Poisoned

 

Paul, I thought, was a dream come true.  Everything I had ever hoped for, seemed to be embodied in him.  My heart soared every time I thought of him.  Zing!

Paul invited me to his beach house for dinner.  He was going to cook.  Wow.  When I arrived, fresh cut flowers were on the table, the wine was breathing and mood music filled the air.  I was impressed.  The meal was incredible.  The Cabernet tasted as if the grapes were grown for the soul purpose of creating a wine that would compliment our dinner.  I was being wooed and I liked it.

As we sat there gazing into each other’s eyes, everything seemed so right until I began to ramble.  I couldn’t help myself.  My mind raced as I tried to think of clever anecdotes about myself to impress Paul.  Instead, I blathered on with inappropriate and self-deprecating stories about my childhood pudginess and thick glasses.  Besides, I was trying to picture him naked and was having trouble concentrating.

I was dying for him to touch me.  I executed a combination hand-half-way-across-the-table with an interested lean.  This particular maneuver is extremely difficult to do successfully.  Precise angling, attitude, and timing are essential.  You must lean your upper body inward, at just the right angle (approximately forty-five degrees), while maintaining hand placement and eye contact.  The weight is shifted laterally onto one buttock.  It is crucial that the correct buttock is selected. Optimum head and face placement to receive a kiss is the goal. For maximum benefit, lower the eyelids, part the lips slightly and execute a single heavy inhale-exhale combination. 

Finally, Paul took my hand, drew me close and kissed me.  I nearly fell off of the chair and under the table.  I suddenly felt flush.  My palms got clammy, my heart was leaping and my stomach was churning.  Wait. I began to wonder. Was this supposed to be happening?  Was he the one?

Paul suggested that we go for a walk along the beach.  As we removed our shoes and placed them on the porch, I began to fantasize about the movie, “From Here to Eternity.”  Paul would be Burt Lancaster, I would be Deborah Kerr and the gentle waves would roll over our entwined bodies as we kissed in the surf.

We walked hand-in-hand as the surf rushed over our feet.  Everything seemed so perfect.  The fresh air snapped me back into reality and I realized that my stomach was feeling unusually queasy.  Was it the romance?   No.  It was the dinner.  Nausea began to overtake me.  I felt dizzy.  I started to cramp and broke into a sweat.  Oh no. I tried to think it away.  The gurgling from my stomach and the hot flashes were eventually overtaken by the crashing waves of nausea.  I fell to my knees and proceeded to pollute the ocean in my own special way.

            When I came to, I realized that I was sprawled out and the surf was lapping up my, now ruined, suede dress.  I was soaking wet and covered with sand, seaweed and various non-biodegradable items.  I lifted my head and searched for Paul.  He was sitting on a sand dune about thirty feet away.  When he saw me moving, he stood up and walked toward me.  I was hoping for compassion.  Instead, he was disgusted and angry.

 In a sarcastic tone he asked, “Now, was that necessary? You certainly know how to ruin an evening. I suppose you’re too sick to have sex tonight.”

What?  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  What a Jackass!

Without help from Paul, the king of concern, I pulled myself to my feet.  I stumbled down the beach in an effort to catch up with Paul, who kept pace about ten feet ahead of me.  I felt my body becoming chaffed by the wet suede and sand.

When we arrived at his house, Paul handed me my shoes and told me to wait outside while he got my purse.  He didn’t want me to “drip” on his carpeting.

After receiving my purse, I walked, alone, to my car, as Paul went inside the house, dead-bolted the door and turned out the porch light. He acted as if I had maliciously and intentionally become violently ill in an effort to destroy his sex quota.  Of course, at that moment, I wished that I had.  I felt another wave of nausea come over me.  I desperately looked around for a place to heave.  Then I spotted it.  With my hand covering my nose and mouth, I made a mad dash for the porch.  I took careful aim and then vomited in Paul’s shoes.

Movies a la Carte from The Grumbling of a Chronically Single Woman, by Randi Sherman the author of Paula Takes a Risk

Movies a la Carte

At the last minute, one Friday evening, I decided to go see a movie.  I knew that I wouldn’t be giving them much notice, but I called a few friends to invite them to join me.  When I telephoned, the friends who were at home had already made plans for the evening.  I looked at the clock.  It was getting late.  If I wanted to get to the theater in time for the coming attractions I had to abandon the idea of a movie companion.  So, I grabbed by coat and left for the theater.  No big deal, I thought.  I’m just going to be sitting in a dark room, watching a film, quietly.  It wasn’t as if I was going to the theater to have a heart-to-heart conversation with a long lost friend.  I was going to see a movie, plain and simple.  I could do that alone.

I had a slight twinge of insecurity while I waited in line to buy a ticket.  I was surrounded by handholding couples and groups of teenagers who all looked at me, standing alone, as if I had just been crowned Miss Social Pariah, 2012.

The pitying looks continued as I stood in line at the snack bar.  I had convinced myself that people were whispering behind their hands and looking at me out of the corners of their eyes.  “She her.  Over there.” They motioned with a head-nod.  “She’s alone. Tsk-tsk.  What a loser.”  When I made it to the snack counter I considered ordering two popcorns and two drinks, just to throw them off.

I know it was paranoia but I felt as if all eyes were on me when I entered the theater.  All I wanted to do was sit down and blend in.  Within thirty-seconds, I had become completely self-conscious.  When I found a row that had a few empty seats, I quickly shuffled in to sit down.  In an effort to make it look as if I was saving a seat for my date while he was in the bathroom or at the snack bar, I put my coat over seat next to me.  To keep up the illusion, every few minutes, I would turn around and look back at the door.

I tried to kill time until the movie started.  I rummaged through my purse, rearranged my wallet, ate most of my popcorn, read the movie theater brochure that I had picked up in the lobby, and played the riddle game that was being displayed on the screen.  I looked at my watch.  I checked the door again.  Then I noticed the child who was standing on the seat directly in front of me.  He was turned around and facing me.  He was just standing there looking at me.

His look turned into a stare.  An unending-unblinking-see-right-through-to-the-soul stare.  It began to make me uncomfortable.  What did he see?  I looked down.  I looked up.  I looked at my nails.  I looked at the door again.  I tried to ignore it as long as possible.  Finally, I stared back.  I scared him. His eyes welled up with tears.  He whispered something in his mommy’s ear.  She shifted her position to get a glimpse of me.  Uh-oh, here it comes. I was certain that she was going to turn around, wag her finger, and give me a piece of her mind.  But instead, in a voice intended to be loud enough for me to hear, she started to explain what was wrong with the mean lady behind him.

“Ignore that lady.  She’s alone.  She probably has no friends who want to be with her and must be very unhappy.  Leave her alone.” 

I shrank.  Is that how I’m perceived?  After a minute or two of self-examination, I realized that I was reevaluating my entire existence because the parents of a four-year-old boy hadn’t taught him that staring is impolite. 

As the lights started to dim, I could sense the pity from the people who were seated around me.  I had to think fast.  To save face, I looked back at the door one more time and said loud enough for others to hear, “I wonder where he could be.  He’ll never find me in the dark.”  After my subtle announcement I gathered together my snacks, my purse, and my jacket and walked up the aisle toward the door to make it look like I was going to find him.  I walked through the swinging doors, crossed to the other side and came back into the theater through the other set of doors.  Shrouded by the darkness, I walked slowly down the aisle, found a single seat and sat down. 

The woman who was seated next to me leaned over and said, “I’ve been waiting to see this movie.  It’s supposed to be good.”

“Me too.”  I agreed, “I …”

Suddenly, we heard, “Shush!” from the man behind us.  “If you wanted you socialize, you should have stayed home.  Now be quiet and watch the movie.”

Gym-nausea - from The Grumblings of... by Randi M Sherman, the authorof Paula Takes a Risk, Available 2012

Gym-nausea

It has been said that getting to the gym is half the battle.  I view the whole gym experience as a test of courage. The benefits of working out should outweigh the hand to hand combat with an exercise bra or the risk being killed in a stampede of people who want to get closer to the mirror. I want to be healthy and fit, but I’m not willing to get into a chick-fight over who got to the treadmill machine first. 

I’m the type of gym-goer who will circle the parking lot for twenty minutes until a space close to the door is available.  It’s considered a successful gym experience if I make it through an entire workout without the need for recitation.

When I arrived at the gym, I headed for the locker room to change into my exercise togs.  Making my way through the steamy room that was filled with naked women and high pitched hum of hair blow dryers, I located my assigned locker. It was a narrow opening in the wall that was designed to hold a maximum of one set of keys, a gym membership card and a wire hanger if its placed in the vertical position. Across from the lockers and bolted to the floor are balance beams that are supposed to be used as benches.  I knew that if focused my concentration on balance and form, I could make it through the entire dressing routine and land a clean dismount.  After which, I would jump up, arch my back and throw my hands in the air to await the judges scores.

It was time to change into my brand new gym-appropriate apparel.   The activity of putting on these clothes is an exercise in itself.  I thought of employing the assistance of a larger, stronger gym member to “spot” me while I squeezed into the rubber band that had been fashioned as an exercise bra.  The first step was to identify the front of the bra.  I took a deep breath and with all of my upper body strength, I stretched the elastic around my wrists and wrestled it over my head and shoulders, taking care not to dislocate a limb or pull a muscle.

Once the bra was in place, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I adjusted my breasts to a level position and tucked any noticeable back-fat and excess lateral-chest-bulk under the elastic.  I was hopeful that the red marks from the struggle would soon fade.  At that point, I was a little light headed and needed to sit down, catch my breath and eat a mocha flavored energy bar.

There are two main styles of exercise bras.  One type is more utilitarian than the other.  The first presses the breasts so flat that by comparison, a mammogram seems comfortable.  It binds the breasts so close to the chest that they are, not only immobile, they are no longer distinguishable.  The other style of exercise bra is more fashionable.  It supports and lifts the breasts to give them a fuller perkier appearance.  Depending on the adjustment, this bra can lift the breasts so high that they might impede vision and range of motion. With the proper adjustment of this bra, the cleavage could be used as a hands-free water bottle holder.

Next, I tackled the spandex shorts. Could they be any smaller? Off of the body, they look like a pair of Capri pants from Barbie’s summer wardrobe. Once on the body, they look like sausage casing.  Using maximum shoulder and arm strength along with the contraction of my abdomen and butt muscles, I yanked and pulled the shorts up my body. So much for my upper body workout, I thought.  Once the shorts were in place, my thighs begin to swell out of the bottom.  And above the waistband, don’t ask.  The excess skin and weight around my mid section, made it look as if my spandex shorts had had an atomic explosion.  I covered it all with a giant T-shirt and headed out to the circuit training equipment.

The most daunting piece of equipment in the gym is the scale. Why is the scale located in the middle of everything?  I broke into a sweat as I approached.  Weighing myself has never been as simple as just stepping on the scale and sliding the balance weights to the “you-weigh-this-much” position.

No matter how lethargic or sluggish I was, the fastest and most coordinated maneuver that I made in the gym was stepping on the scale, measuring, and then stepping off of it without leaving any evidence of my true weight. I have developed a highly choreographed routine for using the scales at the gym.  I call it the “step-measure-sigh-step-slide.” Here’s how I do it. I concentrate on my breathing as I scan the room to see who is standing within eye-shot of the scale.  In one fluid motion, I step onto the scale, manipulate the balance weights, suffer from massive depression and then step off again.  While stepping off, I simultaneously slide the balance weights back to the zero position.  If by chance, I draw attention to myself with either a misstep or a whimper, I force a smile, wipe the tears from my eyes and announce, “Weight doesn’t matter to me. It’s the tone and muscle mass that I’m concerned with.”  If pressed, I may say that I’m retaining water.  If the gym-goers are still not convinced, I resort to the explanation, “I’ve been constipated for a week.”

The “regulars” at the gym are very territorial.  It is not a good idea to break into their circuit routine. I innocently approached the Butt Buster device.  I was just about ready to adjust the weights on it, I heard a high-pitched voice.  “I’m using that machine.” 

I looked at the machine.  I didn’t see anyone.  Was I hallucinating?  After all, my new exercise bra was very tight and might have been limiting the blood supply to my brain.  Then I heard the voice again, “I said, I’m using that!” 

I looked once more. Still, I saw no one. Gee.  I thought, This woman is very thin.  I can’t even see her. 

From the lounge area, across the gym, I heard the voice again. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”  I was startled.  I looked up and saw what appeared to be a walking make-up counter with a hair scrunchy, and a butt thong waving her arms, shooing me away from her machine.  “Don’t touch it!  I have the weight and height set just right. I’m just resting for a minute.  I should be done in a few minutes.  Geeze.”  Then she looked me up and down, rolled her eyes and returned to her power drink.

While examining the bruising on my body that was caused by the elastic of my exercise clothes, I was nearly trampled to death by a herd Neanderthals who were jockeying for position in front of the mirror.  I stood there in amazement.  I realized that mirror-posing is a serious business.  Evidently, once the right pose is selected, the posers are required to gaze at their reflections with love and affection.  They appeared to be flirting with themselves. “You’re so big and strong, handsome and courageous.” And that’s just the women.

Among the various gym-goers, there are those people who go to the gym just to be seen.  They don’t seem to exercise at all.  It was impossible to use several machines because they were being used a nightclub.  Clicks of the beautiful people were hanging over and leaning against the equipment while flexing, flirting and making dinner plans.

I approached the leg-lift machine where a woman was sitting.  She was talking into her cellular telephone.  She held up her hand to let me know that I was interrupting her conversation. 

I decided to skip the weight training portion of my workout.  I went to the cardiovascular area only to find a group of women who had set their treadmills on browsing-speed.  They strolled along for about thirty minutes. 

As I stood there waiting, I looked around the gym.  My attention was drawn to a group of red-faced men who were grunting and groaning as they lifted weights. Call me naive but, if something is so heavy that is could cause a hernia or an exploding aneurysm, put it down. 

There was a height-weight chart pinned to the wall.  Upon examination, I realized that I am five inches too short for my weight.  I became depressed and decided to go home. 

Later, I laughed to myself when I realized that fashions and the idea of beauty are forever changing.  I figured that ten years from now, the height-weight chart would be completely revised.  After extensive studies regarding the benefits of potato chips and glazed buttermilk donuts, scientist will discover that we were all fifty to one hundred pounds under weight.  Spandex will be outlawed.  It will be declared that the massive consumption of green leafy vegetables coupled with exercise, energy bars and butt thongs will have contributed to the early death of hundreds of thousands Americans. And because of the limited amount of fabric necessary to make clothing, less textiles and fewer garment workers will be needed. Which will result in the crippling of the U.S. economy.

An hour had passed.  I had gone to the gym.  Although, I never actually worked out, I did get points for going.  I had determined the future trends in beauty, healthcare and the economy.   I had worked up quite an appetite.  It was time for a snack.

Movies a la Carte - from Grumblings.... by Randi M Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Movies a la Carte

At the last minute, one Friday evening, I decided to go see a movie.  I knew that I wouldn’t be giving them much notice, but I called a few friends to invite them to join me.  When I telephoned, the friends who were at home had already made plans for the evening.  I looked at the clock.  It was getting late.  If I wanted to get to the theater in time for the coming attractions I had to abandon the idea of a movie companion.  So, I grabbed by coat and left for the theater.  No big deal, I thought.  I’m just going to be sitting in a dark room, watching a film, quietly.  It wasn’t as if I was going to the theater to have a heart-to-heart conversation with a long lost friend.  I was going to see a movie, plain and simple.  I could do that alone.

I had a slight tinge of insecurity while I waited in line to buy a ticket.  I was surrounded by handholding couples and groups of teenagers who all looked at me, standing alone, as if I had just been crowned Miss Social Pariah, 1999.

The pitying looks continued as I stood in line at the snack bar.  I had convinced myself that people were whispering behind their hands and looking at me out of the corners of their eyes.  “She her.  Over there. ” They motioned with a head-nod.  “She’s alone. Tsk-tsk.  What a loser.”  When I made it to the snack counter I considered ordering two popcorns and two drinks, just to throw them off.

I know it was paranoia but I felt as if all eyes were on me when I entered the theater.  All I wanted to do was sit down and blend in.  Within thirty-seconds, I had become completely self-conscious.  When I found a row that had a few empty seats, I quickly shuffled in to sit down.  In an effort to make it look as if I was saving a seat for my date while he was in the bathroom or at the snack bar, I put my coat over seat next to me.  To keep up the illusion, every few minutes, I would turn around and look back at the door.

I tried to kill time until the movie started.  I rummaged through my purse, rearranged my wallet, ate most of my popcorn, read the movie theater brochure that I had picked up in the lobby, and played the riddle game that was being displayed on the screen.  I looked at my watch.  I checked the door again.  Then I noticed the child who was standing on the seat directly in front of me.  He was turned around and facing me.  He was just standing there looking at me.

His look turned into a stare.  An unending-unblinking-see-right-through-to-the-soul stare.  It began to make me uncomfortable.  What did he see?  I looked down.  I looked up.  I looked at my nails.  I looked at the door again.  I tried to ignore it as long as possible.  Finally, I stared back.  I scared him. His eyes welled up with tears.  He whispered something in his mommy’s ear.  She shifted her position to get a glimpse of me.  Uh-oh, here it comes. I was certain that she was going to turn around, wag her finger, and give me a piece of her mind.  But instead, in a voice intended to be loud enough for me to hear, she started to explain what was wrong with the mean lady behind him.

“Ignore that lady.  She’s alone.  She probably has no friends who want to be with her and must be very unhappy.  Leave her alone.” 

I shrank.  Is that how I’m perceived?  After a minute or two of self-examination, I realized that I was reevaluating my entire existence because the parents of a four-year-old boy hadn’t taught him that staring is impolite. 

As the lights started to dim, I could sense the pity from the people who were seated around me.  I had to think fast.  To save face, I looked back at the door one more time and said loud enough for others to hear, “I wonder where he could be.  He’ll never find me in the dark.”  After my subtle announcement I gathered together my snacks, my purse, and my jacket and walked up the aisle toward the door to make it look like I was going to find him.  I walked through the swinging doors, crossed to the other side and came back into the theater through the other set of doors.  Shrouded by the darkness, I walked slowly down the aisle, found a single seat and sat down. 

The woman who was seated next to me leaned over and said, “I’ve been waiting to see this movie.  It’s supposed to be good.”

“Me too.”  I agreed, “I …”

Suddenly, we heard, “Shush!” from the man behind us.  “If you wanted you socialize, you should have stayed home.  Now be quiet and watch the movie.”