This story ends exactly how you think it will, and in the best way it possibly can.
I finally caved and booked some time with a chiropractor – which, interestingly enough, has spurred me into a “reclaim thyself!” mode fitting for the over-emphasized resolutionary month of January.
Iris tagged me in a chain status (So glad we’ve moved on from chain letters; what a disrespect to trees!) to “list ten albums that have stayed with you over the years in some way.”
This guy asked me where I am from before I was born. That is some intense grocery checkout conversation.
There comes a point in every woman’s walk along a crowded urban street where she wonders: Will he act on it? Will he follow me down the street? Will he spit on my shoes? Will he tell his friend the latest one-liner about my ass in a loud stage whisper?
When I tell people, “I’m that person who gets bitten all the time,” they often reply the best way they know how, which is by dispensing advice for someone who doesn’t have a fucking clue what a mosquito is.
I was at Craftsman & Wolves, paying for my sandwich and pastry to go, when “Creep” came on over the airwaves. The cashier and I started going “Whoa-oa-oa!” in throwbackers’ delight.
Clearly not making room for her and her bike, I purposefully didn’t give up my spot against the bike wall. Her ears weren’t clogged by earplugs like mine; she didn’t have an excuse not to hear the announcement. I almost told her, “You need to switch cars. No bikes on the first car.”