Somehow I got on the mailing list for REI. I’m not sure how someone who can’t sleep without a noise machine and who shrieks when her husband ups the thermostat to a balmy 78 degrees would enjoy actually roughing it. But I’m positively captivated by the catalog. It’s colorful and glossy and I want to own each and every camping stove and chair (there are two-footed chairs, chairs that act as loveseats, and chairs with supercharged color names like “electric blue” – how can I resist?). I gaze admirably at the taunt models sporting Patagonia tees and shorts and trick myself into thinking I could be them if I would only order that fleece, and oh, maybe the Teva sandals. (Forget the working out part.)
It’s perplexing to think that people actually enjoy camping. It’s like saying I enjoy getting 28 mosquito bites and sleeping on the rocky ground in dewy tents. I don’t like any of those things. I like crisp hotel sheets and miniature shampoo bottles. I like hot water and well, not having to purify my water.
My fertility office calls sex “relations”. I am aghast at this – why do they need to create a euphemism for something so integral to their practice? (And their and our very existence!) When they say, “You should have relations with your partner on Friday night,” I want to say, “Do you mean hot, dirty sex with my hairy man?!?!” (Note: Trying to create a baby is neither very hot nor dirty. It’s perfunctory. But the hairy man part is true.)
My company had a hiring explosion and now there are many more women sitting on my floor: good for business but bad for the bathroom. Now I have to teach a whole new crop of women the art of the poop-off. And now a whole new crop of women will realize I’m “the girl whose always in the bathroom”. At least I’m not solely “the tall girl” anymore.