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Like many people, I devote part of my weekends to taking care of odd jobs around the house, tasks that I’ve put off during the week, maybe even for several weeks. Yesterday I decided to order new checks. Checks are one thing I definitely don’t want to run out of because I haven’t yet leapt into the poopy waters of online banking. I would rather run out of toilet paper than run out of checks, because while many household items can be substituted for toilet paper, the same can’t be said for checks.
I noticed that the 1-800 number on my box of Artistic Checks could only be called during regular business hours, so I decided to go online and see if there were any new check designs that might appeal to me. I’ve been using the pastel Tropical Fish theme for several years now, which is far enough removed from my favorite color combination and list of probable pets that I think twice before writing a check, as I think one should, without considering the task unpleasant. Still, change can be good.
When I got online, I found 61 different types of check designs by Artistic Checks. Surely there would be something other than Tropical Fish that I could try out. I started looking through the offerings, starting with Betty Boop. No, Betty Boop won’t work. Who would order Betty Boop checks? Seriously. What else… African Silhouette checks…right, here’s my little monthly payment Mom and Dad toward the thousands of dollars I still owe you from the divorce, pay no attention to that black lady with the basket on her head, that was me once. Pretty Posy checks…hi Citibank, hi Wells Fargo, I’m on acid…Basic Blue checks—hi everybody, I can’t even afford a design on my checks, happy birthday kids, I love you, enjoy this five dollars. Cottages checks…here’s my money, this is all I can send this month, here’s the fantasy world I live in, that’s my unicorn. Brushed Floral checks…oh, that lady I used to work with who only wore muumuus. Thought I was doing her a favor when I tucked her tag back in but she was wearing it out on purpose to hide a mole on her neck the size of a tarantula.
I ended up staying with Tropical Fish.
Having wasted so much time sitting on my butt and with icky fresh images of the muumuu lady in my brain, I was doubly motivated to hit the road to my gym. Many years ago when I was just starting out as an English major, I remember someone saying something like, “All English teachers are fat; they take care of their minds but not their bodies,” and part of that stereotype stuck with me so that I ended up being a physically fit English teacher, give or take a disorder or two.
In the car on my way to the gym, a song came over the radio that I hadn’t heard in awhile. I was tuned to the country station and it was a man-singer, singing about love gone wrong but getting a new and better girlfriend. I had heard this song about a jillion times and always thought he was singing about going to the beach with his new girl and “wearing nothing but a sock”. I loved this image and imagined that if I were a man-singer freshly in love, I too would write a song about taking my new girlfriend to the beach and wearing nothing but a sock. It would have to be a very private beach and I would have to be in shape, and it would have to be a clean sock, and I would need my girlfriend to stir the pot every so often, but still…I would go.
It was only when I got home and finally gave in to the idea that no country song would ever contain the line “wearing nothing but a sock” that I Googled the lyrics, and discovered that the man-singer was actually “wearing nothing but a smile”…which seemed much more randy than my sock idea. Hm.
I know where my mind has been since 2005, the year I got divorced, and was relieved to know that in fact it hasn’t changed all that much over the years. I am still the sexual being I was all along.
You hear what you want to hear.