the measure of a woman is out of her reach
Something of a ritual, a routine, a guarantee, the coffee forms a small tidal wave as I shuffle across the kitchen and leaps onto the left breast area of my clean and favourite shirt. Without fail, always. Why dont I learn: Coffee and then dress? But, no. In the nerdish daze of the morning I will, without fail, always slop the coffee onto myself. No amount of self-annoyance gets the coffee out and the top swapped and the bus made on time, no amount of nagging self-loathing at the inevitable clutziness of this kind of event turns back time.
Running. I dont do running. Dont like to run for the bus, as it is so undignified. Yet somehow I find myself doing this every single morning of my working life, running running running with the full knowledge that the driver is going to pull away at the last minute; blank, averted look or smug smirk across face as I mouth my cursing into the verboten glass. Fucking bitch shit.
Knowing full well that the next bus is at least 45 minutes away I must now walk. Walk when I knew I would have to walk but still decided to wear a tightish, knee length skirt, stockings and court-heeled shoes. There will be chaffing a-plenty and burning thighs and heels to distract me throughout my day now. Slacks and trainers would have been such a sensible choice. As would have been dressing after coffee but of course Im an asshole and find myself cursing and muttering to myself as I walk the hour and a half to the palace of boredom and irritation.
Arriving with slight pit stains and hair that is now crawling across my face, I know I must now greet Desiree on reception with a perky grin and cheery 'Hiya' or risk an excruciating interrogation as to what is wrong even though my hellish appearance (the same hellish appearance I present her with most days) is explanation enough. She gives me her glassy, clear-eyed smile and her perma-optimist 'Helloo' (yes, she actually says 'helloo'). I both envy and pity Desiree. The pity part is only present, of course, to sour the envy, stop it eating me up. How can I be Desiree when this is my existence? Can I learn from her? Is it a possible alternative or will she always be there at that desk to remind me that I can never reach that forever fresh and lovely, desirable emblem of womanhood? Desiree reminds me of a girl who for two years of junior school was my best friend, the girl who I loved and wanted to be who then turned into the biggest bullying bitch I had ever met in my life. What changed? Why did Pamela Hughes become such a hellish, nasty cow? I never knew. Was it a trauma, a hormonal transition or a preparation for the move to secondary boot camp that was our high school years? So there had been two Pamela Hughess in my life one sweet and lovely and the other pure evil. Both had been pristine no matter what, even after gym class.
Life is so frigging unfair.
Now to negotiate through the minefield of desks and jaded glances. This is nothing new, this is the same old same old of each and every day. This has to change or I will fall into a pattern of not even caring that I am always late, always dishevelled, always angered that this is my life. Today. Today. Today things will change.
I walk past my desk to the loos, the sight in the mirror not surprising but I must now transform my mind from one of self-contempt to one of optimistic project- maker. First to strip and wash; freshness is the main priority of this endeavour, slicking back the hair with water into a tight ponytail, reapplying makeup, swapping sticky blouse for cardigan everything I can do right here and now to make myself semi-human again.
Out in the office there are slightly surprised glances that I have managed to make something non-repulsive of my usual monstrous visage. Theres a slight muttering and puzzled brows as I just walk right back out again.
Down in reception I stride behind the desk, grab Desiree by the wrist, and march her out of the door. Too stunned to ask why she stumbles alongside me, still gripped in my hand as I push her onto the first bus I see, pay our fares and then sit down. I'm beginning to wonder why she isnt asking me any questions, protesting, screaming when I notice the tears in her eyes. Oh crap crap. She thinks Im crazy. A crazy kidnapping bitch and I suppose shes right. I have no idea what I am doing or where I am going I just know that if I'm going down she is going down with me. The perfect and the flawed. The pretty and the pretty messed up totally now I dont know how Im going to get out of this one.
Remorse and embarrassment overcome me, I turn to her and say, 'I'm sorry. So sorry, Desiree. Its not a good day. It never is a good day'. To my shock she throws her arms around my neck and buries her face into my shoulder, beginning to sob. Im baffled. If my behaviour is erratic and insane then I have no idea what this is about. The sobs turn into sighs as she calms down and I realise that the bus is moving down towards my house so I extricate myself from her grasp and say softly, cautiously, 'Desiree, we're getting off here', walking her to the door. Stepping off the bus I guide her down the streets as she continues to lean on me, wrap herself around me. I have no idea no idea no idea but it seems that the perfect one has crumbled and this mess that is me is the strong one, the supportive one and it feels comfortable and right somehow.
Turning into my street I wonder what will happen next. What was I intending and what has this become? I've walked out of my job, taking the anchor that is Desiree The Receptionist with me. In my house, into the living room I place her onto the sofa and pull her off me. Theres a damp place on my shoulder from her tears and runny nose. Theres makeup there too, and streaming down her cheeks. Desiree looks a total, vulnerable mess.
'Desiree, whats the matter?' I ask but she just looks at me, moon eyes, blonde hair damply in her face, which I brush away, surprisingly tenderly. She blinks and semi-smiles, her mouth quivering involuntarily as she seems about to speak but instead plants her mouth on mine in a very definite manner that takes me so much by surprise that I don't compute at first. After all, this whole situation is surreal. Desiree is kissing me.
*********
Too stunned not to respond to her mouth I find myself kissing her back and with a relieved whimper she falls back onto my shoulder. Her voice in my ear whispers something that sounds like, 'I love you' but not quite, not near enough for me to be entirely sure, but what else could it possibly be? Not that I'm assuming love but what else sounds like that, which she might be uttering after such a passionate tongue kiss? My Desiree-linked-life starts speeding through my mind; all those times that she smiled, that hopeful winning smile, all those times that she asked how I was, all those times it wasnt annoying cheerleader peppiness, it was genuine care and concern. It was because she likes me. Desiree The Receptionist likes me.
It hits me now that of all the people I work with I do not have any clue as to her last name. I have no idea at all about her really, just the assumptions and judgements I made on seeing the generic skinny blonde terminally pretty receptionist, the face of the company, the bland inoffensive and uninteresting girl I wish weren't there to start my day with awkwardness and a reminder of what I lack. Instead she is sighing and now looking at me with such devotion that it becomes very clear to me because I know that look from my own face she has a massive crush on me. DESIREE THE RECEPTIONIST FANCIES CLUTZ-ASSED FUCK-WITTED ME. Surely the universe now will tilt off its axis? Surely there will be a shudder down the spine of all humanity at the unlikelihood of this revelation? Surely by god theres someone hotter than me at that office for her to fixate on?
So unexpected, so out of this world I am not quite sure what to do or if I want to, I find myself leaning down and kissing her softly on her lips, her relieved surrender quickly turns into passion unleashed and is so familiar to me I am shocked by the recognition. All the major crushes that I have had and the one or two occasions that they have actually been given the chance of expression (usually while totally off our mutual faces at office or birthday parties) and the full-on impact of the opportunity turning me into a rabid hellion terrifying the recipient into repulsed withdrawal. Oh those horrified looks are etched into my fevered brain. No amount of alcoholic cell death can erase the bits it should. But here and now, as the other party to this scenario I do not feel compelled to run, not shocked into a loud 'no!' instead I respond to her, welcoming her devoted ardour, responding in kind not sure of where the hell this is all coming from or where it might be going.
When I woke up today I never thought for a moment that by 11.30 I would be back at my house, snogging Desiree The Receptionist on my sofa.
I have a feeling that tomorrow I will probably slop coffee onto my top. I have a feeling I may miss the bus (if I go for the bus at all) and I have a feeling that I will be late for work (if I turn up tomorrow or ever again); this isn't some tale of instant change and transformation because of the love of a good woman; this isn't some story about the opposites of people being revealed in a disjointed moment; this is, instead a rendition of how one moment of breakdown brought about something so sudden and unexpected that all I will do now is run with it to its own, mysterious and out of my hands conclusion.
But, I am sorry I will spare you the details.