I don’t know why I continue to let you get to me. I’ve bought every book on meditation from Buddha in your Back Pocket to Yoga for the Mentally Deranged and yet the only yoga I find myself doing is trying to fit my too-tall body into a too-small bathtub that inevitably starts to overflow like the glass of wine I’m clutching prayerfully to my chest.
I practice deep breaths in and deep breaths out but the deep breaths turn to quavering lungs and my lips begin to tremble and another waitress recommends humming and so I start to hum but it turns into a symphony of discord in my mind symbols are clashing at all the wrong moments it’s like watching the awkward tone deaf guy in the corner trying to clap along with the beat. Kitty cat paws on a piano. Glasses smashing to the floor.
Oh, wait. That was my glass. And that was my hand. Your Diet Coke. Or was it regular? Maybe it was root beer… Does it really matter it all kills you in the end. Rots your teeth, you know.
You yelled at me. And I know I sound like a petulant child and it’s probably just daddy issues rearing their ugly head because, let’s be honest, everyone has a few of those. But you yelled at me. You, the great big bear of a man, reared your great, big, ugly bear face and showed your flesh stained, bear teeth and roared. Do you floss with the hair of your victims because I can see a fine strand of curly red protruding from your front two teeth let me check the local John Doe’s. Officer, I’m calling in a tip on the little red headed waitress who went missing last week from the Denny’s down the road.
It looks like I’m next because you’re showing no signs of calming down despite the shade of your wife’s face, which is crimson enough to match your own. Speaking of faces the blood is draining out of mine and I’m turning just about as white as the napkin tucked over your generous chest and you haven’t even begun to feed on me yet. Although I don’t recommend it. I’m all skin and bones.
Your greedy claws are tapping against the bar top and your growling is upsetting the other customers I know you’re hungry this is a damned restaurant so is everyone else. You’re all here for the same reason. And it looks like hibernation was kind to you because you still have an extra few pounds to feed off of but it would appear that the hunger has gotten to your mind because you’re thinking has quickly eclipsed into a state of disillusionment. Which I totally get. I was up until 3:00 AM trying to dissect Plato and Socrates you think hunger’s destructive try analyzing great works of philosophy on limited sleep. I am as disillusioned as they come. Pour a little wine into that and you have the makings of a nervous wreck that is dangerously close to spontaneous combustion.
Don’t growl at me. Don’t yell at me don’t swipe your crude paw in my direction don’t stand and wave like a drowning lunatic from across the bar. I am not a lifeguard. I am a waitress. And I may be trained in CPR but if you think for a second I’m putting my mouth anywhere near that sharp muzzle of yours than you’re out of your damned mind I like my face just the way it is, thank you very much.
Just calm down. Take a deep breath. Count to ten. In then out. Hum a little melody in your head do some yoga read this pocket book on meditation it’s great. It’s worked wonders for me. I may be close to tears but you’re not wearing your Diet Coke or sporting an imprint of my fist on your face—and if anything, I’d call that a success.