Country Club Series 1/2: It’s the Most Aunt-Flo-der-ful, Country Club Series 2/2: Aunt Flo Strikes Back
After one beer and 14 hours of work
I’m sure it’s sweat. It’s after dark and still in the 90s.
I scan the landscape. For the darkest path. In case Aunt Flo decided not to leave. Bee-atch.
Okay, can’t walk-run to my car. My purse is in the office. Breathe. My next steps:
- Cross the Welcome station
- Walk ½ way up the Circle Drive
- Get past the Valet-guarded doors
- Dodge outcoming bathroom crowd
- Walk 20 feet into a No-Escaping-Notice office
I’m sure I’m fine.
Nevertheless, I sneak behind a tree and pull my blue blouse as far down as it can go. *Almost* covers my bootie. It’s too dark to see anything. Like Inspector Gadget, I walk from tree-to-tree until I have to cross:
- Welcome Station
I look to the light: the welcome workers are distracted by the fireworks. This is also the main way in and out for members. I look both ways and cross. I got this. Like Indiana Jones, after he replaces the golden statue with a bag of carefully-metered sand, I feel: that was too easy. The boulder is coming.
- Circle Drive
I am in plain sight. No time to lose. To be safe, I practice a casual-and-speedy grapevine move with my back to the hedge – thank goodness for 7th-grade basketball.
- The Valet
I throw caution to the wind and open the main door. I will just apologize to the Valet for a clutsy ketchup incident. From what I understand, he’s not a full-time employee, so word might not get around. What? No valet? Sweet! I open the massive second door to the lobby.
- The Bathroom Crowd
The bathroom and offices are both to the right. Offices at 90-degrees, bathrooms at 45. The coast is clear! In the safety of dim lighting, I run and sit in a telephone chair next to the office door. I listen for toilets flushing or rustling in the office. Because there was this rumor about the old events director a couple of Christmases ago…
I only hear the fireworks. It’s the finale. My heart leaps in my throat.
- The Office
I softly turn the latch and peek into the overly-lit office. No one again! I run to my desk and sit down. And look down. And around.
It looks like I’m wearing a red thong! All the way around. Fuuuuu-dge.
Deep breaths. Okay, Heidi, what am I gonna do? My purse is big. Only a couple of minutes before this place is mobbed. I hop up and plaster my purse onto my front like a paranoid little old lady in New York City.
Getting to the Car
I retrace my steps, Gadget-style, to the main door with 100% success.
I crack the outer door open: Oh no, it’s my accounts receivable friend. She’s headed this way. If I walk away from her, the lights will show something. Or I’ll look weird holding a purse on my ass. I have to walk towards her. Like nothing is wrong.
Breathe, Heidi. Calm steps forward. Adjust your purse. Casually.
The fireworks end.
Caryn: Hey, you leavin? We’re just getting started!
Me: That sounds great. But I’m beat. Been here since 8.
Caryn: Okay, cool. Have a good night!
Thank god she’s not a big hugger.
Me: Yea, you too!
We pass and I move my purse from front to back, in case she looks. I sit down at the front curb of the well-lit parking lot. My car’s about 50 feet down. I hear peoples’ voices.
I unbuckle my high heels, dig my keys out of my bucket-of-a-purse-that-I’ll-never-complain-about-again, and run for it.
I get to my car. Without incident. EXHALE.
Then it happened.
Knock! Knock!
ME: AHHH!
I jump out of my skin and heave my purse out of the passenger seat to hide my lap.
Oh, it’s just the IT guy waving good night. I wave back.
I guess when you relax and take yourself out of the drawer, it all comes out. Next year, definitely wearing a red dress. And a trench coat.
POEM: Grace
We are all broken. We are all loved. Made by the Universe our souls blessed then shoved into these bodies. Blindly walking, we try to be robots: perfect and programmed, then we start to breathe or restart blue, tryin’. Imperfect from the start! the hospital was lyin’. So we spend our days 50,000 percent extra effort to get the A+ But from who? From you? From God? Or Mom? Why can’t we just be all broken and loved? Ahhh, your Perfect Shame Robot was not programmed for that. “Stay shackled in your drawer: that’s what you do.” Maybe, my dear, it’s time to use that key, golden, scuffed and worn, you’ve had in your hand since you were born. Grace, for loved and broken, You, to unlock your drawer. Grace to live unabashedly, lovingly, brokenly, forgivingly, like the Universe always knew You.
The SoulJourner QUESTion
Yes, it is true: when I was a kid, I was the child voted most likely to have barbeque sauce on my shirt after dinner. You’d think I would be used to a few laughs. It’s the opposite. However, after my first date with Stacey, (which involved a sandwich I am NEVER eating again in the company of other humans), I felt her grace. For my messiness. And, well, I started to think about not being so hard on myself. For being myself.
SERIOUS: Have you ever felt Grace from another but you don’t feel you deserve it? What do you think you can say to yourself in those moments to combat the feeling of unworthiness?
FUN: Do you have an embarrassing moment that you escaped from having when you were younger that you are willing to share?
