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It was weird timing.
For months and months, my girlfriend hadn’t realized much of anything, much less had an epiphany. Her days consisted, as they still do, of making plans and mostly keeping them. But odd things have happened along the way, unscheduled things.
She used to read novels; now she reads Yahoo! articles on cutting 100 calories a day. Driving, or any time she is alone, it is no longer the immortal ideas of Chaucer that preoccupy her but an “escalating wrinkle” she sees between her eyebrows.
Most unexpected was the initiation of daily staring contests with her stomach, which she says is not fat but “deformed.” She holds up her shirt and watches her reflected belly in the mirror, as if waiting for it to pop into action, to come out of her skin and apologize for being so gastrointestinal.
One hectic day, after she had just told me again about the escalating wrinkle and I made a very light joke about her nose riding it up to her forehead, she had her realization: Her life – she – is mediocre in nearly every way.
Monkeys, I think she’d rather end up with her nose on her forehead.
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