to the owner of the toned and tanned midsection

Two days ago I shamed my gender and myself and now I am determined to set the wrong right. While running errands in St. Louis Park I accidentally stared down a perfectly tanned shirtless young man walking down the sidewalk. Normally, I try to control these sorts of things, but this time, I was overcome. I stared and I knew he saw me but I could not turn my head. THEN, to make matters worse, about ten minutes later while dropping off some criminally overdue books at the St. Louis Park public library I ran into the SAME extremely tanned mid section a little later in his journey and again, this time with jaw dropped, I stared! Dammit!

Now, I have taken it upon myself as my solemn duty to apologize to this young man. Since I do not know his name, and remembering his face would be like trying to identify a gnat in a sandstorm, I have turned to Myspace as the appropriate vehicle to share my regret. So here goes my apology to the Owner of the painfully toned and perfectly tanned middle section:

Dear Tanned Mid Section,

Two days ago while you were talking down Minnetonka blvd, minding your own business carrying a gallon bottle of water, your white cotton shirt draped over your broad shoulders, I brazenly sexually harassed you with my prolonged disbelieving stares. For this I am very sorry. If this is working correctly, you should be receiving the subliminal message I am sending you, learned from the book, How to Send Subliminal Messages in Text. Meet me by the tennis courts. Ill bring the satchel of raw Chamomile, you bring the pitcher of scalding water and the Geoffrey Chaucer.

Furthermore, I would like to state that I am a totally opposed to the objectification of men in general and believe that it is your right to be able to walk down a suburban boulevard in whatever state of undress you please without the piercing eyes of ill mannered strangers.

Secondly, while I too think it was strange (and by strange I mean destiny) that we ran into each other again so quickly, I must state firmly that I was NOT following you. Though in the brief moments when our paths first crossed I did consider swerving off the road and crashing into a nearby light pole in hopes that you would come to my rescue, to follow you would have been absolutely reckless and irresponsible and I want you to be confident that at no point did I consider it.

Lastly, as a punishment for treating your firm bronzed torso as a packaged piece of dark meat based to perfection, I have placed myself on a strict diet of nuts and berries until I have curbed my carnal cravings.

Please forgive me. It is my earnest hope that your day wasnt ruined by thoughts of stalking and unwanted sexual advances.

With deepest humiliation,

The girl driving the green Dodge Intrepid with the missing hubcaps on the right side.

something mushy about friendship

I'm in the mood to write. Why? Cause I'm thinking too much to talk.

You know, even if they aren't called Friends , good sitcoms are about friends. We watch them. Follow the story lines and then in our minds play out our lives according to these thirty-minute recreations of what we're supposedly, yet obviously not, living ourselves. Maybe its the anonymous downtown apartment with its light speckled skyline bright enough to be New York, but just ambiguous enough to pass for that other city you went to once and liked better.

But wherever, it's all about the that cast of characters. You've had them hand picked from high school. You imagine the story of your freshman flubs becoming recurring themes throughout the seasons of maturity. But then, they all move away. Take two: College. You're on your own now, doing more sitcom worthy things. Sure its not the same kind of drama as high school, but this is good too. People have STDs here! So you mope about the cast revision for a little bit and promise yourself that there will be plenty of high school cameos.

Years go by and finally the hour is ripe: you've graduated! Here comes the condo and the social life unimpeded by class work! Even the cast you once thought as second string are headliners! Hell! You're even sitcom age! And then just when you least expect it, your best friend, your supporting actress moves away, jobs cause fragmentation: The show is cancelled.

WHAT THE HELL KINDA SHOW IS THIS?!

After years of envisioning this time of your life the stage is set, but the actors are on strike. Now, like it did at the beginning of high school and college, though you're ready to settle down, shit is new and unfamiliar. Now you're the new person at work and there are no school functions to force socialization and all of a sudden you face that fact that THERE IS NO SITCOM LIFE. Because if there were, you'd get to choose the people you share it with.

Yep. Joey and Chandler didn't go to college together. They have cubicles next to each other and met at work. Ross and Rachel are really just friends through other people. Phoebe just moved to the state and wants to go home. And no one knows that Monica used to be fat in high school, not even Ross, because brothers and sisters don't stick around each other that long.


And now you know why there are sitcoms in the first place. Because once your life long pals have been gone long enough, you'll need a distant reminder of what it could have been like.


~ For My Twin Who Moved Away

(*And the sitcoms I accidently cancelled everytime I moved away.)