Imagine someone taking a globule of amber colored wax, inserting it fully into your nostril, talking to you pleasantly as she slowly allows it to harden and set into the shape of your nostril, and then yanking it out. It feels like she is pulling a part of you out of your nose. The individual ripping of hairs isn’t even a thing — it’s all about the sensation of a large glob of hardened matter being forcibly removed from your tiny little nostrils, as if they are giving birth to their own hair. Anyway, it’s probably not good for me. (My editor, on hearing of this venture said scornfully “Don’t you need those hairs?”). But, unfortunately, I suffer from Old Man Nose Hair Syndrome. I also enjoy the feeling of not plucking nose hairs and not being afraid that I missed some. Really, having my nostrils waxed is something I might continue to do.
When I walked up and saw a group of three guys, one in a ball cap that read Bass Pro, I have to admit I got annoyed. “Those aren’t even in fashion anymore,” I said to myself, thinking they were hipsters. Instead, I proceeded to overhear the most awesome conversation about these dudes fishing in a pond by PF Changs. They were roofers. I enjoyed standing behind them in line very much. I then proceeded to what I had thought was my front row balcony seat and thought to myself “Why is there a balcony in front of my balcony?” Oh well, the show was still great. Willie rocked the house with professional verve. I enjoyed every minute of it and decided that seeing a show with reserved seats is the way to go when you’re going by yourself. If you’re a single gal who is not interested in picking up dudes at bars, it’s the shit. Instead of standing around awkwardly staring at your phone while you wait for the show to start, you can sit comfortably staring at your phone while you wait for the show to start. And it’s also easier to overhear people talking, which is one of my favorite pastimes.
Okay, one of my best friends. Calm down, people, you’re my best friends, too! All of you. The good thing about Beth’s marriage, as opposed to the one in the movie My Best Friend’s Wedding is that I didn’t suddenly feel like I wanted to marry her after I found out she was engaged. Largely because we basically were married during the 90s. True, she was “technically” married to someone else at the time, and we never had sex, but we did everything else together. It was kind of weird. But, good! Twentysomethings love each other so much. And everything is SO IMPORTANT. But, all that aside, this wedding was fantastic. I got to hang out with Beth’s sweet-ass family and see her pugs walk down the aisle right before she did. And best of all, I got to see Beth and Jonathan be happy together. I love a man who makes Beth happy.
Yes, this really happened to me and yes, it was a human person. Well, I mean, I didn’t see him or her do this, but dogs don’t usually hide behind garbage cans to take a shit underneath my window. Nor do they leave torn, largely unexamined grey shirts behind them at the scene of the crime. Receiving this kind of attention from an unknown person can make someone feel really … nauseous? threatened? vulnerable? angry? imaginative? Yes, all of those things, but mostly nauseated. I still feel sick if I think about it too much. Almost like it gave me the flu or the guy or gal crawled inside of me and left a little egg of permanent stomach disturbance behind. Anything upsetting, from now until the day I die, will carry with it just a little bit of this feeling that a human person came up and shit right there, right on that spot. I got Lady MacBethed, didn’t I?