Of Predictable Reactions and Product Placement

I was alone in the house all day yesterday, giving me plenty of time to go ripshit. I angst crazily over the mouse and the corsage for several hours, until I start thinking of-no, no, shut the fuck up, it's got to get better than this. I give myself a stern lecture about the children of Africa and decide on the perfect punishment. I will force myself to listen to a song that a friend planted on my MP3 player shortly after the break-up. My friend is secretly a cold hearted bitch. Said song is Keep Holding On by Avril Lavigne. I force my fingers to hit play. I regret it instantly. This is a song with obvious, predictable lyrics, a song so painfully earnest that Avril Lavigne should wear a bag over her head whenever she sings it. (Sick bags should be provided for any audience as well.) One minute in, I throw the MP3 player to the ground. Someone needs to clip Avril around the head and tell her to stop singing in that ridiculous Australian accent. Instead, I decide to go down to the lake. That seems inherently more likely to cheer me up. I throw on my equivalent of sweatpants; an old purple velour dress I've had since second grade with fading butterflies and a ratty hem. The geese are unusually tranquil, probably resting up for the big trip south. In the early twilight, the lake looks like a watercolor painting, and the birds that a visiting science nerd once identified as the red-wing blackbird chirp softly. This is much better. As I make my way to the woods, I spot a motorboat bobbing at the shoreline, right next to a sign stating that boats are not to be left there. The time-space continuum opens its jaws and sucks me in:


The long-haired Irish boy and I are still together, and we're walking to go get dinner. We're heading for a square little hole in the wall next to a gas station, with the unimaginative name of City Pizza and Pasta. We, being teenagers, refer to it as Shitty Pizza and Pasta. The name fits, but we're too damn lazy to go anyplace else. As if to make up for the fact that we'll soon have booth seat springs lodged in our anuses, we decide to go around the lake, taking the dirt path through the woods because it's all romantical and stuff. As we head into the woods, I see a canoe tied to a young sapling. The baby tree is straining under the weight of the boat. Tut tut, I say, pointing at the "don't leave your boats here" sign. His eyes begin to glint. He rushes down the shore and unties the knot. The sapling springs back in relief. He jumps in the canoe, making it rock crazily from side to side. I stand on the shore rooted to the spot. "Get in," he chides me. I break into a little smile and step in gingerly. The long-haired Irish boy hefts the oar up from the bottom of the boat and dips it in. He rows slowly enough for me to take in the sunset. Little chunks of ice fracture as the oar hits them. In the center of the lake, the big red ball of sun quivers and the water is black. We hit an underwater rock and the canoe tips a bit. I let myself fall with it, my head "accidentally" flopping into the long-haired Irish boy's lap. With his free hand, he strokes the top of my head absently. A kindly breeze makes gentle waves across the lake. Our whole bodies move with the water, a song for which we've forgotten the lyrics, his hips are poetry in motion and all the universe is just me and him, rocking gently back and forth...until we reach the other side abruptly enough that my forehead bangs into his pelvis. No matter. He helps me out, ever the gallant. He pulls the rope out of the water and ties it to a stronger tree. "What a generous bloke," the long-haired Irish boy remarks, "more than deserving of a little lesson. Free of charge." We walk the rest of the way. The "canolies" on the menu taste unusually good tonight.



I shake my head at myself. That's over now, I think, and what a dillwad he turned out to be. The stupid teenager part of me wants to recapture the magic. I indulge her, and climb into the motorboat. I sit cross-legged on the floor as the little waves rock the boat gently. There's room for one more person. The empty space feels horribly empty, fleetingly warm, like the other side of a war widow's double bed. No one is there to ride the waves of my life with me, and I've resorted to using the shittiest metaphor out there. This is all too much. I stick one leg over, then the other, and fling myself over the side of the boat...and the water barely covers my toes. I've forgotten that I'm tied up at the shore. I laugh hysterically. Now, if you've read any other post besides this one, you know two thing about me: One, I react to vaguely upsetting situations in a random and batshit crazy manner. Two, my impulse control sucks the big one. I wade out a little farther until the water is waist deep. I reach around under my dress, pull off my underwear, unhook my bra, (been meaning to get rid of the damn thing anyway) and fling them as far away as I can. I let out a war whoop and half -dog paddle, half-breaststroke (despite the fact that right under the no boat sign is a no swimming sign) out to the middle of the lake, until the water is so cold my lungs shrink inside my chest. Laughing and gasping, I haul myself ashore. My dress clings to me like a second skin and there's some mysterious pond weed tangled in my hair. I feel free from some kind of trap. I fantasize briefly as I hold my sandals by their straps and run barefoot along the sidewalks. Don't just quit, I think, quit big. I could go and live in the woods, hide in a tree stump, spend my days running around urinating through my knee-length beard. I'll invent my own language that doesn't include names. I'll find the dictionary in my bones. Now go kill some animals. I screech to a halt, back to reality. I wonder just how many laws/local ordinances I've broken in the past half hour. I turn into the 7-11. Clearly, my head isn't screwed on right. It's time for a visit to the family physician. Dr. Pepper. I'm one quarter short. I make a move to return the bottle to the refrigerator, but the guy behind the counter tells me to just take it and go. I have a theory as to why. The explanations I consider giving to people in the food service industry are getting more bizarre by the day. Walking in my front door, I realize something else. I've just been swimming in fifty degree water. I've already had pneumonia four times this year. There will be hell to pay later. I decide not to think about this. I hold the ice cold bottle to my forehead. This is all that is important in life. Freedom...going commando...and Dr. Pepper. I twist off the green cap. "Cheers," I say to no one in particular. Dr. Pepper breaks its Hippocratic oath as it coats my aching throat.




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