Observations

The Common White Girl’s Thoughts On Driving

When I get in my car, it is for a reason.

I have places to be.  Meetings to make.  People to see.  Errands to run.  Songs to sing at the top of my lungs to relieve my stress.

I have important tasks that need attending, and everyone else on the road should know this.

There is a code of excellence I expect my fellow road companions to adhere to, and frankly, I just don’t know if everyone knows what they are.

I am a common white girl, and I am the most important person on the road.

When I get into my Volkswagen Jetta, I immediately plug in my ipod, put on my favorite Early 2000’s Pop Hits station, and make sure I have the proper song vibes to truly coast to my destination in nostalgic style.

While waiting at a traffic light, if it happens to turn green before I notice, please refrain from honking. I am most likely drafting an extremely urgent text message containing vital information like: what kind of sushi rolls are my favorite, if I prefer red or white wine, how I’m doing on my summer diet.

Or I am impatiently staring into the distance after regrettedly rereading the eighty messages I sent to my boyfriend that he still hasn’t respond to yet.

While en route, I may forget to put on a blinker or two when I’m switching lanes. Please allow extra room for this. I will unknowingly enter your lane and claim it as my own, and get extremely upset and flustered if you so much as give me an angry glance.

I am fragile, and so is this car my father bought for me.

If it looks like I am not paying attention to the drivers on either side of my vehicle, it is because my sunglasses are too big and cover too much of my face.  I simply cannot be held responsible for my peripheral vision when I have dark brown bugeye lenses that are shielding my precious pupils from the sun’s harmful glares.

When I drive, I follow the mantra set forth by none other than the Goddess of Country music, Carrie Underwood.  I don’t wear seatbelts, I let Jesus take the wheel.

Sidenote: I will also dig my key into the side of anyone’s pretty, little, souped up, four wheel drive, and then promptly carve my name into the leather seats.  After, I’ll take a Louisville Slugger to both of the headlights, and slash holes in all four tires.  So don’t even think about cheating on me.

And yes, sometimes I will hit things.  It’s not my fault.  I can’t see over my steering wheel, and even if I could, I can’t be held accountable for that mailbox post taking growth hormones and sprouting overnight, or that curb that miraculously appeared out of nowhere.  I hope you understand.

Yeah.  I’ll write you a check.

Realistically, I hit something because I was stuffing my face with food that I  inevitably “forgot” I ate, so those calories don’t even count.  That’s right, food consumed in the car does not count towards any dietary caloric restrictions.  And if it doesn’t count, it never happened, just like that mailbox I hit.

Either that, or I was looking out the window and saw a gorgeous patch of grass that needed to be Instagrammed.  People must know what I am doing at all hours of the day, or else they will think I live a boring life completely devoid of fun, filters, and friends.

And we can’t have that, now can we?

So, excuse me while I completely cut you off, forget to go on green, or run over your lawn.  I am a common white girl, and I am the most important person on the road. 

 

I Got Lost In The Dating Pool

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Caution: Enter At Your Own Risk

You know, that unfathomable abyss full of unknowns, what are we’s, and should I’s?  That God awful place in life where no one really knows if you’re out to dinner because of a mutual interest or because the end result is a hopeful bang.

Yeah, welcome to the dating pool.  Put on your best swim suit, get in the water, and Marco Polo your ass over to the deep end.  You may find what you’re looking for, or you may just want to hold onto the wall for a while until you know it’s safe to start looking.

First off, you’re going to want to utilize the buddy system.  There is no substitute for an effective wingman in the dating pool .  You’ll need that guy or girl to help when you’re drowning in guilt, self-doubt, and with the all too familiar life question, “should I text him back now or in forty hours?”

Always remember to apply sunscreen, the dating pool is never in a shortage of burned bridges, scorned lovers, and hot love making; all of which need the necessary precautionary protection.

For those who are eager to jump right in to a relationship, feel free to enter at the deep end.  There are diving boards of various heights, all of which are easy identifiers for the type of relationship you’re seeking.  If you want a low maintenance, easy going relationship, try the spring board.  If you’re looking to add a lot of time, effort, and danger, you may want to jump off the high board.

Warning:  High risk does not necessarily equate a high reward at the dating pool.  He or she may just be a psycho.

All other patrons can enter at the various laddered and step intervals found throughout the vicinity.  The shallow end steps boast most of the new relationships.  These are the ones still undefined and unlabeled, the ones still just trying to figure out if this is what they want.

People in the shallow end need not worry about those that are treading water in the deep end.  While some of the swimmers look like they have it all together and their heads above water, beneath the surface may reveal a struggle and they just know how to put on a brave face.

Because in reality, they may just want to get the fuck out of the pool and onto dry land.

Those in the deep end, and maybe in the shallow end, may not be comfortable enough in their own skin, thus, they have garnered the ever so tacky floatation devices.  Ranging from large to small, these devices signify that the person they are outfitting is neither ready, nor willing to fully immerse himself in the relationship.

This person could be wearing floaties due to a failed relationship recently.  He or she could have almost drowned due to suffocation, over-exertion due to putting in too much effort, or because he or she felt they had to babysit their previous significant other and does not want to be pulled down again.

If you see someone using a kickboard or a noodle, they are drunk.  These are crutches that we use in order to make dating more fun.  You may look like a jackass, but god damnit, you’re having fun while doing it.

While in the pool area, you may encounter a bunch of people just laying out on the sides.  These are the people who are not interested in relationships.  They do not want to go into the pool.

This means your advances will be shut down, your invitations will go unanswered, and your money will be wasted on frozen treats at the snack stand with no return on your investment.

It is easy to get lost when you’re in the dating pool.  One minute you think you’re going to sit by the water and tan, the next thing you know you dove straight into the deep end with Marcos from Prague who is visiting for the summer.

I’m not going to say it won’t last, but I am saying maybe you should have taken a floatation device with you, because that shit is going to be ROUGH later on.

There are children allowed at the dating pool.  Just be advised, it is a lot of work trying to handle kids while wearing a bikini.  One wrong move and you have a rogue boob on the loose, and that never looks good on anybody.

Unfortunately, there are no lifeguards at the dating pool.  This is an enter at your own risk environment, and if you get pulled under, there’s no one to save you but yourself.

The (real) 10 Reasons I Never Had A Boyfriend

If you’re reading this hoping I’ll finally come out as a lesbian after all these years, I’m sorry for your inevitable disappointment.  I do, in fact, still like men.  A lot.

Recently, I expressed my differentiating opinions on the things everyone thinks on their first date, and I figured it was time that I responded to another article.  This one is not nearly as ridiculous, and I don’t think this girl is crazy, rather she is just not telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Thought Catalog tends to post uplifting, motivating articles about feminist pride, relationships, and confidence boosting lists.  And yes, I love it.  I’m completely guilty of going forty pages back on my lunch break, having my eyes glued to the screen wondering what the Eight Ways to Make A Failing Relationship Work While You’re Living In A Treehouse could possibly be.

But my friends, I am also a realist, a truth teller, and a lover of self-deprecating humor.

I read this article and identified with it.  I liked her reasons, but felt they lacked authenticity and anecdotal support from the late bloomer’s perspective.

So, I am here to save the day (not really), and embarrass myself beyond all belief when I tell you the real ten reasons I never had a boyfriend.

1.  I was ugly. 

I’ve talked about myself being a late bloomer many times.  I am not joking, if I could invent the teleport I would go back to 200-2009 and slap myself in the face every single day for nine years.  A girl that looks like she was just attacked by her brother’s wardrobe and willingly went to a school dance afterwards will not get a boyfriend.

Oh, but she has such a good personality!  Save it.  We all know that doesn’t have any weight in the game of puberty.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

2.  I have a resting bitch face.

Apparently, I am unapproachable because I look pissed off all the time.  I guess people tend to stay away from girls that look like they are going to murder your first born or steal your puppy if your leave it outside while you’re in line at Starbucks getting your $14 frappe venti mochacochalino.

3.  My best friend was better looking than me.

And I’m not saying this out of jealousy.  I mean, this girl was freaking beautiful.  How am I supposed to reel in a classy lad when I have a genetically impossible broad traveling with me wherever I go?  Did I mention she has a heart of gold?  Yeah, no way I could compete with that.

4.  I liked people out of my league.

I tried telling Leo DiCaps it would work between us.  But I guess when you aim that high in the relationship department, there is nothing to expect but failure, defeat, and disappointment.

5.  I don’t understand social cues.

I don’t know why you invited me to prom with you, but I can sure as hell assume that it’s not because you wanted to hook up with me.

6.  I drove a Ford Taurus.

Try picking up a dude while you’re rolling through the parking lot in this.

Exhibit C.

Exhibit B.

7.  I am a terrible looking eater.

No one wants to take out the girl that not only immediately tucks her napkin into her shirt to create a makeshift bib, but one that looks like she wanted to wear the spaghetti sauce after she was done eating despite her napkin neck protector.

8.  I’m not good at feelings.

See here.

9.  I was fat.

I had cankles when I came back from studying abroad.  Guys couldn’t tell where my boobs ended and my stomach began.

Exhibit C.

Exhibit C.

10.  Everyone thought I was a prude.

People assumed I didn’t hook up with anyone, so why should they try?  Nothing worse for a guy than putting in all this effort with a girl and getting denied multiple times after sexual advances.

Bonus:  I eventually figured all these things out and obtained me a high quality, grade A piece of man meat.  Even though my face still rests pretty bitchy, I guess figuring out social cues was a step in the right direction.  And he’s apparently really into the Ford Taurus VW Jetta.

I Gave All My Friends Breast Implants At My Thirteenth Birthday Party.

You know the saying, “patience is a virtue?”  Well, when I was thirteen there was no capacity left in me to endure my flat chested, baby body, and I decided it was time I got boobs. 

Now, before you all break out your early millenium spiral corded landlines and dial the DCF hotline to file a ten-years-too-late complaint on my mother, just know that any time you put a bunch of thirteen year old girls around things that resemble boobs, they’re all going to jump at the chance to enhance.

Case and point: At my thirteenth birthday party there were water balloons present.  We were all in bathing suits and there was not much going on up top, if you know what I mean. One thing led to another, and all of the sudden there were ten pre-teen girls resembling wet dog versions of Pamela Anderson running around my front yard.

Waterboobloons.

Waterboobloons.

I was thirteen years old, and I couldn’t wait to be sixteen.  To get my license, responsibility, and the sacred freedom from my parents to stay out later than 9pm.

When I was sixteen, I couldn’t wait to be eighteen.  To be legal and able to buy cigarettes and porn, and pretend I knew about politics.  (Aside: I did not buy porn, I wouldn’t even know where to begin in the purchasing process, but the thought seemed scandalous) 

When I was eighteen I couldn’t wait to be twenty-one, to have my first (legal) sip of alcohol, to walk into a liquor store with my real ID and not be scared of getting arrested for poorly impersonating my sorority sister from Virginia.

When I was twenty-one, I couldn’t wait to be twenty-five.  To.. well, nevermind, I didn’t think anything fun happened after twenty-one, but I just wanted to be grown up and out of college.

Looking back, there are so many instances in life where I couldn’t wait for the future.  I had plans, visions, and aspirations for my next milestone.  Sure, it’s exciting to think about the car you want to drive when you get your license, or the way you want to celebrate your twenty-first birthday.  But in reality, we spend so much time wishing for the future, that we never really enjoy the present.

If there is one thing we can take away from childhood photographs, it is to remember to take each day as it is.  If you’re twenty-five waiting for thirty, you’ll miss out on all the opportunities and advantages your twenties have to offer.

Don’t be that thirteen year old girl wishing she was sixteen, then eighteen, then twenty-one. You’ll regret caring so much about your appearance, wasting time, your allowance, and your sanity on clothes that are too expensive and won’t fit in a year.

You’ll eventually get boobs and own as many bras as your little heart desires.  You’ll get that womanly shape you see on television, and you’ll critique it just like you do to the women in the magazines.

Don’t wish for things you don’t have.  I promise you the girl who actually got boobs in fifth grade cursed her mother’s mammary glands until all her friends caught up to her three years later.

Remember that life is a gift.  Cherish it.  Revel in it.

Next thing you know you’re twenty-five and are looking at pictures of yourself when you were thirteen wondering why you took growing up so seriously.

And you also hate your boobs. 

ATTENTION: Pumpkins Are Using Jedi Mind Tricks On All Of Us

A pumpkin after my own heart.

A pumpkin after my own heart.

Summer is practically synonymous with sunscreen, ice cream, and barbecues.  I mean, I can already smell the bbq bacon cheeseburger coming fresh off the charcoal grill and it’s not because I am eating a cheeseburger at 10am.

Or it is, the jury is still out.

With each season, there is a specific scent we associate with it.  Normally I’m all for it, because scents mean that there is food somewhere in the vicinity, and that’s never a bad thing.

But I have a bone to pick with one particular scent/flavor/permeation that really just makes me angry, because it’s trying to be the favorite, and I learned in kindergarten that being the teacher’s pet meant getting special treatment, and then everyone hates you.

I’m about to drop some high voltage knowledge bombs about this goddamn pumpkin spice obsession.

I’m not going to say I hate it, because hate is a word I reserve for push button faucets and people who talk in elevators.

I’m just not all up in pumpkin’s face asking it to hang out with me.  I don’t let it have a special season, because that’s how egos grow, and I need pumpkins to know their place in this world.

Frankly, I just think that pumpkins are jedi mind tricking us all into thinking we NEED them in our lives, creating demand during the fall solstice.  Whoever is marketing for the pumpkins of the world, reveal yourself!  I need you on my team, you could probably take this here blog to new heights and help me achieve my dream of being married to Danny McBride and Jimmy Fallon at the same time. 

Seasonal privileges are for treats that make you feel like you’re going to vomit if you so much as look at another piece.  Like candy corn. It’s a scientific law that candy corn has to get the hell out of your life by October’s end, because you start to see all foods in a tri-color hierarchy of white, yellow, and orange.

Let me make this perfectly clear, there are rules set in place that have been there for hundreds of years.  They were rules created by the bromagnons and the bromosapiens to protect our taste buds from over-indulgence.

In order to be a seasonal treat, you have to follow a strict criteria, which goes as follows:

1. It must be a treat that is solely used or consumed during a specific season.

ie. candy canes, candy corns, peeps, eggnog.

2. You must want to vomit after over-consumption of said treat.

Ever tried drinking Eggnog after December? It’s almost impossible. It’s at this time you may actually realize that it doesn’t even taste that good to begin with, and you’ll regret all of it.  Eggnog = regret. Remember that.

3. You can’t be a gourd.

Plain and simple, they are a decorative item in a cornucopia. You can’t have your own season if you’re part of a fucking cornucopia.

4. As  a seasonal treat, you have to have absolutely no value to the outside world after your said season is over.

You don’t see candy canes trying to make an appearance on Valentine’s day, or Peeps trying to squeeze their demonic candy crusted bodies into your summer pool party.  They know their place, they don’t want to be in the pool with you, they want to be there when you’re running around your house trying to find where your mom ninja-hid all the colored eggs.

There you have it. A tale as old as time, a song as old as rhyme.  Pumpkins, go back to your hole in the ground, ya gourdy betch.  You don’t deserve your own season; not on my watch.

Now let me go finish my breakfast cheeseburger.

Don’t You Have A Text Message To Answer Or Something?

It’s that person talking to you on the subway, the one asking about the weather in the elevator, that guy in the bar trying to make conversation with you while you’re waiting for your friend to show up.

Yeah, they’re alone too, but seriously, don’t they have a text message to answer or something?

The whole idea of spontaneous communication has been misconstrued.  If you talk to me without a reason, I assume you want something from me, you’re weird, you’re lost, or you’re just creepy.

You’re definitely not just friendly, right?  No, definitely not.  That would be… well, weird.

It may be because I hail from the northeast.  Things tend to move a little faster up here, we tend to be a little more ornery when it comes to personal space, and I guess, maybe we just think we’re a little more important.

Because we definitely have text messages to answer, and if you’re talking to me without a reason, it’s not going to be well received, because my mother needs to know that I ate three pork chops for dinner, and it’s imperative that I type it NOW.

When did it become uncomfortable to wait for someone without the security of a screen?  Why do people feel the need to answer text messages at dinner?  Or pick up phone calls on the subway?  Why are we so dependent on constant connection, yet we can’t seem to welcome a social interaction that isn’t primarily digital?

We are so concerned with friend counts, that we would request to be ‘friends’ with strangers, getting excited at how many people like what we’re doing, but we can’t sit at the same bar with a new face and speak to them directly without questioning intentions or why he or she cares about our lives.

In short, the world is fucked up.

Genuine conversation is depleting faster than the ozone layer. It is so hard to talk to someone you don’t know.  I mean, really, though… what are you supposed to say?  Hi? That’s dumb.

Standing in line waiting for lunch, some guy is talking about his favorite sandwich condiments.  He happens to love BBQ sauce almost as much as his unborn child, just like me.

But I have text messages to answer, no need to chime in with my two cents.

The older man at the bus stop has a war veteran patch on the jacket he wears every day.  He’s been through some serious shit, seen things people should never see, has perspectives that would shatter bigot minds and open eyes to what is really going on.

But no one notices his patches, no one hears his stories.  There are text messages to answer.

How about those love stories where the two people met on a bus and sparked up a conversation, the girl who dropped her keys only to have the guy of her dreams pick them up for her, the guy who moves into his new apartment and rides the elevator with the girl of his dreams?

Oh yeah, those things don’t happen.

Because there are text messages to answer.

 

An Open Letter To Everyone At The Airport

Dear Fellow Travelers, Passengers Sharing My Aircraft, And That Asshole Trying To Stuff An Elephant In The Overhead Bin,

I hope this letter finds you well.

If it does not find you well, I am going to assume you had a shitty run through airport security, and as a result, decided to remove common sense, manners, and basic problem solving skills from your life for the next couple hours while you’re aboard the mile-high skybus, subsequently making everyone else’s life more difficult.

You know, because you are the first person to ever have a horrible time going through the process of boarding a plane.

I’ve come to accept the inevitable invasive body search ritual while my bag gets a conveyor belt CAT scan.   If I get by unscathed, I consider it good karma for the time I gave that homeless lady a coffee.

Everyone needs to accept that this is what the standard precautionary measures for security clearance are.

We’re never going to be able to bring our brita filtered water through the pearly gates of Laguardia, so after security, go to the water fountain and fill up your reusable bottle like the plebeian you are and move on.

Amen, license plate, amen.

Amen, license plate, amen.

If you line up before your boarding group is called and block the handicap lane, I hate you.  I hope the next time you’re at a restaurant they give your meal to a homeless person outside and still make you pay for it.

Travelers bringing luggage onto the plane, please assess the size and dimensions.  When you purchased this piece of luggage, if it didn’t come with a tag that read “CARRY ON” this means you probably cannot carry it on the plane without ruining someone else’s day.

If by chance, you make it through the ticket checkpoint unnoticed and roll your monstrosity of a bag onto the jet, putting it SIDEWAYS in the overhead bins will ultimately cause some other passenger, one who followed the rules and regulations of carry-on baggage, extreme anxiety when he or she is not able to fit their luggage above their seat.

Forgive me, I know your bag is important, but go fuck yourself and learn to consolidate like everyone else.

Sidenote: People who automatically place their luggage sideways in the overhead bins are most likely also the people who hog the armrests, and probably did not share toys as a child. 

Getting up immediately after the plane lands and removing your bag is fine, I guess. But if you’re pissed off about standing in line and wait for another twenty minutes to disembark you’re not being a logical human being.  Wipe the pout off your face, exercise a little patience, and wait until the line moves.

We’re all stuck here, honey.  And we all want to get off the plane.  But you’re in row 27 of 30, it’s going to take a few extra minutes.

Look, I get it, flying sucks, we all want to get off the plane and onto our destination.  Your needs and excitements are not unique, put on a smile, or at least stop frowning, and deal with it.  If you wanted to be in control of your spatial constraints, you should have driven.

Also, read SkyMall, it will totally lighten your mood.

Sincerely,

Everyone Else At The Airport, Those On Your Flight, And The Person Who Had To Check His or Her Bag Last Minute Because You Took Up Too Much Space

Your turn!! What do you hate about traveling?  Did I leave anything out?

 

Does Heaven Have An Open Bar?

Dichotomy City.

Dichotomy City.

I have already talked about how I’m going to hell, but since turning twenty-five, my mother told me to grow up I’m all about making dramatic life changes in order to become a better person.

A few weeks ago I was at the gas station when a homeless woman came up to me and asked me for money so she could buy a coffee.  I never carry cash, so I went in with her and used my debit card to get her a medium light and sweet.

The next day a man asked me for some money so he could buy a T pass. Again, I never carry cash, but I swiped him through the turnstile so he could catch the next train.

I don’t carry cash for a variety of reasons.  One, I am too disorganized in my purse to ever hold on to any amount of money.  Second, using credit cards gives the illusion that I’m not spending real money, so if I don’t see the cash physically disappear, it must still be in my bank account (this is completely rational thinking, by the way).

But not carrying cash in those two instances allowed me to do something good with my money.  Now I know buying a coffee and a train ride aren’t the basis for getting into heaven, but I have to believe it’s a good start.

This whole path towards greatness got me thinking about what heaven must be like.  And if I’m going to be in it, there definitely needs to be a few things to make my eternal stay in the afterlife a comfortable one.  I made this list assuming bacon was already present, because frankly, excluding it would be preposterous.

Here is a list of the things that (absolutely) have to be in heaven:

1. Naps

You have to be outside of your mind if you don’t think that I will spend every night dreaming about nap time, and every day planning out when it’s happening.

2. Wine

Grapes on grapes on grapes.  Wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Wine is water, and water is wine. I think the bible says that.

3. Buffets

I can’t be in an eternal place of peace and serenity and not have unlimited access to selections from Taco Bell, Pizza Hut and KFC.  KFC biscuits are a deity.

4. Teleports

Aint nobody got time to wait in line in heaven. I can’t be dealing with traffic up in the sky when I want to go to Cloud Bar for a 7pm dinner reservation.

5. Jax Teller

I don’t understand why I would have to explain this one.

6. Baby Animals

Puppies will always be puppies, and baby pandas will be my pillows, and there will be a baby jungle full of baby lions, tigers, bears, OH MY! Basically heaven will be Neverland for animals.

7. Trampolines

No one has a bad day after playing on a trampoline. I will also miraculously be gifted the talent of being able to do gymnastics, so trampolines will have infinitely more applications in my afterlife.

8. Good Hair Days

There is no way I don’t wake up in heaven with perfect tendrils or tresses or curls, it’s just not possible. Hair always looks good in heaven. I think it’s because there’s no humidity or something. Don’t quote me on that.

…

In the vein of all things glorious, there are definitely a list of things that are, under no circumstances, allowed in heaven (with or without me).

1. The DMV

The DMV belongs in hell. Those people probably didn’t pay their parking tickets and have more of a use for it anyways. Heaven only lets in good drivers.

2. Airport Security

I’m going to fly with nine hundred water bottles and regular sized shampoos.

3. Push Button/Hand Sensor Faucets

Heaven trusts people to turn the faucet off when you’re done washing your hands.  The people in hell deserve to have sensors tell them when they’ve hit their water quota.

4. Food Allergies

I’ve lived too long with a dairy allergy. I reserve the right to gorge my face with cheese and ice cream, or cheese-flavored-ice cream in heaven.  Food allergies are going to hell. BE GONE.

 

Is There Anything Worse Than A Bruised Banana?

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EW.

I say this with the utmost sensitivity, but also not being sensitive at all because I’m at the airport, sans coffee, and all I had to look forward to after the debacle that is TSA security was the banana I liberated from my office yesterday afternoon.

To my dismay, after removing said freed work banana out of my trusty satchel, I found that it looks mildly discolored.

Normally, this is fine. I’ll take a brown spotted over a hard green any day of the week and twice on Sunday, but this particular banana was full of lies and deceit.

After the initial peel, which usually fills me with glee and anticipation of eating a potassium induced fruit that, after consumption, alleviates me of an annoying pulsating cramp in my left shoulder from sleeping weird, I noticed that the one or two spots on the outside revealed a more disturbing inside.

This banana was dead.

And there was no saving it.

It was like I opened a yellow protective peel expecting to see a freestanding fruit, yet I was greeted with a pile of brown mush that was only held together by a damaged outer shell.

The banana that held my hand through security, the banana that helped me save one whole dollar at Dunkin Donuts, the banana I worked tirelessly to liberate from the kitchen cages of corporate greed, my friends, that banana was inedible.

If you know anything about airports, you know that getting through security unscathed and with your entrails intact is a feat most people don’t overcome.

But I thought luck was on my side When the TSA woman at the initial check point let me know that I basically don’t look like a terrorist.

Round One: Meg – 1, Airport – 0.

I was selected to pass through security in the fast lane. No shoe removal, no invasive body scans, no suitcase search, just an innocent face and a plane to catch.

And the thought in the back of my mind that I would be enjoying the
deliciously ripe banana that accompanied me through airport security.

After pretty much getting upgraded to the first class security line, and fast tracking it through metal detectors like it ain’t no thang, I was shocked that after the good fortunes I was again rewarded with a wonderful window seat to watch planes departing whilst eating my potassium.

Round Two: Meg – 2, Airport – 0.

Only then did I realize that my morning would take a turn for the worst.

I could not enjoy my banana.

I couldn’t even look it in the eye and tell it why I was throwing it out.  It just needed to go.

I am hungry. I am tired. And I am still twitching in my left shoulder because I slept weird.

Fuck you, banana. Get a hard shell. Adapt, evolve, do something and stop ruining my life.

Airport/Banana – 1, Meg – 0.

It Has Come To My Attention That I Am Deformed.

doctor-holding-prescription

Thanks, Dr. Obvious.

I didn’t know if I should speak out on my personal struggle with this particular malformation, but after reading this post on a similar subject, I felt it was my civic duty to enlighten the interwebs and at the same time, acknowledge my condition, so in case I become rich and famous, TMZ and E! News will not be able to use it against me.

It is also high time I take my responsibility as a newfound adult seriously and admit that I am not perfect.

In fact, I am deformed.

A month or so ago, my boyfriend was visiting, and it since was under sixty degrees outside we were able to hold hands whilst traversing around the city.

Sidenote: This may or may not be another unknown medical condition I need to research, because if the weather is above sixty-eight degrees, my hands sweat uncontrollably and I can’t lock fingers with anyone or anything.  I used to nanny and when I would walk anywhere with the kids, I had to assist them through the crosswalks by grabbing the collars of their t-shirts like dogs in order to avoid an unwanted sweaty palm debacle. 

But anyways, I’ll look into that another time, back to the part where the air was the perfect amount of crisp so I could link phalanges without fear of being dumped due to aggressive hand perspiration.

He picks up my hand, examines it, and then says something that smacks me in the face (metaphorically) with a big, fat dose of deformed reality.

“You have toe fingers.”

It was at that moment I realized I did not have hands fit for a ring model, rather my mitts looked like I should be wearing socks instead of gloves.  I was horrified.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

After he pointed out my enlarged nail beds and all encompassing fake fingers, I refused to give high fives. I didn’t want to shake any more hands.  It was embarrassing.  I was messed up.

Moments, maybe hours went by feeling singled out, but a side-by-side comparison of my thumb and my big toe revealed that his accusations were not in vain, they were actually true.

Thumb or Big Toe?

Twins?

Then I realized how inexplicably good I was at handstands when I was a kid and it was probably a direct result of the Meg Lago toe finger epidemic.

I also conveniently remembered how committed I was to the Toe Sock trend in the early 2000’s, which makes sense now since they are essentially gloves for your feet.  I was a foot game pioneer at an early age, and no one sought to hire me for various endorsements.

Honestly, toe socks would probably still be cool if Nike or Adidas had called me when I was thirteen for a sponsorship.  Let that just sink in for a second.

I just want the world to know that Toe Fingers exist, and if you have them, announce yourself to the world like me.  We can start a support group, talk about all the things we wish we could do if we were only born normal.

We can wear gloves on our feet and socks on our hands, parading about like we own the world slapping soccer balls into goals and making foot fives the new craze on the streets.

Somebody get me some toe gloves and hand socks, PRONTO.

Somebody get some toe gloves and hand socks, PRONTO.

I guess diversity is what makes the world turn.  We all have differences, and mine just happen to be the sheer fact that I have feet hands and I’m not afraid to show it.