

The fact that a fucking cupcake can mentally control me to such a degree is embarrassing. Normal people want one, but they don’t salivate like a starving dog begging for scraps.

My many, fervent, stolen glances over at the rainbow cake bombs, did the trick and it was finally time to get one! *Fat clap*

I basically mowed everyone down to get to them first. I’m that person.

I was instantly ashamed, but my regret didn’t stop me from checking the teacher’s lounge, at lunch, to see if there were any left.

But Don’t Do That

Guys, I’m freaking out. Today, when I was at the factory outlet mall, I needed to use the restroom. Generally, I tend to avoid public restrooms like the plague, because, well, they are filled with foul smells and people with leprosy. I’m not even kidding. Just ugh. Even Starbucks bathrooms are questionable these days. There’s just nothing quite like your own bathroom, your own germs, and your own smells. 

There’s something more. It isn’t just that every single time, I shit-you-not, every.single.time I walk into a public restroom someone just unloaded their barrio burrito from hell, it’s that I have a fear of vomitting. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, knowing it’s happening. Just no. 

I’m the kind of teacher who, when one of my students throws up, looks like they are about to throw up, or comes out of the bathroom a sickly shade of green, I’m out the door, down the street, gone. Nope. Nope. Nope. 

I’m the friend who will leave your drunk ass in the bar bathroom if you’re puking. I don’t even care. Maybe it sounds cruel, but I always tell the bartender to hail you a cab. So, it’s OK. 

I’m also this girlfriend. Yup. 

I had my boyfriend help me recreate one of my favorite memes. Even getting this close is questionable. To add to the effect, he made pretend gagging sounds and all that fun stuff. Great work, babe. 

So, back to the bathroom nightmare today. There was a woman in the bathroom making extremely questionable noises. I’m always hypersensitive to the noises that go on in the stalls next to me. So much as a cough, and my heart starts beating faster and I break out into a sweat. When I hear anything other than tinkle tinkle, I freak the fuck out. 

Forcing myself to accept the very real fact that a foot away from me someone was upchucking was unthinkable. Thus, I decided to make up what she was doing instead. So, the woman in.the.very.next.stall was either:

A. Dropping bowling balls into the toilet, which would account for the impressive splashing sounds

B: Plunging the toilet, exuberantly, which would account for the heaving breathing

C: Having a watermelon seed spitting contest, which would account for the spitting

I practically flew out of that bathroom. The damn bathroom at the mall is at the end of this winding, endless hallway. The whole way, I ran, breathless, sweating, shaking. 

It felt like I was never going to see the light of day again. Finally, finally, I saw the light, exited, found Bath & Body Works and tried to forget about my worst nightmare come true. 

Piece of Sh*t Car a la Adam Sandler 

Friends, my car is dying an ugly, ugly death. We had been given a year, but the diagnosis is now, much worse. The sickness running through the fluids and electrical system has recently sped up, and I am now making funeral arrangements. I’m devastated, but not surprised. When you have no emergency break,  and chunks of seat break off, daily, you know your car’s days are numbered.

Everyday, driving to and from work is pushing it. I also have to drive sans air conditioning, and like an 80-year-old with nowhere to go. It’s awful.

It’s not even like I’m that close to my car. It has no quirky name, and no emotional connection to me, whatsoever. I mean, when your car needs major repairs just to pass smog each year, it isn’t exactly considered a prized possession.

No, I’m dreading making car payments. At the ripe-old-age of 32, I’ve never been tied down by car payments. My piece of poo on wheels only cost me $5,000 and it’s been paid off since 2006. I am dreading having to make a substantial payment on a car every month. I’m a teacher, not a billionaire.

With that, because I’ll be a slave to the bank or car dealership for 48 months or longer, I want to be able to have a damn nice ride. I’m not even picky, either. ‘Damn nice’ in my world means having a “clicker” and power windows. But, while I’m not exactly “picky” due only to being poor, I’m super particular, at the same time. It’s a Jetta, or the highway.

Since I’ll likely be driving the most expensive thing I’ll ever possess soon, I know I’ll also be an anxious mess. I like to keep my nice things nice, and we know how people are assholes. I’ll be paranoid about it getting dinged, scratched, or hit. The anxiety is already creeping in. UGH. I think I have an ulcer. 

When you are super OCD, decisions like this are not fun, like most people would treat them. No, all I’m thinking about is how long I’ll have to give up morning Starbucks runs or buying beef because I’ll be paying on a car. I’m dreading the car hunt, because shopping around for something you really can’t afford really kinda sucks. Also, my car has already been keyed by some asshole, and I haven’t even seen it yet.

Wish me luck on my search. Pray I hit the lotto. Something. Anything.

My friend and I would blast this song as we “dragged main”, in my first piece of shit car, an ’86 Mazda 626 with maroon interior and purple tinted windows. We thought we were so hilarious.