It’s a Tuesday afternoon. I’m wearing a XXL Dennis Rodman shirt from his 1997 film Double Team with Jean Claude Van Damme that I paid $95 for at a thrift shop in the East Village – which is typical because I’ve never even seen the movie and am now one of those girls who’s wearing something that has no idea what it is besides soft.
Ricola honey lemon cough drop wrappers surround me like girlfriends after a break up with an abusive boyfriend as I’m sprawled across my couch, legs splayed over my Organic Modernism coffee table, which doesn’t go at all with the rest of my living room décor. I finish off a mediocre side order of mashed potatoes from Canters and wash them down with a glass of Cherry 7up, an underrated charming Shirley Temple-like soda.
I’m sporting a pair of semi-comfortable army green yoga pants that are baggy in the crotch but restrict around the ankles that I got for free from Equinox for getting my friend to join. I usually wear them for no more than two hours because of the ankle restriction, but am too much of a hoarder to throw them away and too narcissistic to admit maybe I just have cankles, so eventually I take them off and sit with my laptop on the top of my lap and let it heat up my ovaries for backup birth control because the pill is only 99% effective.
What’s dope about all of this is no one can make me feel bad about chilling so extremely hard during the day because everyone wants you to stay in and rest when you’re sick. You’re treated like a princess. Side Note: I don’t want to be treated like a queen; I want to be treated like a princess because it sounds younger and sexier. Only when sick, will I allow my body to rest along with my resting bitch face at this level of maximum relaxation. Otherwise I’m normally resting bitch face with slightly active “recovering” bulimic body.
When you’re sick, everything becomes acceptable. Not washing your hair after a workout, telling a valet that agrees to parking your car for free “you’ll be right back” but taking an hour, nearly running over pedestrians in a convertible while blasting ignorant rap music and not making a big deal about it, lying in bed for 5 hours eating the chocolate chips you were supposed to use to bake cookies, taking photos of yourself with a plastic bag over your head. All acceptable.
When I went to the doctor yesterday, she looked at my throat and said I had a virus that was “going around” but didn’t need any antibiotics and should take some OTC shit like Mucinex. Wack. I only slept for 5 hours and begrudgingly took Nyquil super late after a not-so-cute coughing fit which could’ve been avoided I’m sure with some codeine if she had been so bold.
This morning I worked out with a trainer and had low energy because of my lack of sleep and proper suppressants. It was a comp’d session, so the extra delay in my sets must’ve been annoying for him but I was also sick so it was deemed acceptable. The entire time he was hitting on me, which was annoying so I had to be kind of a bitch to repel him, which is also reasonable when someone you don’t like is trying to fuck.
Example of his bad game:
The trainer was stretching me after our workout and while my legs were in the air he eagerly inquired, “Do you like sports cars?”
“I drive a Porsche,” he interrupted, waiting for me to get wet. He looked down at my pussy which was concealed in tight black Lululemon stretch pants and realized after that line it was most likely drier than a 55 year woman with a yeast infection in Joshua Tree and looked off into the distance, not focusing on anything in particular, just the sounds of the weights clamping against the machines and recalled he didn’t actually have a Porsche. I didn’t even feign a response, I just looked off into the distance myself, catching my reflection in the mirrors and thinking about how hot I look when I’m sick.
I love the victimization of being sick, the helplessness and desire to be taken advantage of physically. I love having many liquids surrounding me that I will never finish: Water, Cherry 7up, Airborne Fizzy Drank, Tea, Coconut Water. A wealth of hydration; slowly tasting each drink and allowing my palette to decide which will make the next round of Who Wants To Be Drunk By Chelsea. Prize: Hydration.
My brain doesn’t feel like finishing this.