I woke up this morning with a craving for two chocolate chip pancakes so intense that I was utterly powerless to resist.
Men, do you experience these things? Irrational flights from reality during which you make an entire batch of pancakes just so you can eat two? Inquiring minds need to know. Kellan enjoys food as much as the next guy, but I can’t remember the last time the man had a craving for something specific. He happily eats whatever is in front of him whether it’s a spinach salad or a molten lava fudge cake [shoot, and now we have my next craving]—and if I died tomorrow, he’d revert back to his bachelor lifestyle of processed foods and artificial dyes and would-you-like-to-supersize-that? without a second thought. [Well, that’s not entirely true. There are enough chicken marsala leftovers in the fridge to last him through Saturday.] The POINT here is that when it comes to food, Kellan Dickens is the easiest man on the planet.
I, on the other hand, only barely manage to hold the vast majority of my cravings at bay for fear of lopping out of my yoga pants and being forced to cut carbs [which I love more than life itself] or do a juice cleanse. And just between the two of us, the closest that I have ever come to doing a juice cleanse is googling “juice cleanse”, and that terrifying three and a half minutes all by itself was quite enough to curb my cravings into submission.
Pancakes for one might be a new low for me, but I am here today to tell you that there is HOPE FOR THE HOPELESS. No matter what murky depths you find yourself being scraped off the bottom of this morning, I discovered last week that it can always, always get worse. Are you ready for this? I need you to brace yourselves and maybe sneak a shot of Baileys into your coffee—this one’s not going to be easy for any of us.
I was innocently wandering the kill-zone masquerading as the Albany mall attempting to buy placemats [my life is very glamorous], when suddenly, I saw her. A brown-haired woman that appeared to be approximately my Mother’s age, smack dab in the middle of the crowded hallway in front of the Gap. Now, can we all agree that malls are traditionally considered to be public places? And this one certainly was, with hordes of angry New Yorkers milling about screaming into their smart phones and angrily ripping into their bagels and schmear. But not her. No, in the midst of the chaos, SHE was happily leaned back spread eagle in a black chair. The woman looked for all the world to be blissfully relaxed with her eyes closed and her hands folded across her stomach, as though she had been gently lulled to sleep by the soothing sound of crashing waves on a white-sanded tropical beach. Clearly, nobody had bothered to tell her that there was nary a sea shell nor pina colada in sight. [A homeless man urinating into a nearby trashcan, however, was a different story.]
Meanwhile, a frowning Asian woman teetered over her on a rather intimidating pair of heels. With a furrowed brow and hair that looked like glitter had exploded all over a pinterest project of rainbow colored hair extensions and butterfly clips gone horribly wrong, she stared intently down at her captive. Jerking her hands over the woman’s face, it took me a moment to realize that she was [take a deep breath!] THREADING HER UPPER LIP.
THREADING. THE. WOMAN’S. UPPER. LIP. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MALL.
My blue eyes bugged out of my head and I broke out into a cold sweat. Obviously, this was a desperate cry for help. Women of America, how did we GET here?! I mean, I like to think that I have zero shame. It’s why Kellan spends the better part of his time asking me to SHHHHH and PLEASE DON’T BLOG ABOUT THAT BABE. I let my imperfect flag fly high, and I’m good with that. But this. I stood in dumbfounded, frozen horror, powerless to look away as though I were observing some sort of catastrophic natural disaster. What is it that drives a once perfectly rational woman to wake up one morning and think to herself, “Well lookee there, I think I’m growing a mustache. Maybe I should get that taken care of. But wait! This is an experience that’s meant to be SHARED. I know! I’ll do it at the MALL.”
New. Low. I am truly stunned that I have to say this out loud, but alas my innocence has been ripped from me and I can no longer take anything for granted. So here it is: women of America, hair removal should not happen within 100 feet of a Gap. That’s a hard word, but it’s a good word. If you’re considering taking care of whatever hair issues you may have at the mall, in line at Starbucks or in the cereal aisle, I’m sure there’s a hotline you can call. I’d find it for you myself, but I’m so distraught over this whole thing that I think I’m going to go self-medicate with another pancake. Which last week, I might have been embarrassed about—but I think after this we can all agree that I’m doing JUST FINE.