I was miserable

“I was miserable.”
I was miserable: I had a bad cold and a really bad haircut. When I’d met up with my old friends, I could tell by the look on their faces, their suppressed surprise, that I looked dumpier than they were used to seeing me. Everyone told me how different I looked and how they didn’t recognize me with my new short haircut. No one told me it looked good.

As the days passed, my visit into town had begun to transform itself into a series of disasters, namely: 1). I’d insulted my friend Russ’s friends, and when he told me I was rude, I felt ashamed, 2). I’d embarrassed myself in front of a pretty German girl by singing, and botching, a German opera, and 3). A guy named Brody had refused my advances, so I’d walked home, humiliated, still wearing a party outfit—my face and hands swollen from the cold.

My friend invited me to Grandma Jen’s condo for New Year’s Eve. The place was immaculate, with a white puffy couch, creamy white carpet, two layers of white drapes, and a white spray-snow artificial Christmas tree. By this time, my cold had taken over my whole being. I had been reduced to a bloated skin-bag of snot, a mucous-carrying vessel. But it was Y2K! And this might be it! Upon arrival, I quickly drank three tall plastic tumblers of gin and tonic--most of which was gin.

I soon found myself alone with Brody, again. I walked over to him, put my hand on his chest and started unbuttoning his shirt. Again, he stopped me. “Jeppa, what are you doing?”

I looked up, saw his face. I finally got it: Brody wasn’t interested in having sex with me. I walked away.

I went outside, past the carport and down the driveway, to where my friends were shooting off bottle rockets. The sky was clear—blue and black. The stars twinkled and the eastern mountains magically glowed a purple-gray. “Yay, Y2K!” we and the neighbors yelled. It was midnight, but nothing had changed: the street lights were still on, no microwaves exploded, no computers imploded.

Back inside, we salsa-danced around the Christmas tree. Russ was dancing with his own partner—an actual plastic container of salsa. “Salsa!” he yelled, holding it up in the air and waving it around. That is—until he bumped into someone and was sent spinning backwards. Salsa flew out, splattering across the curtains, the walls, the ceiling, and the tree.

I would’ve helped clean up, but my friend saw that I too was spinning, so she helped me upstairs to puke in the bathroom. My boob fell out of my dress and lopped onto the rim of the toilet. She sat with me and listened as I blubbered on and cried about my crummy childhood, my ex-boyfriend, and Brody.

–Jeppa Hall