Whoa, seriously, where in the hell have I been?
Mostly just working. Socializing, auditioning, getting my feet back on the ground after the assquake that was 2010, but mostly just working.
There was some grand mistake made when I was born into the working class. I was meant for far greater things. Things like, doing nothing. I need more nothing in my life. I crave some good old-fashioned wall staring. But until I can actualize my destiny, I will have to cope with being a werkin jerk, with intermittent moments of the ridiculi.
Since we were together last, I’ve had several moments of ridiculi (naturally), but two moments stick out and can be additionally filed into the sub-category of mortification.
Moment Numero Uno:
Lemme preface this story with a simple fact: I’m terrified of filing my tires with air. It’s one of those reasonless fears like some people have towards creepy crawlies. Deep, deep down inside my bone marrow I’m convinced the tire’s going to explode in my face.
I usually “just so happen to notice” that I need air when any unexpecting male is in my car. I kidnap them to the gas station so they’re obliged to perform the terrifying task. I do believe it’s the one time that I completely and utterly pull the chick card.
But for an entire week, the “low tire” light on my dash had been on. I was working a bazillionty hours and couldn’t find the time to perform the kidnapping of a penis. After a week of that light mocking me, I decided that I needed to grow the fuck up, become an independent woman for chrissakes, and put air in my tires.
After giving myself 476 pep talks, I drove to the gas station and eyed my formidable opponent: the air machine. Gulp. Diarrhea. Vomit.
I unscrewed all the caps, slid my four quarters in (btw, four quarters for AIR?! Goddamn crazy is what that is) and took a deep breath. And then. Pressed. Go!
Air shot out of the hose like a machine gun. I ran around like a maniac, shooting air into each tire with my eyes closed. I don’t know how to read the gauge of how low each tire is (yeah, yeah, I know) so I just put air in every tire till the hose turned off. When it did turn off, I stood up, sweating, huffing and puffing, a little light headed, and reeking of pride. I puffed up my chest, having just slayed the dragon for all to see and noticed that I had some admirers of the male variety.
Two mensies in particular were staring at me, with gaping mouths and wide eyes. This is when I fully realized just how cool I was. Yeah, that’s right, boys, I just filled my tires with only the help of my vagina. I’m pretty goddamn awesome. I’m an independent, fearless woman who can do anything. I gave a cocky toss of my hair and sauntered over to screw on the first tire cap thingamajig.
But upon looking down, I saw that my entire left boob was exposed. MY ENTIRE BOOB. Not just a nipple, oh no, the full handful of boobtown, swinging out of my v-neck shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra, cuz let’s face it, they’re more show than anything for me, and apparently in my intense concentration and fear swallowing, I didn’t notice that my BOOB was exposed for all to see.
I looked something like this:
Oh sweet Jesus.
I cupped the sucker and shoved it back into my shirt. I swung open the door and Greg Louganis’d into my car, bonking my head on the steering wheel. Oh god oh god oh god ohgodohgod!!!
I started my engine and trying to act as normal as possible, screeched my way out of that gas station, mensies still staring. I couldn’t stop laughing. I mean, who shows off their boob at a gas station? Me. Apparently I do. But even the public nudity didn’t ruin my feelings of pride for tackling my fear and putting air in my tires.
Until I looked at my dashboard and saw that damn “low tire” light still on. God fucking damnit. Maybe I’ll just stick with being a werkin jerk.
Mortification Moment Numero Dos to come…