Master Chef. Master Everything.

Dear Adidas. Sponsor my site. Warm Regards, Jasmine.

I left my gym bag at the office. It was probably the most subconscious thing I’ve done in some time– but how would I know that right?– and now I’m standing in a muggy subway with two plastic bags competing over which gets to bounce off of my thigh. In one therein lies expensive shampoo, and in the other four pieces of chicken, one tub of mashed potatoes, and one tub of mac and cheese.

The way I’ve sabotaged my gym efforts won’t have that great an effect on my week or my evening for that matter, so I get busy blogging. The sooner I blog, the sooner I have two free hands to eat with.

Before this I was, of course, at work. My fiance challenged me to remember to be responsible by trusting me with his id over the last several days, and arrived close to noon to retrieve it. He rang my extension just as a co-worker called my name to tell me he was ready for lunch. The three of us rode the elevator down, and stood on the street for a moment. Kwaku, most trusted work compadre that he is, pretended to look at something else while I said goodbye to Brandon.

“You’ll come over tonight right? I taped ‘Master Chef’,” I said.

“You taped ‘Master Chef’? That’s your…that’s what you’re luring him with?” Kwaku called out.

 

One day it’ll be sex, a clean house, a steak, and who knows what else…but yeah, a few good dvr’d television shows are all I got until we’re married and live together, ok? And it must work, because I’m patiently waitin’ for the train so I can let him in.

But back to the present, and to work.The empty desk count grows as we row further into the waters of August. The upper level wealthy ones vacation, the working class disappears more and more frequently. Perhaps I should too. It is after all, as my favorite wealthy co-worker put it, the end of the warm season.

“Enjoy summer’s twilight,” he called out in a pleasant tone. It were as though he owned it.

I will. I will escape early. At least once, next week, I’ll enjoy summer’s twilight. Something clicked within me yesterday, something that I’ve been anticipating. It’s wedding jitters. Jitters doesn’t indicate nervousness or dread in my case, because it’s impossible to be either when you’re as through about planning as I am. To me, jitters is electric excitement. Tangible expressions of genuine joy. My legs quake under my desk, up and down, as I find myself looking at our invitations. Or little mason jars that will cover tables.

Perhaps jitters was the wrong word. Never ever do I want to be considered a bridezilla, so I’ve avoided talking about it as much as possible up to now. I never wanted to be the obnoxious girl who turns every opportunity to encourage someone else into a moment to discuss a fleeting day, a mere group of hours in which some vows are exchanged and some food is consumed. And without being irrational, I think I can now release the good.

Was that a rat?

Thank God, only trash. Where is the train?

So I’ll work hard, and then execute some more wedding business next week. I’ll rise early to be the first (among none) into the office, then make the best use of sunny afternoons to run errands.

If I rise early it only means temporary trouble. It means…

…That the zombies will get me.

The zombies are what I call the people–people who used to be whole people– who wander into the deli during the busiest commuter hours. It’s odd, you know, because some of them move quickly, wagging a cane so quickly you wonder why they need it. And then others are melting as they stand, literally crumbling to the ground in slow motion.

It’s not the neighborhood’s fault. Rather it’s that the neighborhood has a drug safeway house about fifteen minutes away from where I live and a great family-owned pharmacy very nearby. That safeway house is a methodone clinic. Former crack addicts wander to the clinic, get hooked on legality, on things like meth, receive treatment, and then wander to the deli while they wait for the pharmacy to open. They make no sense most of the time, they’re paranoid, and none of them seem to grasp that you can’t smoke in the deli.

It should be illegal to heal someone with a different version of what they’re running from.

But what do I know? I left my gym bag in the office.

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