Days have moved faster and now I've nosedived into what becomes "less than a month territory".
Apparently people are so desperate to get abroad these days, or more rather get their things abroad. I recently returned from the post office ten minutes ago where in the midst of a packed line full of package shippers, one woman cut in front of all of us to demand that she needed one stamp. One stamp is all I need, she said, just one stamp. Alright the man replies, as he reaches for his stamp booklet she interjects with, I need one stamp to Germany.
Well if all the old biddies behind me weren't already fuming with anger at her cutting in front of them, they are now foaming at the mouth at her special foreign request. Very loudly they began muttering amongst themselves, "well I just NEED one stamp too", "well I just needed ONE question answered", but they don't say it to her, they wont address it to her, they just mock her loudly behind the vinyl partition counter. Which is all the more great for me, because at this point I am just gagging with giggles. The snowman sweater mafia of grandmas next to me continues to do this for sometime and the woman grows more indignant at their jeering. "Well Jan, I'm going to say something, I just have to say something", but she doesn't. They look at me with tender but strained expressions inviting me to join in on their jeers but I'm not angry, I'm snug in my sweater so I decline the offer with my eyes. I can already hear their conversation in her nicer, but respectable Volvo sedan, " The nerve of that woman!". I can picture one of them using the b term, but that's only if they are feeling frisky. They will most likely bring it up at the dinner table, to their husbands, and it will be their story of the day. If only I could wish for anything so simple.
Yesterday I escorted my mother to Macy's with her wheelbarrow of coupons for a little light shopping trip that plagued her with guilt the whole way. Along the isle of synthetic department store silks that have the priced intention of looking nice, I spotted up on high to the right, a knit shawl collar sweater that screamed, "Im going to Aspen". My facination half stemmed from the fact that it was beautiful, along with the fact there was no possible way I would need it in three months of eighty degree asian dry season. I scowled at Calvin Klein's Aspen apsirations and walked away from it, only to have my mother joyously spot it five minutes later. It was more of a declaration of my departure to a land thousands of miles away then it was about my desire to not buy it. I'm going to Aspen! sweater became more a symbol than I hoped it would be when I first looked at it, as something nice and not worn reminds you that you will be wearing it later rather than being able to think of nothing other than being thousands of miles away. What was I supposed to do in this situation?
Mom bought the sweater with glee and the same evening after meeting a few friends at a biker bar named Wanker's Corner, hair in curls with pearl earrings, it stunk of ciggarette smoke forever more. So it goes.