Chapter Two
I just love Mondays. No, I’m not kidding, and no, I’m not on Prozac. Mondays are really my favorite day of the week because I can’t wait to be productive again.
I dread the weekends because I hate the feeling that comes with being quiet in my own thoughts. Staying busy just helps me cope. It’s like medicine for my soul.
I climb out of bed two minutes before the alarm buzzes on my phone. Outside the window, the sun peeks through the clouds … teasing what could be a beautiful day. I slide on my bunny slippers and fuzzy robe and head to the kitchen.
Right away, I start the coffee maker. The smell of Taster’s Choice always gets me going. I’m not big on breakfast, but I force myself to eat half a bowl of oatmeal. Gone are the days of my morning bagels. Long gone!
After breakfast, I hit the shower. I study my naked body under the soapy water … My tits aren’t as perky as they used to be. While I’m not exactly a candidate for a breast lift, I can’t help but notice the change. It all started after I turned thirty.
My hips got a little wider. My stomach became softer … not that I’d ever had a six-pack to begin with. And I’m starting to notice small dimples of cellulite in my thighs. I’m almost scared to think about what the next ten years will bring.
That’s another reason why I have to stick to my diet. At this moment, I’m grateful that I skipped the Hershey bar and Zoe’s lasagna. When I suck in my stomach, I almost look sexy. Almost.
As I touch my body with the sponge, the sensation makes me daydream about a man’s touch. It’s been a long time. Five months to be exact. But I haven’t really felt sexually charged lately.
It’s almost like somebody flipped a switch and my passion dried up. I can’t even remember the last time I used my vibrator. It’s not like I’ve lost all interest in sex, but I just haven’t prioritized it much.
When I get my dream body, I know I’ll be in the mood. Until then, I’ll bide my time. It’ll happen when it’s meant to be. And I won’t succumb to desperation. But there’s a part of me that wonders how much longer I can go on like this? A few more months? A whole year? I hope it doesn’t come to that.
I step out of the shower and towel off. I coat myself with my skin-firming lotions and step into my bedroom. I open my closet to my neatly arranged business suits. I grab the gray one off the rack.
When it comes to underwear, I choose comfort. No thongs here. I slip into a pair of cotton briefs and a padded bra that gives my girls a nice lift. Then, I step in front of the mirror.
The woman staring back at me looks a little pale. My skin is thirsting for sunlight, but otherwise my complexion is clear. I don’t have to buy all of those expensive acne creams anymore.
My eyes are a shade between hazel and green. Big and bright. Probably my best feature. I have a button nose and normal-sized lips that sort of disappear when I smile.
I have shoulder-length, chestnut-colored hair. I haven’t dyed it since college. Who has time for all that maintenance when your roots start to show?
I’ve been told that I’m attractive. There are days when I feel it. But most of the time, I consider myself average. Not that I have a problem with that. Average people are the most productive creatures on earth.
I open my makeup case and put on a little foundation and bronzer. I don’t want to overdo it. Then, I put on a little mascara to make my eyes pop. Then, a little lipstick and I’m all set.
When it comes to hair, the ponytail is my friend. I keep it simple, and today is no different. I spray on a little perfume, and that’s all there is to it. I grab my purse and my lunch and head for the door.
A few minutes later, I’m stuck in traffic. It’s downtown. What else is new? On the radio, I listen to one of those corny, inspirational speakers. I can’t help but chuckle as this guy goes on and on …
“For everyone out there listening, you need to ask yourself one key question: are you living in the moment? When was the last time you stopped to take in the beauty of nature? The sounds? The smells?”
I shake my head. If I roll down my window right now, I’ll be taking in the stench of car exhaust and gasoline. And the sounds of cars honking and the occasional road rage junky in the middle of a profanity-laden rant. Is this the kind of nature he’s talking about?
“I know you’re probably thinking you’re too busy to stop and smell the roses. But let me tell you, life has a way of slowing you down if you don’t make time to do just that.”
I change the station. Enough of this shit already. I inch along in the traffic listening to classic 80s rock. Something about Madonna’s nasally voice calms me, even though “Like a Virgin” is probably my least favorite song by her.
Speaking of virgins … I wonder if it is possible for me to revert back. It’s been a long time. I might just grow a second hymen if I don’t get laid soon. That would be a medical anomaly to be sure, but I can’t rule it out. Neither can Zoe.
She’s always on me about when I’m going to get back out there again. It’s so much easier for her. For one thing, she’s a natural blonde. And she has this amazing body. Not to mention she’s super sweet. And outgoing. And the moment she mentions her passion for yoga, men fantasize about her flexible body in every position from downward-facing dog to the standing split.
Every time we go out together, guys lose their fucking minds over her. I try my best not to be annoyed, but I’m invisible next to Zoe. It’s been that way since our freshman year at Penn State.
Even though it’s true that I have work to catch up on every weekend, this is the other reason why I don’t want to hit the bar with her on Friday. I’m okay with being average, until I’m next to someone as pretty as Zoe. And it makes everything worse when she assures me that I’m gorgeous, too.
I pull into the parking lot of Witherspoon Cabinets. It’s a big, gray factory situated on a massive gray parking lot. Inside, the walls are even painted gray.
But I don’t mind. Gray is a neutral color. A calming color. This is the kind of place I belong. Although being a quality control manager isn’t the career I dreamed about, I’m mostly content with my job.
I am almost ashamed to admit what I wanted to be as a child—a professional ice skater. Go figure? I don’t know why, but there was just something about seeing those women in glittery costumes gliding across the ice that looked like pure magic to me.
My mother, being blindly supportive of my seven-year-old delusional fantasy, signed me up for classes at the local ice skating rink. I had zero coordination. It was so bad that I literally fell on my ass, over and over again.
But Mom kept taking me every Saturday morning. She just wouldn’t let me give up. A few months later, I knew how to skate and do a basic turn. But as time went on, it became clear that I wasn’t Nancy Kerrigan material.
Even though I got better on the ice, I was bigger than the other girls. Not fat. But average. To be an ice skater, you had to be thin. Some of the girls in my class had full blown eating disorders at the age of ten.
Faced with the choice of binging, purging, or using laxatives, I walked away. I just told Mom I wanted to quit. She never even asked me why. I think she was relieved. We both knew I didn’t have what it took.
But I do fit in at Witherspoon Cabinets. It’s a job that I’m good at. And that alone is enough to make me feel content. Don’t get me wrong, the most exciting thing that’s happened at work is when Billy O’Connell’s pumpkin soup exploded in the microwave, but I’m not one to complain.
I walk into the building and head for my office on the second floor. As always, the place smells like a combination of wood and random chemicals. Through the glass, I can see the men and women on the assembly line, building cabinets. At Witherspoon, the product isn’t fancy, but it’s efficient.
I head to my office. Yes, it’s also gray. The moment I sit down, I’m already thinking about a second cup of coffee. I power up my laptop and open my emails. Nothing urgent. Nothing new.
I make my way
downstairs to the floor. It’s a loud frenzy down here. Always is. It’s impossible to even hear yourself think, but you get used to it after a while.
I approach the area where the finished cabinets are lined up, ready to be placed in boxes. I have a checklist on my iPad for the inspection. I carefully look over one of the cabinets.
“How’s it going, Cathy?”
I turn around, and I’m face to face with my supervisor, Ted Miller. He’s a short, stocky man with a shock of red hair and beady, brown eyes. He flashes a big smile.
“Hey, Ted.”
“How was your weekend?”
“Same ol’, same ol’. And yours?”
“Me and the wife hit the casino.”
“Win anything?”
“Won a little. Lost a lot.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Maybe better luck next time, right? Except I don’t believe in luck.”
“Me neither.”
I open the cabinet door and close it. Even in the middle of all the noise, the door creaks. I shake my head and frown.
“What’s wrong?”
“This one doesn’t pass muster.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Try the door. Tell me what you think.”
Ted opens the door and closes it.
“Well I’ll be damned. Nothing gets past you, Cathy. You’re so good at this it’s almost scary.”
“Thanks.”
“I’d better get back to it.”
“You bet.”
“A few of us are getting takeout from that burrito place. You want in?”
“No thanks, I already brought my lunch.”
“Of course.”
Ted nods and walks away. I log my results and start inspecting the next cabinet. A few minutes later, an awful headache comes over me. It starts at the back of my neck and goes straight to my forehead.
I try to finish my inspection, but it’s no use. I need to get off my feet for a minute. I head to the break-room. It’s empty. I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down.
With each sip, I feel slightly better. But then again, I’ve always believed in the power of caffeine. I stand up, rejuvenated. All of the sudden, my vision gets blurry.
I close my eyes for a minute to try and focus. My headache is back. It’s worse this time. I can’t help but moan in agony. What the hell is happening?
I sit my ass down and try to pull it together. I reach for the coffee and almost knock it over. Okay. I know I need to relax and be still for a minute. Maybe more like two minutes.
Just then, the door swings open. Ted walks in and heads straight for the coffee pot. He doesn’t even notice me at first. He finally looks up.
“Cathy? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m okay. Just a little headache, that’s all.”
He tilts his head and squints his eyes. “You sure that’s all?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Cathy, no offense but you don’t look too good.”
No offense? Seriously? How is it not offensive to basically tell someone they look like shit?
“I think maybe you should just take the rest of the day off.”
“But I just got here.”
“Cathy, go home. Get some rest.”
“But …”
“I insist.”
His lips plunge into a frown. After seeing Ted, I can’t help but wonder how bad I really do look. I was fine this morning. He’s clearly over exaggerating. And the last thing I want to do is leave work now and have nothing else to do all day long.
“Ted, really … I’ll be fine.”
“Either you go home, or I’m calling the medics.”
“It’s not that serious.”
“Cathy, I swear you’re just as stubborn as my wife. Go home already.”
I take a deep breath. I know it’s no use arguing with him anymore.
“Okay.”
“I know you’ll be here bright and early tomorrow. Let me help you out to your car.”
“No! I mean, no. I got it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m okay.”
I slowly stand up and force myself to smile. My headache is throbbing now. But I can’t let on how bad it is. I don’t want Ted to worry. I make my way to the door and almost trip.
“Jesus, Cathy! You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine. Totally fine.”
I’m moving in slow motion, as I make my way to the door. The factory noises and the fluorescent lights are overwhelming. This is the worst headache of my life. I can’t wait to get home and sleep it off.
It takes me forever to get across the parking lot to my car. The truth is that I’m probably in no condition to drive. Not that that’s stopping me. I turn the engine on.
I wait for a moment in the parking lot, feeling slightly nauseous. It’s like something is trying to split my brain in two. I take a few deep breaths. I can do this.
I turn on the radio and end up back on the station with the corny, inspirational speaker. Maybe a good laugh is all I need to snap out of whatever this is.
“And if you find yourself feeling confused about what to do, sometimes it’s best to be still and do nothing. Even in life when we don’t think we have a choice, that’s a lie. You can always choose to do nothing at all. And there’s freedom with that.”
I turn the radio off. This guy is certifiably crazy. I’m no longer amused. I slowly drive out of the parking lot and take the side streets all the way home. The highway was out of the question.
By the time I get home, I’m only feeling a little bit better, which for all intents and purposes means that I still feel like hell. My headache hasn’t let up, but my vision is okay. And then it hits me. I know what’s wrong. My sex drought is probably causing this breakdown in my body. I’ve gotta fix that somehow.
Chapter Three
It’s a few minutes after midnight, and I can’t sleep worth a damn. I climb out of bed and head to the kitchen. My headache throbs with each step. I know exactly what I need, and it isn’t an aspirin.
I open the cabinet and grab my bottle of scotch. No, it’s not in the diet, but who gives a crap? I’m in agony, as I pour the liquor into the glass. I drink it neat. No ice.
A few sips of alcohol has me feeling tipsy. It’s been ages since I’ve had a stiff drink. I plop down on the couch and turn on the TV. There’s an infomercial for an air purifier.
I’m half drunk when it hits me. I know what’s wrong! The environment is so toxic it’s giving me a migraine. I’m this close to picking up the phone to make four easy installments of $29.99 when I come to my senses.
It’s probably not the air at all. I go online and search WebMD. When I type in my symptoms, a long list of things pop up including menopause. That can’t be right. The change of life at thirty-four?
I down the rest of my scotch and head back to bed. I’m asleep in no time. I have a nightmare about wolves. I wake up in a cold sweat, the sun is blinding me.
Damn. My headache seems even worse now. I glance at the clock. It’s almost nine. How the hell did I over-sleep like that? No more scotch from now on.
I feel the urge to vomit. I only had one drink last night, but I’m such a lightweight. I make a sprint for the toilet. Nothing comes out. False alarm.
I take a deep breath. If I go to work, I’m gonna be late for the first time. I’ve never used one of my sick days before, but I feel like I don’t have a choice. I call the office, and my boss answers on the third ring.
“Hi, this is Ted.”
“Hey, it’s Cathy.”
“Cathy? Are you alright?”
“Actually, no. I … I don’t feel any better.”
“Take the day off and get well soon, okie dokie?”
“Okay.”
I hang up and climb back into bed. I don’t feel like moving, but I know I need to take my ass to the doctor. I can’t go on like this. I would ask Zoe to take me, but she’ll probably insist on taking the whole day off w
ork to nurse me back to health. This is bad but it’s not that bad. I’ll figure it out.
I call my doctor’s office, and they schedule an emergency appointment for me. I’m glad it worked out. There’s no way I’m going to the ER. I’d rather take my chances with more scotch than to be surrounded by all that chaos. Not to mention the germs. I’m convinced that hospitals are the most dangerous places on earth.
I move at a geriatric pace as I take a shower and get dressed. I put on my comfy sweats and a pair of sneakers. I’m too scared to eat breakfast because my stomach is still upset.
I power up the Uber app on my phone and wait outside my condo. My head throbs in the sunlight. I wish I had my sunglasses, but I just don’t have the energy to go back inside and grab them.
The app alerts me on my phone that my driver is here. A blue Ford Focus pulls up to the curb. My steps are a little wobbly as I get into the backseat.
The man behind the wheel is bald with a thick, black beard. He’s all solid muscle, and I can see glimpses of tattoos on his thick neck. Looks like a biker gang dude.
He’s listening to heavy metal music. It’s way too loud! My headache is unbearable at this point.
“You mind turning that down?”
“Huh?”
“The music!”
“Oh.”
He turns it off. We ride in silence, which is a lot creepier. I’m this close to asking him to turn it back on when he pulls up in front of my doctor’s office.
“You need any help?”
“No, I’m fine! Does it look like I need help?!” Don’t answer that. I’m normally not this short tempered. Really.
I step out of the car and do my best imitation of a normal walk. I’m so sick of people being worried about me. First Ted, now this Sons of Anarchy guy. Do I really look that pitiful?
I ride the elevator up to the seventh floor. A woman steps on with a small child. The kid backs away from me like I have the plague. Okay. Maybe this is worse than I thought.
Either that or it’s all in my head. Just like this migraine. Sights and sounds are like hammers to my skull. Every time the elevator dings I try like hell not to grind my teeth in agony.
Dieting Makes Cathy Crazy Page 2
