Week 31: Chelsea Handler’s Vagina

Where has time gone? At just the tender age of 25, the depression of age has encompassed me. It’s my birthday week and I’m miserable. I’m just not where I wanted to be at 25, which was supposed to be parading around my mansion in an apron-only ensemble, cooking pot brownies for my hardworking rich husband, and throwing midday tea-parties with my white and proper suburban friends… all while the kids take an 8 hour nap.

I’ve spent the entire week running like a psycho, in 6 mile intervals from my place to Ryan’s. I figured if I can’t control my destiny, I will control my personal well-being and maybe even lose 40 pounds while I’m at it.  So, my week has consisted of running and then wrapping myself up in Big Pink.  Big Pink is kind of like a childhood blanket, except she is my comforter from college. Similar to the childhood blankets you may find in a Catholic Church, she’s been violated several times. From spilled alcohol, to fudgesicles, to adult foreplay, she’s seen it all.  Because she is locked up in my armoire during the day and only comes out at night, Ryan refers to her as “Big Pink the Vampire.”  I like the ring of that. She is a blood sucking beauty, draining anyone she entraps of life, energy and friends. I need to move on from this week, focus on the positives, and get the hell away from Big Pink and seek some sunshine.

Sunshine it is; but first we’re going to need a coffee stop. We walk down the street to La Creparia, Ybor and I order us two iced coffees to go. Ryan flips out like a gay man who has some special frappuccino with light whipped cream that needs to be ordered. “UM EXCUSE ME. I never said we wanted drinks to go, and I certainly did not say I wanted an ice coffee.” Like a real bundle of twigs bound up, he orders himself an iced caramel something with whipped cream on top. We sit in La Creparia for about 15 minutes before the menu catches my attention. What the hell is this? A menu for ants? The menu is pocket sized and even my young eyes can’t read it.

Coffees slurped down, shit brewing, and we’re off. Back towards home. We’re mixing things up this week and cooking out by the pool instead of hitting up a local brunch. Perfect. I won’t be tempted by biscuits and gravy or a heaping mound of hash. I can stick to my fitness and diet goals. 25 is not a fat year. It’s a year of fitness, pre-pubescent physiques and hopefully getting mistaken for an Olsen once or twice.

As usual, the pool is full of shady characters, many whom do not live in my condo complex but just hop the gate and utilize our pool for showering or something of the sort. A woman with fake boobs, a thong and heels catches my attention immediately. She is clearly a stripper. She may just be foreign, but my first thought is stripper. Her sugar daddy has an offensively large chest and I wonder if he has boob implants as well, or pec implants, whatever you call it when a man dabbles with silicone.

A few familiar faces are here including “Areola Woman,” who is always drunk and can’t ever seem to keep her utters in the barn. And then there is a plethora of tattooed folk in the corner. Most of them never actually enter the pool because it’s either bad for their dreads or they’re freshly inked and can’t get into the water for 72 hours. And Sean. Ahh Sean, I’ll lay next to him fully clothed and read my book like a true and modest adult.

I’m sweating my ass off in a full-length sundress because I can’t expose my legs today. Or maybe for the next week. An awful bug bite attack occurred on Friday night. I volunteered for some stupid wilderness race so that Ryan could run for free.  Since then, I have started to count the amount of bites on my right leg alone, below the knee: 33 bites. Not counting my right thigh which is far worse and my entire left leg which is also covered. I also haven’t shaved my legs in a week so a full-length dress is my best option right now. I’ve estimated about 100 bug bites and 100,000 hairs.

Ryan has been grilling for what seems like hours, or that may just be because I’ve recently taken up this new trend called “reading” and “paperback books” and it’s taken the majority of the morning to make it through three chapters.  Reading about Chelsea Handler’s one night stands makes me feel a lot better about myself and my past. What an old and aged beat down tramp. Don’t get me wrong, I love her. But as I stare at my large plastic Tampa Bay Lightning cup, I begin to imagine her vagina having a similar shape.

Finally, food is ready. Round steak cooked London broil style, red, yellow and green bell peppers, grilled onions, swiss cheese and chipotle mayonnaise stuffed into submarine rolls. Mine is in a whole wheat wrap to support my new eating disorder.

I immediately pretend the meat in my wrap is too tough and replace it with shrimp that was used earlier as h’orderves. Truth is, the meat was delicious but again, 25 is not going to be a fat year. I imagine my plethora of flavors tasted a hell of a lot better than their’s anyway. There’s something so sexy about shrimp that’s been sitting out in the sun by the pool all morning.

We rarely take weeks off from brunch and I must say it felt great. I didn’t spend a dime and enabled myself to eat like a bird. I also didn’t end up in a food coma like I usually do on Sunday’s by 2PM. However, all great food aside, there is a convenience that comes with eating out and I like being served. Ryan served me today and while I appreciate it, I don’t enjoy it. He’s almost too good at it and it makes me concerned that one day he’ll drop everything and become a waiter. That wouldn’t be good for our reputation, future or bank account so I’ll keep that thought in the back of my head. Next week, back to the grease.