#2: Swooshy pants and Chia-pet hair

Ha! I’m back! Had you all fooled, didn’t I? That’s my style, burst onto the scene and then disappear, only to resurface when everyone has almost forgotten about me. Keeps you on your toes.

To answer a couple of questions that arose after Column #1: Attack of the Killer Cheese Curds:

My friend Meghan asked if I take contributing writers. Of course. I talk about you, you should be able to talk back. Of course I reserve the right to have final say in what goes on here. This is, after all, my Column. You want the last word? Start your own!

Michelle, a friend of mine from the library asked if I would describe any prior run-ins I’ve had with cheese curds. The run-in described in Column #1 was the worst. Usually my meetings with curds are very pleasant. We sit down under a nice tree or perhaps on a bench. We enjoy the sights and sounds that usually surround us when we are together, fair-goers, carnival rides, perhaps a sports game. We discuss philosophy, literature and art. Then the curds disappear and I leave satisfied. What I did to the curds to deserve such harsh treatment at our last meeting I suppose I’ll never know. I’ve sworn them off for now. Does anyone else have a fun cheese curd story?

Now on to today’s episode of (dramatic music) The Column.

Did you ever have one of those days where you go into the bathroom at work and find yourself in one of the stalls unbuttoning your shirt instead of your pants? Hypothetically speaking of course.
I’ve had a couple of days like that recently and you, being my family and friends who love me very much, get this opportunity to read about my embarrassing moments and laugh. Once. Softly. Behind your hand.

The first incident happened about two weeks ago at the gym. Because I hadn’t washed the shorts I normally wear in about three weeks, I opted for my swooshy, shiny wind pants that I’ve owned since junior high. I was a little warmer than usual as I lifted weights, but for the most part, the change in wardrobe agreed with me. I definitely enjoyed not having to worry about someone looking up my shorts as I lay on my back and worked my hamstrings. No, it wasn’t until I reached the stationary bike that the reason I wear my shorts instead of my swooshy pants became quite clear.

I got on and started peddling at whirlwind speed, as usual (at this point in my workout all I want to do is go home and eat something – it’s the proverbial carrot in front of the donkey I suppose). Suddenly my posture felt different. My lower body had drifted to the front wedge of the bicycle seat. No big deal, it happens to the best of us. I stopped, stood up on the pedals and pushed myself back to the fuller – and more comfortable – part of the seat. Ah! Much better.

Thirty seconds later, I drifted forward again. I stopped and pushed my unruly seat backwards. Almost immediately those damn slippery pants started to drift again! This process repeated itself every three minutes. Slide, stop, shove back, peddle. Slide, stop, shove back, peddle. Each shove back got a little harder as I became more frustrated. But after one particularly hard shove, I began to picture myself flying off the machine into the burly man on the treadmill behind me. I was pretty sure he and his crossbones tattoo would not find it very amusing. I finally found a way to brace myself against the handlebars to prevent further slippage and finished my workout successfully. Because I am not a quitter.

And the burly man took forever to leave.

The next freakish thing happened a few days after the slippage incident. I had a plethora of magazines lying around, left over from the concert in hell’s furnace (see Column #1) and I found an article promising to help me make my “very curly hair into tousled waves.”

Anyone who is acquainted with a curly haired person knows we are always looking for a way to control our mangy hair (yes, I can already hear the inbox filling with “but your hair is so cool!” emails from my straight-haired friends) so I thought, I’ll give it a try.

I followed the directions to the letter:

1. Take wet mangy hair and wind it up into twists all over your head ala Bjork.

2. Secure said twists tightly with metal bobby pins.

3. Blow dry head on high heat so bobby pins turn red hot and leave permanent marks on your scalp.

4. Remove red-hot bobby pins, careful to drop every one while waving burned fingers in the air and cursing.

5. Run wide-toothed comb through hair for fun tousled look.

Seems easy doesn’t it? And everything was going fine until I removed the bobby pins. My hair, after 30 minutes under the blow dryer on high still wasn’t dry. Chortling, I smugly congratulated myself on being smart enough to leave enough time to make mistakes. I blow dried my hair for another fifteen minutes and when I couldn’t take the burning hair smell anymore, I took my first bobby pin out again. Not only was it dry, the hair was tightly curled. We’re talking Shirley Temple.

Okay, don’t panic I told myself. I slowly removed the other 150 bobby pins. Every section of hair was very, very curly. I reread step five. I ran the comb through my hair. With each stroke my hair expanded to five times its normal size. You know that Chia pet commercial where they show how the plant grows puffier and fuller over time? That was my huge hair. After going once around my head I could only stare at the mirror in disbelief. I had achieved the white girl Afro!

I started to laugh because I looked so ridiculous and silently thanked god no one could see me. That was when I remembered my dad was coming to pick me up. In ten minutes. To go to an event with several of his work colleagues, some of which could possibly be valuable work connections for me and my flailing career (can a career be flailing if it hasn’t really started yet?).

I grabbed my brush and started frantically trying to smooth down the bride of Frankenstein hair I had achieved and with every stroke instead of getting smaller, it just got bigger and bigger.

Well, drastic times call for drastic measures and I’m sad to say I whipped out the hair straightener. I only use it in emergencies because it wreaks havoc on your hair. You ever want to find out what burning hair smells like, just come over to my house on a bad hair day. The ends of my hair still haven’t recovered. I think I may have killed them (sob!) I’ll be okay…(squeak) really…

The moral of my stories: Avoid exercising in front of burly men with tattoos (although in all fairness he is probably a nice man with seven foster children who feeds stray cats and attends church every Sunday) and never EVER follow instructions. Especially those found in beauty magazines.

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