The Universe: I don’t think you should drink today.
ME: But I’ve had a pretty rough week…I got cursed out at work in Portuguese, the side effects from The Implant has been 2 straight weeks of gifts from Mother Nature, AND I’m a little peeved at McCain’s veiled attempt at securing the female vote with this Sarah Palin nonsense. I am looking forward to meeting up with My Singles for some cocktails.
The Universe: If you insist. I will turn off your alarm clock so you’ll be late for work.
ME: Oh, really? Then I’ll just take my curling iron, toiletries, and drinky clothes with me and change after I work out at lunch.
The Universe: Think so? What if several students come by your office, forcing your boss to change the time she goes to lunch; ultimately making you miss your 12pm Step & Sculpt class, thus eliminating your opportunity to shower and change?
ME: Then I’ll use my lunch hour to go to the post office, mail some letters, and shower after work. Boo-yah!
The Universe: Oh, yeah? I’ll make sure you forget your change of clothes and your post-shower towel in your car.
ME: Psst! I’ll use my shirt to dry off with, my workout clothes to walk to the car, and then change in my car.
The Universe: Let’s say, hypothetically, that the last student of the day keeps you in your office late and you, hypothetically, won’t have time to do your hair OR get cash from the ATM.
ME: Easy! I’ll plug the curling iron in and see how far I get on my hair. If not, I’ll put it in a ponytail.
The Universe: Hmph! Then I’ll make sure you don’t have time, are forced to carry the curling iron and all your bags to the ATM. When you get to the ATM, you’ll forget the curling iron is hot and put it between your legs, burning yourself.
ME: HA! I’m wearing yoga pants so I won’t get burned!
The Universe: You will if the friction from your sizable thighs put a hole in the pants.
ME: You wouldn’t!
The Universe: Wouldn’t I? AND I’ll make sure the magnetic strip on your ATM card is messed up by your cell phone, so you can’t get cash.
ME: No worries, most places take debit cards.
The Universe: Hur-reeeeaaa-llleeee? Then I will siphon gas from your car so you can’t drive to the bar.
ME: I know my car, bitch! That light means I have 20 more miles. More than enough to get me there and home.
The Universe: Alrighty! (furiously rubs hands together) THEN! I will make sure the bar you meet everyone at cannot be found with your GPS. You will walk past it about 20 times, with sweat beading down your back from the 93% humidity, before a homeless man offers to walk you down an alley to the entrance. And you’ll have to wade through some unidentified wet substance in your new patent leather, open-toed shoes to get there. THEN when you find the door, he will call you a rich bitch for not tipping him. AND THEN, you will need to climb, not one, not two, but THREE flights of stairs to get to the rooftop bar with industrial size fans that only push heated air into your face. When you think you’ve had enough, the bartender will confuse you with the only other black woman in the bar and start making a $3 drink you don’t like. When you gently correct him, he will take 15 minutes to make you $12 mojito that tastes like ass in a glass. While you are waiting for his craptastic concoction, you will be hit on my a slimy, little, tattooed man who claims to be opening a restaurant with Carlos Santana. You’ll be nice because, at the very least, you can get a hook up on a pair of shoes from Santana’s new shoe line. You begin to discuss tattoos and show him yours. As you return to meet your singles, one will make a snide remark about you “taking off your clothes” for a stranger. And you’ll be pissed.
ME: But my ATM card will work?
The Universe:…Well…yes, I guess.
ME: Then I’ll take it to a new bar and have better drinks in air conditioning.
The Universe: Not if the new bar has a live salsa band made up of retired school bus drivers, only has seats available in the front row, and a portly sax player who eyes your goodies as if they were bouncing chocolate cupcakes. Even though you stuff bits of toilet paper in your ears, a migraine will start keeping time to the music behind your eyeballs.
ME: You win.
The Universe: I always do.
