And then this also happened.

So...you know how when you're hiding from a guy's mother, half-naked in his laundry room with your winter boots held over your boobs for modesty's sake?

No?

Well not everybody can be so worldly.

In my defense...they were really nice boots. Completely appropriate for meeting somebody's mother for the very first time, even if they weren't exactly on my feet.

As I peeked through the wide crack in the door at Alex trying to prevent his mother from continuing up the stairs and into his house where all she would have to do is turn her head slightly to the right to find out exactly where she'd heard the sound of a girl laughing, I started to panic.

I've wanted to meet Alex's mother for years. If she found me in her son's laundry room, and if she happened to notice I wasn't her son's live-in girlfriend, the ensuing conversation would probably be very different from the one I'd repeatedly imagined.

Just in case, I readjusted the boots in front of my boobs should a handshake be called for, requiring the use of my arm.

The day before, I had interviewed for my dream job at my dream company, conveniently located in the same city as Alex. The interview had gone well enough for me to be wildly hopeful. In two weeks time, I could be living in his same city, making more money than I'd dreamed and getting paid to travel to glamorous locations.

I told Alex all about it after I arrived at his place early the next morning, well before he had to go to work and just after his girlfriend had left for the day. After he gave me a tour of the house I'd only ever seen glimpses of in our webcam "dates," leading from behind with his arms wrapped tight around my waist and his face buried in my neck. After he called in late for work, then later still an hour later. After we were naked, watching the snow fall outside the windows from the floor where we'd somehow landed, we talked about my dream job, and what it could mean if I got it.

If I got the job, we could be living in the same city for the first time since we met. In two weeks, the biggest obstacle to us being together could be eliminated (well...one of the biggest obstacles...top five at least) a proposition that thrilled Alex. He actually seemed more excited than I was.

Probably because he wasn't currently stuck behind a door in his laundry room.

He was however, doing a fantastic job of convincing his mother that the female laughter she'd heard from her suite downstairs was the television. What Not To Wear. He watches it every morning. Yes, he does. Really Mom, every morning. Stacy and Clinton. What Not to Wear. She'd heard Stacy London. Not his girlfriend. His girlfriend was at work. Just the TV.

This was a revelation. Alex knows who in the hell Stacy London is?? What else don't I know about him? In a morning that had already included Alex answering the door wearing...I don't even know how to say it. He answered the door wearing...well...

....

....

Crocs.

Yes, I said it. Crocs. Crocs!!

For the love of sweet peanut brittle...until I remembered that he would have to see my thighs that morning, I could hardly look at him. One can never underestimate the sacrifices we make for love.

As I considered how much more we could learn about one another just by newly found proximity, I took a moment to look around my hiding place. Alex has good taste. Very expensive washer and dryer set. Fashionably colored. Front loading. Very pretty.

Folded on the dryer were a pair of girl's jeans and a bra. Jeans - size zero. Bra - D cup. What the shit? How is that even possible?? Nobody has those proportions. Not even Barbie has those proportions. Barbie comes close to those proportions, but I'm guessing Alex's girlfriend doesn't have a smooth plastic area where her va-jay should be, so she's still way the fuck ahead of Barbie just by being able to pass water. Although being a size zero, I'm not entirely convinced she's got room to hold it.

(Later, as I ranted to my sister that all I could think about while hiding half-naked in the laundry room was how Alex could possibly still be attracted to my overly large sorry ass when his girlfriend is a size zero with boobs bigger than my head, she sighed.

"Do you ever listen to yourself? You were HIDING in his LAUNDRY ROOM and all you're upset about is the size of his GIRLFRIEND'S JEANS?"

Well of course not. That would make my priorities really skewed. Her boobs being ginormous and perfect while mine can be easily covered by one pair of water-resistant Hush Puppie booties was also concerning. Clearly, my sister needs to pay better attention while I talk.)

I'd like to say I felt guilty about this whole episode, but I didn't. Not when Alex and I went for coffee, in public, like normal people. Not when I hung out with him in his office, talking and laughing and being silly, spinning in his office chairs and firing elastic bands at one another, pretending to be seriously conversing when his colleagues walked by. Not even when I asked him if it felt weird to have me in his office, and he answered, no. It didn't feel weird at all. In fact, it felt like how it's supposed to be.

I didn't feel guilty when we said good-bye either, and he refused to say it. He wasn't going to say good-bye to me one more time. This time would be "see you in two weeks." No arguing.

"Just hurry up and get here, OK?"

I've always loved his optimism.

An Open Letter To the Loudmouth Granny In the Hot Tub

First of all, my apologies for making you repeat yourself twice when you yelled at me across the hot tub at the community pool the other morning.

Admittedly, I was preoccupied with trying to determine whether the giant roll in front of my bathing suit bottoms was a result of bubbles or pudge. After a moment or two of finger poking, the answer was revealed: pudge.

The second time I couldn't hear you over or around the back hair of the gentleman sitting next to me. It may have actually been thick enough to affect the acoustics.

When I finally heard you telling me I could be pretty if I smiled, I apologize for not immediately smiling. I assume that was the reaction you were hoping for, but...well...fuck you Granny.

If it wasn't so hard to have a conversation amidst the bubbles and the back hair, I might have told you that I haven't really smiled since October.

Unemployment can do that to a person.

Yes, I am unemployed. You and the other grannies in the morning aquafit classes I've been attending have been looking at me kind of strangely. Being the youngest person in the class by at least 35 years does make me stand out, and I'm sure you're wondering why I don't have anything better to do weekday mornings.

As it turns out, I really don't have anything better to do. Should finding gainful employment not ever work out for me again, I'm considering releasing a work-out DVD titled, "Floating With the Old People." It'll feature 55 minutes of me, in a pool, waving my arms and straddling a water noodle while surrounded by octogenarians. Also straddling water noodles. Clearly, I'm still fleshing the idea out.

The point is, Granny, that I have no job. I used to have a part-time job working with...well...other grannies and assorted old people at a seniors centre, in addition to my full-time job, but then I lost the part-time job too.

I lost my mortgage paying job because my position was "terminated," I lost my grocery paying job because the senior centre is going bankrupt, and I've kind of lost all hope since then.

By now you're probably about to say something trite, like...at least you have your health.

Granny - I'm a 35 year-old woman whose nipples are not yet grazing my knees, and yet, I have more difficulty getting out of the pool than you do. In fact, I have to wait until all the other grannies are out of the pool, otherwise there would be a grey-haired line-up behind me as I try to haul myself up the ladder.

First, my vagina exploded over the summer. No, seriously, it did. As if that weren't bad enough, shortly after I lost my job and all the health benefits that went with it, my lower back woke up one morning and declared, "I quit this bitch." And quit it did.

In the months since the terrible morning my back was in too much pain to maintain a seated position while peeing on the toilet, I've been given a diagnosis. That morning though, I had no idea what was happening. I was forced to fall to the bathroom floor, where I stayed for a couple of hours, unable to move, alternating between blacking out and retching.

You may be asking yourself why in God's name I didn't call 911 once I was finally able to crawl. Being extremely old, you're probably aware that if you fall and can't get up, 911 dispatch will first send a goddamn fire truck. You know, just in case you fell over because you were on fire and just failed to mention that detail when calling for help.

Granny, neither you or I have time enough on this planet for me to explain why I wouldn't want the fire department called to help my half-naked ass off the floor. Just trust me when I say I have my reasons.

It turns out I have what's called a large herniation. One of the donut shaped squishy bits between the vertebrae in my lower back just fell right the hell out.

I'll need surgery to fix it, but before that happens, I need to get stronger and try to lose the nearly 30 pounds I've somehow managed to gain since my life went to hell in mid-October, all without hardly being able to move. Hence, my new Floating With the Old People work-out.

So let's recap. I don't have a job. I don't have my health. To be fair, I do have some great friends and family, and boobs that are still located where I've always understood boobs to be. Normally I wouldn't count this as a blessing, but having seen some of my fellow aquafit companions naked in the change room, I'm officially adding the current state of my boobs as a reason to be grateful.

Some days the blessings outweigh my losses, and I think I can pull off an expression close enough to a smile, though it may not make me pretty. Other days, I just can't.

And Granny, you caught me on a really bad day.

Screw You,

The Unpretty Girl With the Still Fantastic Rack in the Hot Tub