by Jo Watson
2 Nov.
Dear Diary,
A spark of hope.
It’s not all doom and gloom, Matt has invited me to his parents 50th wedding anniversary party. I know I am not reading too much into this when I say it feels date-y. All my friends agree too—even Jane and Stormy have come off the fence on this one. Even they concur that an invite like this implies more than friendship.
The best part, it’s an away party. We’ll be taking a drive down to the Midlands, staying there for two nights and returning on Monday morning. The Midlands are misty and romantic. And it’s cold. Which means raging log fires and gluhwein and the need to get under fluffy, warm duvets—hopefully together. So much to do before going.
To Do List
1. Get Brazilian. (Remember to put fear of God into waxologist after last disaster when hot wax landed in a place that nothing should ever go near and the only way to get rid of it was to rip . . . just because the Kardashians wax down there, doesn’t mean you want to.)
2. Eyebrow shaping.
3. Buy condoms—because you are going to use them! (WHOO-HOO! Fist pump. Be positive. Don’t let the fact you haven’t had sex in over a year bring your confidence down. It’s like riding a bicycle. It’s like riding a bicycle. It’s like riding a bicycle—repeat mantra throughout day.)
4. Get new lingerie—not too slutty, but not too Virgin Mary. Maybe pink. Red is too much. Red might say this is premeditated and that you have been anticipating this. White is perhaps too little. (Maybe it would be cheaper to throw the reds into my washing machine with my whites and see what happens.)
This is it. I know it. It has to be! If I am here tomorrow this time and I have not told Matt how I feel, then I fear it will be too late.
More cuming soon . . . (terrible pun intended!)
9 Nov.
Dear Diary,
I’ve waited an entire week to write this because I didn’t know how to face you with the news.
Matt and I did not while we were away at the anniversary party. In fact, I hardly saw him for those two days as he buzzed around with all his other friends and family.
I’m wondering if I can return the sexy undies I bought? I really splashed out this time, more so than usual. I probably can’t, since I did try them on once and ripped the label off. So I guess they will just go into my underwear drawer with all the others I’ve bought for Matt. The drawer is overflowing and I don’t know what to do with them. I have watched Orange is the New Black and saw that storyline where the prisoners started selling their worn panties to weird panty sniffers on the internet, that might be a real option for me at some stage . . .
I’m deflecting with humor here. But honestly, there is nothing humorous about any of this.
More later, but probably not . . .
CHAPTER TEN
It was dusk when my taxi pulled up to the hotel. The drive had been spectacular. On my right, the road wound its way along the idyllic, sparkling coastline, and to my left, huge mountains reached up to the sky. When I finally got to the hotel, I couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped my lips. It was gorgeous. It looked like one of those massive plantation houses in Louisiana, hopefully without the creepy horror movie feel. It was set back on rolling emerald green lawns with the tallest palm trees I’d ever seen. I climbed out of the car and was hit by the warm sea breeze. A subtle scent hung in the air too—what was it? Magnolia?
The inside of the hotel was just as spectacular as the outside. It was all so reminiscent of those bygone colonial days. Drinking gin and tonics in white cotton dresses while lounging on the patio and watching the cricket. I felt as if I was being transported back in time.
It was exactly 7 p.m. when I checked in and finally got to my room. The room didn’t disappoint either. It was huge and luxurious and had one of those enormous beds that you could get lost in. The bath was a round tub that was more reminiscent of a plunge pool than an actual bath. I suddenly wished more than anything that Matt would magically appear in the bath, and when I realized he wouldn’t, I headed straight for the very well-stocked minibar.
No, it wasn’t for the alcohol this time. It was the large bag of M&Ms that were calling my name. The giant Twix bars, extra-long, buy two get one free, were singing to me right now. Indeed, it was a massive bag of crisps that implored me to eat it.
But the food did little to comfort me, in fact, all it did was remind me of Matt. Our evenings spent on the couch together eating junk food and drinking beer until our pants were so tight and we had to open our top buttons. It reminded me of all those times that I’d sat there loving him so hard, and not having him love me back.
In fact, most things reminded me of Matt. We’d spent so much time together over the last three years that he’d become an integral part of my life. Like a thread permanently woven into a tapestry, and I wasn’t sure there was any way of getting him out of it without the whole picture falling apart.
My mind whirled in circles and I went to my bag and pulled out my diary again. I hadn’t written in it for a while, but I read it often. I’d spent many a night flipping through it, analyzing the trajectory of our relationship and trying to figure out where it had gone wrong. I kept trying to identify that one moment that should have told me, beyond a reasonable doubt, that he was just not into me. I’d thought I’d found it the other day. I opened it and read.
3 Dec.
Dear Diary,
Worst thing ever happened. I am so far in the friend zone that there is no returning from it. While watching a movie together today, Matt farted next to me.
Farted.
That’s all . . .
But each time I thought I had proof, I found something else that contradicted it. I turned the page and continued to read:
20 Dec.
Dear Diary,
Friends offered new take on farting incident: “Maybe he is just so comfortable around you that he can do that? Maybe it really means that he likes you THAT much. That he knows you will accept every part of him.”
Interesting theory. I did some research on it too, and as it turns out I found a piece called, “He doesn’t love you unless he farts around you.” Article seemed to confirm friend’s suggestions. Maybe farting is not all that bad. Maybe I am not as deep in the friend zone as I thought.
More later . . .
Dear Diary (Later)
No! I am so deep in the friend zone. So, so deep. Knee-deep? Waist-deep? No, I’m drowning in it. So today I did it, I had to. During one of our regular SMS marathons, I said, “I love you.” And his response? Can you guess? “Luv ya too, dude.”
Dude!
That should be considered one of the filthy four-letter words. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever read a word that has hurt me so deeply. My friends are starting to change their tune again. I wish they weren’t as confused as I was. Now they also suspect he’s not into me.
But how can Matt not be my soulmate? We spend so much time together, we have fun together, we are comfortable around each other, we share everything with each other . . . how can this not be a clear sign for soulmate-ness?
Maybe I mustn’t give up? Shit! I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I’m back in that loop. The song is playing over and over in my head again.
More later . . .
Just reading it was making me exhausted and giving me a headache. I tossed the diary onto the bed and tried to figure out what the hell I was meant to do next. I opened the doors at the other end of my room and walked out onto the patio. The warm sea breeze hit me in the face and it was amazing.
The swimming pool was directly in front of me, its surface rippling in the breeze and glistening in the moonlight. And on the other side of the pool, behind a huge row of softly swaying palm trees, I could see the beach and tranquil sea. I sat there looking out over these various sights, hoping that they might imbue me with some kind of Dalai Lama-like inner peace, but they didn’t. Each time the sea water rippled and the breeze blew through the palm trees, I felt like I was
going to jump out of my skin. The more I stood still, the more my mind buzzed and hummed, and the more my entire body screamed at me to run. So I kicked off my shoes and stepped onto the soft grass.
I wandered aimlessly across the lawn; past the other rooms, past another small swimming pool, one abandoned slip-slop. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew that I needed to walk in an attempt to escape my thoughts, even though I could feel they were right behind me, following me, nipping at my ankles like an angry dog.
How the hell had I become that girl? The “perfect” Hollywood rom-com-trope girl. The best friend who’s been secretly pining for the man who’s about to walk down the aisle and marry someone else. There’s a big difference between me and those movies, though. Those movies usually have a happy ending. The hero always lands up dumping the bride at the altar and then running off to pursue the best friend, realizing that he’s been in love with her this entire time. But in my case that was never going to happen, and I needed to somehow deal with it. The million-dollar question was how, though?
I heard a rustle in the plants behind me and jumped as something moved in the undergrowth. I turned just in time to see the big, prehistoric head emerge from the bushes. It was a massive tortoise. I got down on my haunches, despite very sore knees, and watched as the huge creature appeared. It looked at me slowly at first, and then stretched its neck out and brought its head all the way up to mine, as if it were trying to communicate with me.
“Hey, big guy,” I said to this bizarre-looking creature. There was something strangely wise about it, as if it had seen and done it all and knew everything. Maybe it did?
“So what do you think?” I asked him. He didn’t move and his stretched neck seemed frozen and then he locked eyes with me.
“Well?” I asked again. “Got any words of wisdom for me? Do you think I’ll ever get over Matt?”
And then slowly, and unexpectedly, he opened his beaky mouth and . . .
“Oh my God!” I jumped in fright, fell backwards and then scrambled away as quickly as I could from the eardrum-shattering noise that had just come blaring out of his mouth. It was a strange and terrifying cross between a groan and a roar—I didn’t even know tortoises made noises! It was disturbing. And then the noise changed. It was different this time, it was almost . . . Wait, was he laughing at me? It certainly sounded like it. I glared back at him and I could see it. See it in his inky-black evil eyes. He was judging me!
“You tortoise bastard!” I hissed at him. He looked at me with a serious death stare. I was just about to reprimand him more when I heard another bizarre and frightening sound. Oh my God, was someone getting murdered?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The light from the full moon was illuminating everything, so it wasn’t long before I saw what was making the awful noise. There, on another patio, someone was sitting with their back to me. The sounds the person was making were straight out of a torture scene in a slasher horror movie. I imagined that the person was busy having their toenails pulled out one by one, or their eyeballs injected with acid. I wasn’t sure what the hell I was going to see when they turned around. I was terrified. I walked all the way up to the patio and stood there quietly. And then, the person stirred. They began to turn as if they were suddenly aware of my presence . . .
“Oh my God!” I jumped in fright as the person finally faced me.
“What the . . .?” I was met with the most bizarre sight. It was a man, that much I was sure of. But his face was covered in a thick black mask that he was busy trying to peel off, very unsuccessfully, judging from the cries of agony.
I stood there in silence for a moment, unsure of what I was really seeing and how I was meant to respond to it. And then, the black mask started moving and words came out.
“It was a sample from a magazine,” the man said, it sounded more like a desperate plea for help than an actual statement. “I put it on my face, and now I can’t get it off.” There was an edge of panic to his voice.
“A magazine?” It took me a few seconds to register what he was saying, and when I did . . . “What?” I almost shouted at him. I was downright shocked. Floored, to say the bloody least. “You should never, ever, ever use those free sample things. Everyone knows that.”
“They do?” he asked, sounding even more panicked. “Why?”
I shook my head and took a step closer. “Well, they are officially the cheapest things you can find which means that the ingredients they’re made from are probably toxic enough to be used in an A-bomb and you can bet that none of them have been approved by the FDA, or any other regulatory board for that matter.” I finished my little rant and looked at him. I’d written an article on the strange world of beauty products once and discovered some horrific things. Nightingale droppings and snail secretions were considered legitimate ingredients in beauty products.
“Really?” The man looked at me in horror—well, I thought that was what it was, all I could really see were his eyes. I tried to extrapolate all the relevant information from his body language, since his face was entirely unreadable. His shoulders suddenly slumped and I felt very sorry for him. He’d gotten himself into a rather large spot of black, gooey bother.
“Let me see the sample packet,” I said, taking a step towards him. He picked the sachet off the table and passed it to me. I held it in my hands and looked at it, my suspicions confirmed. I shook my head and read out loud.
“Petrifying peel of mask of blacky charcoals. For glow of youth and freshness in face.” I paused for added effect. “You’re lucky if this was even made on this planet, let alone China.”
He shook his head. “Crap. Now what?”
I sighed. “Let me help you,” I said, walking all the way up to him to get a better look. On closer inspection, it looked as though the black mask had actually fused with his skin. “You do know that this is an actual thing, right?” I asked, taking my nail and trying to peel back a tiny section of the mask.
“What is?”
“It’s become an internet meme, people trying to peel off charcoal masks and screaming in pain while doing it. Much like you’re doing now.”
“Oh?” His eyes widened.
I nodded. “They’re all over YouTube, no one in their right mind would put one of these things on after seeing those.”
“And how did they all get them off?” he asked.
I moved away and looked the man in his eye. God, he had amazing steely-gray-colored eyes under all that black crap. “They pulled,” I said. “And it hurt.”
He nodded and then sat back down in his chair and looked like he was bracing himself. “Do it. Please. It already hurts, my face feels so tight I can barely open my mouth.”
“You sure?” I asked, sitting next to him.
“No, I’m not sure. But it has to come off.”
I nodded and went back to work, trying to pull enough off to grab between my fingers. It was difficult, but I finally managed to get enough to work with.
“Okay. Here goes.” I pulled and heard a ripping sound, like I was pulling the top layer of his skin off. He grabbed the sides of his chair and winced in pain. I could see he was trying to be brave. I pulled again, and this time, the wince became a loud yelp.
“You’re kidding!” he said, pushing my hands away.
“I’m sorry.” I felt terrible.
“Just do it. Quickly. Please. I have deep regret over this,” he said frantically, even though his mouth could barely move due to the tightening of the mask that looked more like a medieval torture device than an actual beauty product. Beauty was meant to be pain, but surely not this much? And all of a sudden, this whole thing seemed very funny to me.
I smiled. I was trying not to, but there was something amusing about this clearly very ill-informed man’s pain. I wondered if this was what people at the engagement party had thought of me as I stood up there crashing and burning for all to see and hear. Suddenly, my feelings turned again and I felt less amused and more desperate to help this
poor soul, unlike how no one had helped me.
“Okay. Can I go for it then?” I asked, gripping some more between my fingers.
He nodded and braced himself again.
I pulled and his entire body shot up out the chair. “Ow!” He almost screamed that part and I didn’t blame him. I looked down at my hand and was holding a large piece of what looked like black plastic.
“This stuff is not normal.” I shook my head, placing it down on the table. “It can’t be good for you.”
“Clearly,” he said, rubbing the side of his face, trying to ease what I can only imagine was serious pain.
I patted the chair for him to sit back down. “Almost done,” I said, although I’d only managed to pull the bottom half off.
“Are you sure you can’t wash it off?” He sounded desperate.
I shook my head. “No. Afraid not.”
“Okay.” He took a sip of the drink he had on the table and then looked at me. “Want one?” he asked.
“No, thanks. Think I should be sober for this.”
“Good point.” He put his head back and closed his eyes. “Do it all at once. And don’t stop until it’s all off.”
“Okay,” I said, and then was almost about to pull when he shot up again.
“I’m Alex, by the way.” He extended a hand for me to shake. I took it and smiled at him. This was up there with the top five strangest meetings of my life. Right up there with the time I bumped into my high school principal coming out of an adult shop with a brown paper bag.
“Val, nice to meet you . . . I guess.” I shook his hand and he settled back into his chair.