Theme: The personal rituals shared between lady friends.
Written by Kat
Monday. Writing day. But first, a call to Edinburgh. There is the usual Skype confusion before the line settles and we segue into the events of the prior week, a vast improvement from the days when emails were exchanged between Bishkek and DC. She patiently juggles the teething baby while I feel the deliciously potent coffee siphon through my veins, and gamely over-share my stream of consciousness. It’s the Seinfeld of catch-ups. Once we disconnect, I’m nostalgic for the live version.
The gym will refocus my energy, I say to the computer. The following internal conversation cascades in rapid succession as I wrangle my left boob into a new sports bra. What are you underwearing? Oh, me? I’m totally underwearing this bra that makes me look like a badass athletic superhero. Just like Emily Blunt in that scene where she tries her damnedest to sweat out her sexual aura by kicking Tom Cruise’s ass, but is constantly foiled by the impossibility of this task because she just can’t shake her awesome. I prod various body bits. This isn’t really an activity based in insecurity, rather than a poorly crafted bit of procrastination – strategic self-assessment as a precursor to proper exercise.
I should check in with East Coast before I show the elliptical what’s up (me dance-running to 80s jams is what). She’s got monster twins renovating her uterus.
Me: How dem babies?
EC: Big and brewing. Like beer in Germany.
Me: Thought I would send a personalized greeting. “Dear __, Congrats on your [special moment]. We are so happy/ send our condolences/ miss you/ hope for the best. Love, [the signers of this message].
EC: Ha! I can feel the true love from here.
Me: I vajazzled the real love. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise but… it’s in the mail.
EC: And now I just snorted in public.
Another morning in the win column.
Still in full running gear, I nestle into the sofa. It’s green and velvety and about three feet deep. I remind myself to have a snack so I don’t pull any muscles or die of h/anger. Of course, when I am done I’ll be totally ready to stare at my screen like a proper writer. Oh wait. The gym. Focus, focus.
Another text, this time to Virginia, while I digest. I turn on Netflix for background noise.
Me: Some chica told me I look like Amy Schumer so now I’m totally addicted to her show. Come over. Let’s grab a coffee and eat a box of donuts. Xoxo
VA: Really? I don’t think so… you are prettier. [Kissy face emoticon]. But I’ll take the coffee and donuts for sure.
Me: Yay! I love being prettier.
Vanity satiated. It’s not a contest until someone tells you that you’re winning. Virginia has always been my enabler.
I watch Amy on TV dream of puppies, dressed as a princess, listening to the score from Rent and realize I am her trope.
I should be writing these awesome sketches; instead, I embrace my role as modest superhuman sitting on the sofa taking notes. Settle in Kat, this totally counts as research. Amy is teaching a master class and you’re in the front row.
She talks a lot about sex. My curiosity peaks, so I dispatch the following email to my resident sexpert and fashionista, New York:
Subject: Butt plug
Have you ever used one? Thoughts?
I also thought of asking your opinion on jean jackets, but those two shopping items in the same email seemed too… eclectic.
Let’s get margaritas and talk nonsense.
Subject: Re: Butt plug
Haha, yup there’s one in my bed side table.
A jean jacket is the ultimate summer staple. What else are you going to wear over your sundresses and white jeans when there is a breeze? It’s a must.
Subject: Re: Re: Butt plug
Thanks dude! I would hire you to be my boss bitch. Love your face. xx
Sadly, no one teleports into town to cash in on donuts, coffee, or margaritas. But it is quickly approaching local wine o’clock/ dinnertime for Toronto. I pause my writing research and turn my attention back to Skype. Her news never ceases to make me cackle like a Disney witch. This time I hear about her latest team-building workshop on storytelling, with a plumber-by-day, facilitator-for-hire dressed as a pirate. He has a fake parrot. I try to mentally clock these details for my next blog post, but am inebriated with giggles.
Running and writing become foregone conclusions lost to an optimistic morning, bested by laziness. I lean into the fuzzy comfort of my sofa and SF fades into dusk.
I am so lucky to have all this distance within reach, but it’s only ever good enough.
After the wine, I’m feeling sentimental. I WhatsApp one more message, to Asia, before sleep. She seems to tolerate my maudlin gestures.
You know, sometimes… you miss the people that make you feel like home no matter where you are. I’m just having one of those moments.