On perfectionism. Or that time I thought I was gonna get laid over Thanksgiving

My biggest regret about spending Thanksgiving in quarantine is that I didn’t find out I’d been exposed until after I spent three and a half hours in the bathroom taking care of “personal maintenance.”

Granted, it’d been a minute since any sort of upkeep had taken place, so this all satisfied some primal jungle trailblazing Nat Geo need inside of me.

But that didn’t make plucking my nipple hairs any more enjoyable.

I slathered on Moroccan oil like I was a company shareholder. There was deep conditioning involved, and I even double shampooed for fucks sake.

I think it was right about the time I applied my instant luminous turmeric and gold clay face mask that I found out I needed to self-isolate.

I get it universe, you’re hilarious. No need to go out of your way to prove it yet again, and again, and again.

The only saving grace is that I hadn’t applied my fake nails yet. I can think of nothing worse than wearing acrylics in self-isolation. Besides like world hunger, child labor, sex trafficking, and chick lit with a disappointing meet cute. But it’s up there.

It doesn’t take a PhD to figure out there was a boy involved. Of course there was:

a) When is there ever not a boy involved?

b) A boy who happened to be in the area for his family’s Thanksgiving. Which he might have invited me to.

c) I didn’t even wear fake nails to my senior prom. Which technically speaking makes attending his family’s Thanksgiving more important than prom.

There’s a lesson about perfection somewhere in here, and how, as my life coach says, nobody besides me actually gives a shit when the things I do aren’t perfect.

Except that she phrases it more like, “So over here, what I’m hearing is that you’re the only one who knows when something you do could have been better, and everyone else just takes it at face value. What do you think that makes possible?”

But stick with me here.

I’d already marinated the taco meat for our pre-Thanksgiving date night as well. And the thing about this guy is that he’s a big eater. Like a really big eater. Like he’s always hungry. Which meant if I was now a party of one, I’d be eating street tacos for the rest of quarantine and beyond.

There are worse things. Again, racial, gender, and social inequality.

Back when I still thought I might be getting laid over Thanksgiving, and was naively marinating the steak for street tacos. I found myself thinking, should I do two types of marinades? Would he like me more if there were two marinades?

Now that I would be the only one eating them, I wondered if I loved myself less because there was only one marinade?

I’d also bought a fancy bottle of wine to bring to his family Thanksgiving which I could give to them with my meticulously acrylic-clad hands.

I now had to explain to the Trader Joe’s cashier about how I couldn’t afford to drink twenty dollar bottles of wine on my own, and could I exchange it please for more practical things, like lunch meat and organic vegetables.

***

My grandma often tells the story of how she was roller skating down the street when she found out World War II had ended. She ran from neighbor to neighbor yelling, “The war is over! The war is over!”

When I saw my negative from the County of San Diego Health and Human Services Agency, I got what felt like a glimpse of a post-war era.

After I gave him the news, he came by later that night as he’d only been in town for the holiday, and was driving back home the next day.

Of course it was a Friday. Because the universe, and humor.

Fridays are for deadlines. So I hadn’t showered in a minute, and there were slabs of dandruff clinging to the hair around my scalp. I know this to be true because I’d spent a luxurious amount of time trying to free them from my head that morning, until I was forced to leave be. Because deadlines.

I briefly considered showering before he came over, but settled with telling myself that I just wouldn’t sleep with him. And besides there was no time for showering. Because deadlines.

I’d invited him over for wine in the hot tub. Which is a great way to reinforce the whole not-sleeping-with-him thing.

My perfectly shaven legs and labia had wintered up over quarantine. But I told myself it was dark outside, and he probably wouldn’t notice.

I think he noticed. It would have been hard for him not to, the way he kept running his hands along my legs. But if the little foot massages were any indication, he didn’t seem to mind.

We headed back to my room afterwards which was really just another great life decision as far as the whole not-sleeping-with-him thing was going.

It was late, and I was cold, and so instead of cuddling up to him, I did the thing you do when you’re decidedly not going to sleep with someone.

Which is to pull on a pair of Target sweatpants from your return pile.

No one’s allowed to try on clothes in stores right now, because Covid. So back in a state of rampant PMS I’d bought three pairs of sweats with the full intention of trying them on at home, and returning the ones I didn’t want.

But once I got home and got a spoon and peeled off the plastic seal around the Ben & Jerry’s, choosing which pair I wanted to keep somehow seemed like an insurmountable decision. And the longer I let them sit, the more of a colossal task that turned into.

Which instead became me just pulling on the nearest pair available whenever I was cold, or doing morning meditations, or just needing the immediate comfort that is brand new fuzzy warm sweats. Which happens to be fairly often.

***

It was almost midnight when I pulled on the tie-dyed pair of sweatpants, only to take them off a few minutes later.

Because who needs rose petals when you have dandruff flakes flitting across the bed sheets.

It had somehow gone from multi-hour deep conditioning luminescent face mask, to getting laid in sweatpants with the Target tags still on.

That’s how much no one else actually cares or even notices the glaringly obvious imperfections that blind me from a mile away.

So what this really all boils down to is, which pair of sweatpants should I keep:

a) The ones that got me through shark week

b) The ones that hugged me kindly during morning meditation and gently reminded me that we’re all deeply connected to this infinite abundance

c) The ones I got laid in

d) The ones I was wearing when I cried to my mom on the phone about how I was probably going to die alone (who am I kidding, that wasn’t sweats, I did that in a bath towel)

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