Tomorrow morning we're leaving. I'm scared to death that something's going to happen and keep us here. I always think that, though. The van is packed with thermal underwear and biodegradable paper plates dehydrated soups and mix CD's and everything is going to be fine.
I peeled my fake nails off last night. Which is terrible. You're supposed to take them off with remover that smells rotten and sinks into your skin and gives you liver cancer, but last night I just got sick of them and bit them off with my teeth. Underneath, my fingernails are thin and soft as paper.
I am tired. My last night at work was unremarkable, which is to say, awful, but awful is expected at this time of year. All I really remember is some sloppy middle-ager lugging me into a corner and forcing me to guess his age. Goddammit I hate it when guys do this. It's like a girl who asks how much you think she weighs. They want to hear you guess as low as possible, but guess too low and they know you're flattering them because you think they're really old.
I tell him he looks 45, and honestly I am> flattering, cause this dude is all soft gut and floppy hair and looks just awful, whatever his age may be. He wanted to hear a lower number though, so he gets irritated and starts telling me how gray hair is a symbol of power and women flock to him, especially very young women, because he has such a powerful appearance and has so much money, which I would understand if he told me what he really does for a living, but he can't cause then I would just be all over him, too, and he would never know if it was really because I liked him for who he is.
The cards are all set up for me to play -- yes, baby, you're gray hair does make you look distinguished and gee I bet all the girls just love you and it's not for the money, it's cause you're such a manly, manly man, and if they can't see that well, baby, I can -- and I can't fucking do it. I sit there giving him the incredulous look I would give anyone who laid this bullshit on me anywhere else.
Then he starts telling me that I had better get my act together because while I am hot now, I won't be when I'm his age. He can get women of all ages, but I won't be able to, because he's still a good-looking man and women don't age well, especially not tall women like me, and not redheads, either. All of a sudden I've had enough and I get up, smile my best tea-party smile, and walk off in the middle of his sentence. The rest of the night is a total bore.
I think the mountains will make me clear-headed again. I hope so. I won't dance until I feel beautiful again, so I hope it's soon.