The unforeseen consequences of a bag of Doritos
Ah, Doritos. That yummy, yummy corn chip that just satisfies like no other. My long lost lover. The fiendish foe of my ever expanding ass.
Doritos have finally made it to Denmark. Or more importantly, to my local supermarket. It's been 12 years since I had my first Dorito, and at least 8 since I had my last. Our eyes met as I was walking down the aisle and for a gleeful second there was only the joy of seeing a long lost friend. But then reality encroached with the thought: "Oh noes. My hips are in so much trouble..."
I thought I could resist, and did for a full week. Then I found myself shopping while in a foul mood. *Note to self: try not to go shopping while pissed off* And into the basket they went. Ripped into the them the minute I got home and it was heaven. Only one thing could make it better: Beer. So I had one. And another. And possibly one more. Then I met Michelle for dinner. And we shared a bottle of wine. The good times were rolling!
But Michelle had to go home around ten! No! Now what to do? Went home, got online, minded my own business when I suddenly found myself in a (slightly difficult to type) online conversation with friend-with-benefits-guy. Got confused, asked for clarification and suddenly looked down to find his heart in my lap. Uhm, oops? So now we're suddenly 'in talks' about starting something more serious. Mind you, I don't think anything will actually come of this. He's a very lone wolf type person and none of us are very emotionally accessible unless forcefully nudged. Take into account years upon years of very deliberately *not* having those kinds of thoughts about each other and... It could be a mite challenging to redefine the whole relationship. We'll see what happens.
Anyway, it seemed like a slightly better idea at the time, and what also seemed like an incredibly good idea was calling Ron to get things straight between us. Yeah. Reeeaaally good idea. Shockingly, he picked up the phone. And then I said the things I'd been debating whether or not I should call and say:
- Let's just remove all the pressure because this isn't working.
- Let's forget the promises of fidelity, because frankly, that's just plain unnatural. Especially considering they're based on a disappearingly few hours together.
- Call me if or when you want to, but no pressure.
- Don't make promises you can't keep.
- I'll see ya when I see ya. Meaning I'll call you when I get my ass back over there, but meanwhile, do what you gotta do, and I'll do the same.
The above is my way of having a long-distance relationship. Clearly, his way wasn't working. I'm ashamed to say that his complete lack of sense of reality and enthusiasm got me carried away as well. Won't happen again. (Right.)
He said he felt very relieved. And he sounded very happy to hear from me. And I realized why I was so addicted to calling him in the first place: That voice and that accent. I can't get enough of it. I want to hear it all the time, even when he says stupid things. Having his words travel through the line and land inside of me made me miss him to the point where it tangibly hurt.
So I'm not sorry I called. I'm glad we're friends again. I can't be scary jilted girl across the world when I can be awesome sexy goddess with a heart of gold who will be flying in at some point in the relatively foreseeable future. God, I can't wait.
Also, I just tripped and fell *in my pants.* How ridiculous is that? They're cuffed, and I caught my toe in the cuff and just went down. Gracefully grabbing for everything and nothing in the process. My first thought upon touchdown? "Yeah, that was a fall." Thanks for the recap, Captain Obvious.
I'd actually been considering getting rid of these pants because I wasn't sure they were working for me. Oh, the irony. I guess that's a pretty slam-dunk decision now. Anyway, I'm fine. I scraped my elbow on the kitchen counter on my way down, but that's ok because what 29-year-old woman wouldn't want to run around sporting bruises last seen on a young child?
This is actually the second time I've fallen down in my apartment. Oh, and a third time where I took a spill in my bathroom, which is an achievement in itself considering it's a 1 square meter room. I know I had some issues about my birthday, but this business with falling down in my own home is taking on behavior patterns of the average 80-year-old and it is not funny anymore. I'm gonna be a riot once my bones turn brittle.
In that vein? I shedded a *white* hair the other day. Apparently I have enough to spare now.