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.

Reading Between the Lines - from Grumblings...by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Reading Between the Lines 

Every Sunday morning, I look through the personal advertisements in the newspapers.  Like many other women, I am looking for an honest ad - a diamond in the rough.  Unfortunately, there is a lack of accuracy running rampant among the personal pages.  Sure, it’s easy to find blurbs about humorous, professionals with many hobbies and interests. No one ever describes himself as unattractive, flabby, unimaginative, boring, bitter, penniless, unromantic, living with his mother, lazy, insincere, humorless, or as a pain in the ass.  It’s perfectly understandable that each advertiser wants to present himself in the best light, as the most desireable, new and improved product available.  Act now!  But the fact remains, if a woman responds to the ad, a face to face meeting could take place and the truth would be revealed.  Whatever happened to truth in advertising?

When it comes to the personal description, how do we know what is fact, what is fiction and what is simply a weak grasp on reality?  For the most part, it is not the intention of the advertiser to mislead the reader.  He just uses creative words and snappy phrases to describe his attributes and interests and to entice the shopper enough so she will respond to the ad.

So, how does the reader decipher the verbiage used in a personal advertisement?  Does she just have to blindly move forward and take her chances?  No, not anymore. I have developed a cross-referencing matrix that can be used to interpret the language of the personal ads.  This tool has been designed to help the reader to read between the lines of the personal ad and translate the mystical language to uncover the true message.

When he says:	He means:
Let’s meet for coffee, long walks on the beach, camping, good conversation, quiet evenings at home	“ I do not have any money.”
Cuddly, Teddy Bear	“I’m morbidly obese and have hair on my back.”
Very Handsome	“My mother says I’m good looking.”
Family minded	“I have custody of the children.”
Entrepreneur	“I don’t have a job and I live with my mother.”
Cute	“I’m under five foot five inches tall. “
Dry sense of humor	“I’m obnoxious.  I rub people the wrong way and I don’t care. I’m the only person, on earth, one who thinks that I’m funny.”
Harvard Grad in 1979	“I have not accomplished anything since 1979.”
Ivy League grad	“I’m smarter than you are.”
Young, active, energetic	“I’m 110 years old but I use hair-dye, wear a gold chain and have a prescription for Viagra.”
Spiritual, Devout Catholic, Buddist, Mormon or Religious Jew	“Be prepared to hear about it.”
No smoking, no drinking	“No fun.”
Loves Broadway shows	“I have homosexual tendencies.”
Sensitive	“I cry easily.  I will attach myself to you like a leach.  When you break up with me, I will make you feel guilty.”
Enjoys science and technology	“Be prepared to watch Star Trek tapes.”
Seeking Jewish woman, tall, thin, Sharon Stone look alike	“I’m completely unrealistic.”
Seeking life partner	“I need a wife.  My laundry has taken over my apartment.”
Seeking open minded companion	“I’ve been to jail.”
Seeking female 21-65	“Please, anyone!  Answer this ad.”
Seeking non-professional	“I’m insecure and scare easily.”
Seeking kindhearted woman	“My first wife cleaned me out.”

You’re not going to wear that, are you? by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

You’re not going to wear that, are you? 

Before attending a class reunion, a small group of college friends convened at my house for hors d’oeuvres and a chance to catch up.  Over the years, we had all lost contact with one another.  Patty arrived first, followed by Joan and Marci.  As each woman entered the living room, we all gave her air kisses, light-non-wrinkling hugs and the once-over.  We mentally calculated if she had aged badly, gained weight, or if she had had her nose, eyes, thighs, or boobs reconstructed. Though uncomfortable, we all acted as if we were genuinely happy to see one another.

What do you say to someone who you have neither seen nor thought much about in the past fifteen years?  We settled for benign conversation about families and careers.  Pictures of children were passed around.  Then some of the girls showed pictures of their husbands taken in the early 1980’s when they had hair and muscle tone.  At first, all life updates were bright and optimistic.  But, as more and more wine was consumed, everyone grew relaxed the truth came out.  It’s interesting to note how virtual strangers will discuss the most intimate details of their lives when they are under the influence of Chardonnay and know that they won’t have to see each other for another fifteen years. Eventually, we heard about husbands’ infidelity or impotence or their money problems. 

Marci rolled her eyes, “Joe was laid off … again.”

“My husband Gregory and I haven’t had sex in two years.  He feels pretty guilty about it.” Joan took another sip of wine.  “Frankly, he wasn’t that good to begin with. But, at least, now I get jewelry.”

“That’s nothing”  Patty piped up.  “You may have heard I divorced Harvey.  One day, I came home early from work and caught him wearing my lingerie.” She continued, “I got the kids and he got custody of Victoria Secret.”

Everyone was laughing and seemed to be enjoying themselves. The doorbell rang and I when I opened the door to Janet and Teresa, the mood suddenly grew dark. As they walked in, Janet looked at my dress and said, “Are we early?  It looks like you didn’t have a chance to change into a nice dress for the party.”  With that said, everyone knew that there was going to be trouble. 

Janet had always been the ultimate snob.  She had the talent of reducing anyone to tears with just one scathing comment.  Janet had grown up as the only child of older, wealthy parents.  She had lived a very privileged life and was never shy about to rubbing her wealth and status in the face of anyone whom she had come into contact with. Everyone who knew her was afraid of Janet and never dared to say no to her.  During our college days, Janet’s parents had always provided her with a lot of money and had urged her to travel through Europe during school breaks.  After knowing Janet for a while, it’s obvious why her parents encouraged her to go away.

 We all knew that Janet’s nastiness stemmed from her own insecurities, but we still feared her commentary.  Janet could have taken the sport of hurling verbal barbs to the Olympics if only there had been a venue for it.  Although it had not been discussed, everyone at the party was hopeful the she had grown out of it.

Teresa had always been Janet’s side-kick, her flunky, her puppet.  Janet’s insecurities were only out done by Teresa’s fear of her.  Teresa’s function in their relationship had always been to agree with and enable Janet’s behavior.

We all reverted to our youth related awkwardness, and waited silently for Janet to unleash her unsolicited opinions on us.  Although she had matured and was no longer outright nasty, she didn’t let us down.  As the years had progressed, she had learned to shroud their insults with empty compliments.

“Marci,” Janet said, while looking her up and down. “I see that you haven’t lost your personal flare for style.”  She added, “I would have never thought to wear those colors together.  You’re very brave.”

Teresa smirked and added, “You’re very daring.”

Marci looked wounded as she glanced down at her outfit.

It was Patty’s turn next.  “Even after having all of those children, you’re still brave enough to tuck in your blouse.  You go girl.”

“Go, girl,” Teresa repeated and looked to Janet for approval.

Patty moved her hands in front of her stomach as she glared at Teresa and asked Janet what the hell her problem was.

 She avoided answering Patty’s question and turned her back on us.  For a moment, we were hopeful that Janet had realized how nasty she was being and would apologize.  Patty, Marci, Joan and I glanced at each other and smiled.  While looking in the mirror that hung over the fireplace, Janet glanced at the reflection of Joan.  “I wish I could be like you,” she said and turned to face her.  “I have this problem.  Unlike you Joan I am continually changing my hairstyle to fit the trends.  You have managed to stick with that same hairstyle for what … fifteen years?”

Joan was speechless.

Always the hostess, I remembered that it is impolite to offend a guest in my home, so instead of telling Janet to shut up, I suggested that we sit down, relax and have some cheese.

Janet turned toward me. “So, you’re still single. It must be nice to have the luxury of being selfish.  I mean, is it that you never wanted to get married or that you never had the opportunity?”

Bitch! I though.  I changed the subject, “Who wants more wine?” 

Marci waved her hand and said shyly, “My husband doesn’t like for me to drink.”

Janet looked at Marci in disbelief.   “Is he here?” she said sarcastically. Laughter erupted from the other wives.  Marci looked down, embarrassed.

Turning her attention back to me, Janet said, “Did you ever think that you would get to be this old and still be single?  What do they call someone like you?”  She paused, “a spinster?”

“Frankly, I have a great life and to answer your question, no, I don’t think about it.”

“Pity,” she sighed and looked out of the corner of her eye at Teresa.

Pity?  What the hell is that supposed to mean?  I wanted to lunge across the coffee table and smack her so hard that she would resemble a Picasso painting, but, I remembered one of the rules of entertaining: It is poor form to pummel a guest in your home.

Instead, I took at deep breath and looked at my watch, “I suppose we should get going to the reunion.”  We all gathered our purses and stepped out onto the porch.  It had started to rain.

“You go ahead,” Janet said as she pointed across the street.  “I’ll take Teresa in my new Jaguar.”

“Fine,” I said and the rest of us got into my car.

As I pulled my car out of the driveway, I noticed that Janet was fiddling with the door handle of her car.  She had locked her keys inside.  Janet and Teresa turned and tried to get my attention by waving at me.

I looked at Janet who was holding her handbag over her head to keep the rain from ruining her trendy hair-do. “Pity,” I said and drove away.

Cocktail Party - from Grumblings of a Chronically Single Woman by Randi M Sherman, Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available 2012

Cocktail Party 

When I arrived at my friend’s holiday cocktail party, I looked around the room and realized that other than the hostess, Margaret, there was not a recognizable face in the crowd.  I glanced around to take stock of fashion sense in the room and then at the mirror to check my outfit.  I realized that once again, I had made the incorrect outfit selection.  It doesn’t matter how much planning I do, I have an inexplicable talent of choosing the most inappropriate apparel for any occasion.

If I were asked to select a word that best describes my appearance, I would say pleasant. Although, my looks do not stimulate one’s gag reflexes, I have not been presented any awards for my outstanding beauty and poise.  It is inevitable, there is always at least one woman at each party who has the ability to turn the heads of all of the men and generate instant jealousy from all of the women in the room.  She is tall and proud and magnetic.  She smolders.  I would describe myself as the semi-attractive woman who is standing just behind her…holding the coats.

So there I stood, in the foyer.  I had a choice to make. I could muster up some faux-party-confidence and begin to mingle.  I could attempt to blend in with the décor, sip a drink and hope that a party guest would happen by and engage me in a conversation.  I could plant myself near the buffet table and force people to speak with me, or at least say “excuse me,” if they want to get close to the food.  Or I could attach myself to Margaret, the hostess, who is, required by the law-of-hosting and etiquette to talk to me, or introduce me into another conversation.

While making my decision, a severe looking woman dressed in all black and who looked like she just stepped away from the Chanel make-up counter at Macy’s, walked up to me and introduced herself as Victoria, “Don’t call me Vicky,” she commanded.  “My name is Victoria.” 

Whatever you say, Vicky, I thought. 

Victoria was obviously killing time with me until someone more stylish was free for conversation.  Victoria sipped her martini and lied to me.  Yes, lied.  I could tell.  If I had had a calculator with me and had added up all of things that she said she had accomplished, Victoria would have to be about one hundred and seventy years old.  Obviously, Victoria was not privy to the two basic rules of lying to someone at a cocktail party. First, if you choose to lie, make sure there is a recovery, if challenged.  “Really, Victoria, tell me more about water skiing on the Dead Sea.  I thought it was a sacred place and that speedboats were not allowed there. Who did you get a permit from?”  Second, lie to the party-drunk or to someone who is not really listening, and most likely, will not remember anything about the conversation.

When Victoria walked away from me, I joined a small group of people who were politely listening to a man named Neil as he droned on about his “fabulous” career, his incredible office, his importance, and his plans for advancement “in the firm.”  No one in the circle seemed interested in what he was saying, but they didn’t want to appear rude and walk away.  So we all stood there, helplessly and listened. He was so boring that he should have been forced to wear a warning label.  Caution: Use of his man may cause drowsiness.

My eyes began to water when I strained to keep my mouth closed while stifling a yawn.  I was tempted to grab Neil by the shoulders, shake him and holler, “No one in this room finds anything at all fascinating about you or your work.  Unless you could promise someone a high paying position, that requires minimal work and travel to exotic destinations along with an unlimited expense account, we don’t want to hear about it!  Get a hobby!”  But instead, I stood quietly, with the rest of the group, until he finished his verbal resume.

A few minutes later, Margaret motioned me over and asked me if I was enjoying myself.

I started to lie, “Oh yes … ”

She interrupted, “I want you to meet someone.  Come with me.” She motioned with her finger for me to follow her.

She then introduced me to a man named Michael.  He was also alone. He was handsome, intelligent and interesting … and spoken for.  About ten minutes into our conversation he announced, “I have a girlfriend who is out-of-state.  But you and I could get together for coffee, or something.”  Then he added, “Fortunately, I don’t find you attractive so I don’t have to worry about getting myself into trouble.”

What?  Fortunately, he doesn’t find me attractive … Was that supposed to be a compliment?  Gee, I thought.  A girl can’t hear that too many times.

When I went outside for a breath of fresh air, I met Phil.  He seemed like a “regular guy.”   We spoke for a few moments.  He asked me if I was dating anyone.  I told him that I wasn’t and asked about his situation.  He told me that he was single.

He started, “My last girlfriend was a model … ”  

I stopped him right there.  I had to know.  “Tell me, Phil,” I asked, “Why is it that every man I meet used to date a model?  How many models could be out there?”  I could never understand why a man would tell a woman about how beautiful his past girlfriends were. Although men may find this information to be fascinating and impressive, women can live a lifetime without hearing it.

I wandered into the kitchen to catch my breath and plan my escape. I looked at my watch.  Damn, it was too early to leave.  The caterers looked at me with a knowing-look that said, “Sit down, and have a cup of coffee.”

            As I sat there in the kitchen, a few other party-goers drifted in.  Some of the sat down.  Others leaned against the counters, had some coffee, and picked at the desert trays.  Before I knew it, the entire party had moved into the kitchen area. 

Over all, it had been a lovely party.  The food was delicious and guest were very nice but I was ready to leave.

Michael waved over the crowd toward Margaret and announced, “Well, I have to be on my way.  I have to catch a plane in the morning.” 

That was my opportunity,  “Michael, would you mind walking me to my car?”  My question was two-fold.  It not only gave Margaret the illusion that Michael and I had hit-it-off, it also was my chance to cut out of the party.

            Margaret smiled, “Thanks for coming.”  As she hugged my good-bye, she whispered, “Call me tomorrow.  I want to hear everything.”

“Oh, Margaret,” I said and winked,  “nothing is going to happen.  If anything, we’ll probably just go for a cup of coffee.” 

Pre Sex Mental Checklist from Grumblings... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risck, Available March 2012

Pre-Sex Mental Checklist 

There are occasions when we just don’t know what the end of an evening is going to bring.  Dinner, then a movie, perhaps we holding hands as we walk down the main boulevard and window shop, or a glass of port wine or a cup of coffee in front of the fireplace and a goodnight kiss.  Perhaps the kiss will turn into a make-out session. The next thing you know, buttons are being unbuttoned, zippers are being unzipped, and hooks are no longer connected to eyes.  What happens next? I consider. But, I’m not prepared!  

Sex is great.  Spontaneity is great.  The combination of the two is exciting.  The problem with the “unplanned” is that there isn’t an opportunity to make the appropriate arrangements that are necessary to ensure ease of mind.  So, in a split second, almost subconsciously, I run through our pre-sex mental checklist to determine and hopefully eliminate any stumbling blocks that could effect the outcome of the impending sexual experience.

The Pre-Sex Mental Checklist can be divided into four categories: the essential checklist, body related issues, clothing related concerns, and emotional issues.

The Essential Pre-Sex Mental checklist

·         Who is supplying the birth control?  Is there enough?

·         When was my last menstrual period?

·         Did I shave my legs?

·         Do I have intestinal gas?

·         Do I know his name?  If not, will “Oh, baby” suffice?

Body Related Issues

·         Do my breasts disappear into my armpits when I lie on my back?

·         Do I have any tattoos, piercings, bruises or scars that will require explanation or result in disgust, laughter or pity?

·         When was my last bikini waxing appointment?

·         Are my toenails painted? Or are there just remnants of a pedicure that was done three weeks ago?

·         Do I have any band-aids on my body?

·         Do I have any embarrassing acne or break-outs?

·         Do my joints crackle?

·         Is my nose clean?

·         Is there anything in my teeth?

·         How’s my breath?

·         Do I get severe bed head?

Clothing Related Concerns

·         Do I have too much make-up on?  Will it rub off and ruin the pillowcase? 

·         Will he be frightened when he doesn’t recognize me in the morning?

·         Am I wearing sexy underwear?

·         Am I wearing that underwear?

·         Is my bra worn out, baggy or have wires that may cause injury?

·         Are my shoulder pads being held on by my bra-straps?

·         Am I wearing any clothing that is difficult to remove? (i.e.: pantyhose, tummy control garment)

·         Am I wearing any garments that have tight elastic that, when removed, will leave a red ring around my waist or under my breasts?

·         Am I wearing knee-hi stockings?

·         Am I wearing any jewelry that will cause scratching or choking?

 Emotional Issues

·         Will I stress out over my clothes wrinkling on the floor overnight?

·         Should I keep my jewelry on or is this an all-nighter?

·         Do either of us consider this to be a one night stand?

·         Do I want to see this man ever again?

·         If we are at my house, how do I get him to leave before morning?

·         Am I expecting any phone calls from other men, a member of the clergy, or my mother?

·         If I’m at his house, what excuse will I use to leave before daybreak?

·         What will I say if the sex is mediocre-to-bad?

Purse PAtrol from Grumblings.... by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Purse Patrol 

There is no discussion about who will do it.  It’s an unwritten, unspoken rule. It’s a fact.  The one person who is considered the homeliest or most antisocial one of the group is designated to watch her friends’ purses while they enjoy themselves.  Because she has been assigned to purse-patrol, the purse monitor is relegated to the table, disallowed from going to the ladies room and unavailable to accept invitations to dance.  Her main objective for the evening is to loyally stand guard over her friends’ belongings while they socialize and have a good time.  Purse patrol is the grown-up equivalent to being invited to teenage function because her mom will drive.

When my friends and I arrived at the club, we found a vacant table and sat down.  Then the inevitable happened, I heard the phrase, “Will you watch my purse for me?”  Before I could answer, clutches, backpacks and evening bags were all piled up on the table in front of me.  Oh my God!  I had been caught completely by surprise.  I had been appointed as the purse-monitor for the evening.  I quickly whipped out a hand mirror and began an assessment to determine what had gone wrong.  Was it my hair?  Was it my choice of clothing?  Had I been too quiet in the car on way to the club?  Did my friends perceive my silence as a bad mood?  Whatever the case, there was nothing that could be done now.  Unceremoniously, I had been assigned to purse-duty.

As I sat there, I called upon my improvisational skills and tried to act as if my obvious solitude didn’t bother me.  I attempted to appear as if I enjoyed watching all of the socializing that was going on around me.  With faux confidence, I attempted to look enormously interested in some activity going on near the bar.  I tapped my toes to the music, snapped my fingers, and even attempted some chair dancing.  I mindlessly sipped at the drink that quickly became melted ice and eventually an empty glass.  I cringed when I realized that the people who passed by gave me the pity-filled “once-over.”  Suddenly, I became self-conscious. What were they thinking?  I could hear their thoughts.

“Look at that poor soul, sitting there all alone.  What a loser.”  Only the former purse-monitors knew my pain.  

Along with purse-duty, I also had the responsibility of guarding the chairs around the table.  Many attempts were made by other clubbers to commandeer the empty chairs. “No, someone is using that chair,” I snapped.  “My friends will be back in a minute.”  Finally, after I realized that I was behaving like a rabid Rotweiller, I conceded to a couple. “You can use them until my friends come back.” 

The woman gave me a “Yea, sure” and chuckled as she and her new friend proceeded to sit down.  It didn’t take long for them to forget that I was there.  They began to perform hands-free tonsillectomies on one another.  I sat there, the purse-lieutenant, and attempted to ignore the foreplay that is happening just two feet away. 

After about an hour, a man approached the table.  He introduced himself as Jim and asked me if I would like to dance with him.  I wanted to, but I simply could not.  I was on purse-patrol.  Abandoning my post would have been met by the social equivalent to a court martial.  Jim was forced to make the decision to either, accept the apologetic “no” and walk away or sit down to converse with me.  With a look of defeat on his face, Jim looked around the room, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Oh, what the hell…” and sat down.

I was having trouble focusing on our conversation because I was trying to catch the eye of one of my friends.  I tried waving my hand at her.  I tried staring at her.  Finally, I attempted to telepathically connect with one of them.  I hoped that she would feel compelled to relieve me of my post.  No luck.  Once Jim realized that I was not going to be excused from purse-duty, he excused himself and left.

I felt defeated.   I decided that I now hated the people who assigned me to purse-duty.  And, as soon as I had the opportunity, I would give them a piece of my mind.  Suddenly, one of my friends, Karen, approached the table.  I perked up.  I smiled wide, hoping that her feet were tired from two hours of dancing.  But, the purpose of her visit was only to reapply her lipstick.  Then she announced that she was going outside to grab a breath of fresh air and that she would be back in a minute.  Yeah, sure.  Every so often, my other friends glanced over and waved at me from the dance floor.

All hope of having a conversation with anyone other than with the busboy was gone.  The “lovers” who were borrowing the chairs, had by now moved onto the button fiddling, caressing and moaning portion of their evening.  They were now practically sitting on top of one another and had freed up a chair.

I sat there and casually looked around the room.  I wasn’t really focusing on anything but it was something to do.  I rocked back in the chair a few times. I checked my watch.   During the next visual sweep of the room, my eyes settled on the purses that were on the table in front of me.  “Hmm,” I thought.  “I wonder what’s in there.”   I rationalized, “I have the right to know what I’ve been asked to guard with my life.”  Besides, I was bored.

I looked around the room again and quietly reached for the clutch bag.  The clutch bag belonged to a longtime friend, Karen, who was on a constant, unrelenting search and conquer husband-finding-mission.  Because the clutch was so small, I didn’t expect to find much. I was just going to take a peek.  In addition to a redder-than-red lipstick, a comb and a kissing-fresh breath spray, I unraveled the continuous roll of twelve condoms.  Wow, someone certainly is optimistic, I thought. I can understand one, possibly two, perhaps three, that is, if he’s young and sober.  But, a dozen? Whoa!  Go girl!  I tucked everything back into the clutch and replaced it on the table.

Still, there was no sign of “my friends.”  I would continue my purse inspection.  The next item of inspection would be the Barbara’s backpack.  Barbara is known to her friends as “Ever Ready,” the woman who could be ready for anything at anytime.  Spontaneity seemed contrived compared to Barbara’s “whatever” attitude. The backpack was heavy.  When I unbuckled, untied, and unsnapped the flap, I found a cell phone, make-up, a Swiss army knife, comfortable shoes, safety-pins in a variety of sizes, a scarf, pantyhose, a simple yet classic black dress, a highway flare, a travel toothbrush and a package of trail mix.  Barbara isn’t out for the evening, she’s running away from home.

 Finally, I dragged Marcia’s bag across the table by its ornate shoulder strap.  When I unhooked the clasp of the purse, an artillery of anti-man paraphernalia was uncovered. I was reminded of the Viet Nam documentaries I had seen on PBS.  I found a canister of pepper-spray, a personal alarm (push button activation) and a key chain with a self-defense baton, and a small flashlight with a whistle attached to it.  I carefully checked the side pocket for a hand-grenade (careful not to set off a trip wire).  I was expecting the Morley Shaffer and a 60 Minutes camera crew to appear and interrogate me.  “Can we ask you a few questions regarding concealed weapons?”  

I would, of course, act shocked.  Morley and a cameraman would chase me as I ran to my car.  I’d pull my jacket over my head in an attempt to hide my face.  No doubt, they would catch up with me when I arrived at my car only to find that I had locked the keys in it.  I’d be forced to cover the camera lens with my hand and recite the customary, “No comment.”

The evening had dragged on for what seemed to be an eternity.  I had had enough time to evaluate every person in the club, what they did for a living, how much money they made.  I also figured out which men lived with their parents, who was cheating on a spouse and who was out just for sex.  By the time my friends were ready to leave, I had worked myself into a major tizzy because I had been ignored for several hours.  I was furious. 

Karen, Marcia and Barbara were giddy.  They were waving around business cards and crumpled paper napkins that had telephone numbers written on them.  They hardly noticed that I was seething. 

During the car ride home, Barbara looked at me and said, “Wasn’t that fun? Did you meet anyone?” 

Even though I had mentally prepared an oration about the responsibilities of friendship that would, no doubt, leave my friends reevaluating their behavior and begging for forgiveness, I kept it to myself.  I realized that I was just irritable because I was forced to take my turn at purse duty.

“I met Ivan, the busboy,” I said, “but he works nights and weekends.  It just wouldn’t work out.  So, we decided to just be friends.”