Super sucks when you’re wearing readers doing invoicing and you realize you’re out of beer and then you feel super more drunk walking in readers to the fridge with the room suddenly all close-up-blurry and a succulent plant comes into focus that appears way more thirsty than you, and then you make the big mistake… you pull them down your nose, pop the beer, and realize, you’re like the most non-fuckable DMV civil servant ever….the one with the English teeth, and the stuffed animal of a sloth holding a wait ticket that reads “Any day now.” And even though you have lip plumper on and new feather earrings, you still are drinking and invoicing with readers half down your nose… it’s worse than a DUI. It’s the true DWI, drinking while invoicing, and you’re like nooo, readers aren’t sexy, math is like totally way beyond physics, and you feel your Medulla Regatta de Blanca super over taxed at that moment in the back of your brain, throbbing with quotients and ratios, and then it’s just the song you have to hear RIGHT NOW while you press the save button on your abacus math….
“Message in a Bottle” comes up…. And then yes, there is it, again, the 80’s, when your first understanding of international politics was getting to cheat off an Iranian revolution math geek, and your teacher is sticking the end of his reader glasses into his ear, and then thinking that no one is seeing him lick it out after, and you have no clue that the big message in that bottle is don’t drink and even remotely try to add shit up.
But you push the reader up your nose, ignore the thirsty succulent, and back at your computer, continue to add and add and add the numbers again. No idea that math and being able to read the message in a bottle are connected just like the ratio you just goggled how to do, again. Because you are fucking Independent Contracting now…. Meaning you can be super hung over tomorrow and no one will know, and you can be a balls-out American buzzed boot-strapper, and get the math right before the next beer runs out. Manifest discrepancies. Free and freewheeling your story. Drink and add. It’s who we’ve become now…perennial fudgers.
But I’m not gonna now. I gonna take off the readers and the sports bra for sports I never do. I gonna take off the yoga pants that just suck the tummy in with no Namaste. I will delete my slutty flirtation with QuickBooks. And dial in the next song I crave like the furrow between my brows needs a Botox bump: “Satisfaction.” I will try, and I will try, and I will try-try-try-try…. And it’s not the Stones, but Devo this time, the dark fun of the 80’s, again! When sucking at math was cool. When I.T was not a thing. When there were only taxis. When you had to see your gal to love her, not fall in love with a message in a bottle on the World Wide Web. When we pulled long phone chords from the wall into our waterbeds to talk all night with records having to be turned over and over that really mattered. When conquering acne was more militant than carpet bombing Al-Qaeda with Noxzema. When lube was just a sneaky swipe of root beer flavored lip gloss to regions yet to be explored….
Call me super nostalgic and stupid, and I am ok with that. The first sex I had was virtual… me and a best buddy male holding hands on our bellies on Stinson Beach, and our hand reaching each other through sand. The tentative touching and then combining of our two hands remains as lovemaking, long before a text and photo of parts could begin love for our kids with the whisper of porn.
But, according to my fit bit, I have masturbated 4 miles in the last week. So at the end of it all, thank God for math…. It’s non-American to not add…because satisfaction, at 52, is a tricky and fabulous equation I am figuring out how to do.
- Sarah Luck