I love going to industry parties. Or rather, I love forgetting what it means to be me, going to one of these parties. As someone who used to work in film & TV, I love being that asshole who turned her back on the bright lights of Hollywood to follow a different dream.
“Ugggghhhhhhhh.” Since the end of July I’ve had this prolonged medical fiaso that culminated recently in a magic operation. Two weeks earlier I also lost one of the most important people in my life. I went into surgery crying and I woke up crying. Now I’m back to work in two days after two weeks of narcotic post-surgical BSG catch up. I feel like someone has steamrolled my soul. “Uggghhhhhhh, bleeding heart!!!”
An older man of forty-six sporting workout gear and a bald spot boldly walks into our store. No, this is not the beginning of a joke.
At ten paces right in front of me he stops, then spends a good sixty seconds trying to turn off his iPod. He is a vision of mid-life crisis.
He tells me he has never been inside our den of sex. I welcome him sweetly. He peruses for a time before coming up to the counter, setting down a 3-pack of moderately acceptable condoms and a small bottle of lube. This is our conversation: