Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Yesterday I went to the pool for the first time to clock in the half hour of swimming I must complete outside of class. I am supposed to swim laps, practicing class drills. So I stood in the pool at one edge and read the ancient sexuality textbook for about an hour and-a-half. I wrote in the little log book that my stomach hurt, and I practiced kicking instead.
Over the summer I developed a farmer's tan that contrasts quite sharply with my lily-white skin. Thus, I only applied SPF lotion to my face, neck, and forearms, leaving everything else to crispen. And crispen it did. My, how it crispened: it burns. Rolling out of bed this morning hurt more than usual.
I do not want to tan, but if I must have a colour, I would that it be uniform.
Last night at work, one of the "regulars" came in with his friends, as usual. They're all rather loud and obnoxious, and I find him, in particular, to be a bit of a dousche. He is always nice enough to me, but I do not approve of how he behaves. Anyhow, when guys come up to the register, they often joke around with me, or make strange/lewd/bizarre comments, which I typically respond to with my own characteristic bizarreness.
This regular (who I shall henceforth refer to as "Doo-Rag Boy", for he wears a doo-rag) put his food on the counter and asked, "Can I have your number?" I presumed he was joshing, for no one ever hits on me in earnest, so I looked at him with comic incredulity and shrieked, "No!" His jaw dropped, and I then realized, belatedly, that he was not kidding.
Uh-oh.
After a second, he said, "Oh, I see how it is," which made me feel doubly guilty, for I had meant to imply nothing about his blackitudiness- but he probably wouldn't have been any more receptive if I had told him, "Du bist ein Dusch- es tut mir Leid."
I scribbled my cell number for him (on register tape) nevertheless, and I assured him with, "Well, I promise it's real". But if I were he, I wouldn't call me.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 10:25 AM]