Dirty Thirties

At 37, you never expect to shit your pants at Sprouts. You expect your skin to start sagging, your eggs to start disintegrating in your uterus like the Avengers in front of Thanos (spoiler alert), and you expect to be the saddest-looking bridesmaid in Rebecca’s (third) wedding photos. But to shit yourself at Sprouts? Excuse my candor but no Cosmopolitan quiz prepared me for this.

My friend Martha (think a young, Mexican Jennifer Coolidge) told me to put MCT oil in my coffee to help me lose weight. Listen, there’s a point in every woman’s life where you try whatever weight loss secret people give you. Like, if you were to tell me that licking a pigeon will make me go down a pant size, I won’t question the logic, I’ll probably just ask you how many Weight Watchers points that gives you. Many people tell me I’m obsessed with my weight and I always blame Mark Zuckerberg for it. Every time I’m feeling good about myself, Facebook shows me memories of a land full of spaghetti straps and crop tops. I looked so young, so fit! Now I have a checklist of problem areas I must conceal before every failed Tinder date. But back to me shitting my pants. Martha told me to put one tablespoon of MCT oil in my coffee to help “boost my metabolism,” whatever that means. Turns out the bitch meant one teaspoon and now my insides sound like a civil war reenactment. After I finished my very viscous coffee, I went to Sprouts to buy more healthy items to aid in my transition into a fitstagram, Californian-lifestyle blogger. It really was a horrible day to wear white pants.

What is worst about the “incident” (I’ll refrain from mentioning me shitting my pants again) is that it wasn’t the worst thing that has happened to me this week! On Sunday, and again, I’m blaming Mark Zuckerberg for this one, I accidentally stumbled upon my ex’s Facebook page and sat there scrolling through hundreds of pictures of him and his new girlfriend. The term “stumbled upon” is used loosely here but I was still heartbroken. He broke up with me because he “wanted to be alone for a while.” I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t waiting for him to get over his “needing space” phase and come back to me. I’ve been working through various coping mechanisms implemented by my support system (Oprah, Dr. Phil, and Tiffany “New York” Pollack) but nothing has worked. After a few glasses of wine and enough scrolling to make your thumb hurt, I decided the best way to work through this would be to friend the chick on Facebook.

Ok, hear me out! Of course I didn’t add her under my own profile, I’m not a psycho! So I created a fake profile for flower fanatics (she’s a florist), added a few hundred random people, and posted some photos so that it wouldn’t be suspicious. Her favorite flower is the lily because when she was growing up her grandfather would bring lilies to her grandma every Friday night. Or whatever, I’m just guessing. She accepted my friend request and even liked my pictures. She’s still a fucking bitch though.

On Tuesday (and this is going to be a recurring theme) after a few glasses of wine, I decided to message her. I really just wanted to see the kind of person she is. I am mature, I am completely over Ricky, I had been watching The Wedding Planner for the third time in a row, I just wanted to talk. And then things got out of hand.

20190327_2309433219216732541523558.jpg

20190327_2310293089106161126251940.jpg

20190327_2311102767653778771638375.jpg(I didn’t send that last message)

After I accidentally set up a date with my ex boyfriend’s new girlfriend, I couldn’t help but to feel uneasy for some reason. I kept tossing and turning in my bed thinking about how this was going to turn out. It could only really go two ways:

  • Scenario #1: the bitch doesn’t know who I am.

We talk about flowers, I gain her trust, I become her friend, and I destroy her. Either by making her gain weight, making her lose her boyfriend, or just creating a lot of 0 stars reviews on Yelp.

The bitch wants to steal people’s boyfriends? (Allegedly) Well, I’m gonna make her life a living hell.

  • Scenario #2: the bitch knows who I am.

We engage in a Kill Bill-style throwdown that leads into me walking out in slow motion from a building that is burning down.

Either way, I was ready, I was already planning what to wear. If she knew who I was, I wanted to look good. I wanted her to feel threatened. I wanted to look “like a snack.” Unfortunately, the glare on my phone showed me I looked like a full 4-course Italian meal and not in a good way. So that’s when I messaged Martha for a last-minute weight loss tip.

And now here I am today.

I am standing outside of Sprouts, with my cardigan around my waist, wondering if I should even go into my car. Every time somebody walks by I make a look of disgust and say “oh my God? What is that smell! Ugh I should’ve gone to Whole Foods, this is disgusting!” But the reality is, I am a 37 year-old single woman, who probably drinks too much, who soiled herself at Sprouts, and is currently catfishing her ex boyfriend’s girlfriend in an elaborate plan to get her to do the flowers from her fake wedding. Yikes!

It really does take something as strong as this “incident” to put everything into perspective, doesn’t it? I decided to block little miss perfect Hannah and delete my flower Facebook. The latter was a hard decision as I had already gained seven followers since I became a site administrator. I decided to stop engaging in fad diets and quick weight loss tips and perhaps invest some time in exercising. And finally, maybe it’s time to lay off the wine for a bit. All these realizations came from the time I soile… from the time I shat my pants at Sprouts. It was a full-circle Oprah meets Dr. Phil moment and I’m so glad it happened. I don’t know who needs to hear this but, I hope you turn your life around, even if it means you’ll shit your pants at Sprouts today.

 

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