|December 29, 2000
I haven't shaved my legs in eight days.
There really hasn't been any reason to. While I was in TicTac for the holidays, I wore slacks or pantsuits all the time; here at home, as my vacation gradually winds down, I'm either in pajamas or sweats. So the forest growing on my legs is pretty much hidden from view. David either hasn't noticed or doesn't care. And I have to admit that I find the whole leg-hair *growth process* fascinating, in a purely scientific sort of way.
(Why is some of the hair growing in black, and some of it nearly white? Why is there no hair at all on the underside of my legs? And since when did I start growing hair on my TOES, forcryingoutloud?)
It's been eight days since I've rinsed out a pair of pantyhose, or ironed a blouse, or plucked my eyebrows, or fastened any item of clothing together with safety pins. While I've been on vacation this past week I haven't answered a telephone, or signed anything more complex than a credit card receipt, or eaten my lunch out of a paper bag. (Except for a soft taco in TicTac. But that was voluntary, and I took the soft taco out of the bag before I ate it this time.)
I'm not sure I even remember how to walk in high heels, frankly.
And it's been eight whole days since the afternoon I cleared out my office ... tossed my wind-up chicken and my World's Cutest Nephew coffee mug and all of my other personal belongings into a cardboard box ... hugged the Human Resources Director Person goodbye ... and walked out the door of the Totem Pole Company. In all that time I haven't thought once about voicemail messages, or electronic timesheets, or company newsletters, or Offset Barrier Type-Y Crossings With Signalized Crosswalk Indicators.
I most especially haven't expended so much as a fraction of a *thought molecule* on Franz.
On Thursday before last -- the last day before my vacation was due to begin -- Franz betrayed me. He lied to my face, and then when he was called on it, he lied again to cover his ass. (The fudking bastard was making arrangements to empty my beloved little office and move me downstairs to a six-foot cubicle in the middle of the Accounting Department ... while I was on VACATION ... without telling me about it in advance. There's more to the story, of course, but that's the long and short and weaselly of it.) He deliberately set the Human Resources Director Person and I against each other ... and then he denied doing so. And then when things were exploding all around him -- when I was stripping my office (to "make it easier for the movers next week," I lied through my tears: the truth is that I wanted to take all my stuff home with me because I didn't know if I would ever be coming back) -- he made a big show of hugging me goodbye in front of everybody, wished me a "Merry Christmas" ... and slunk out the back door.
I haven't seen him since.
I haven't talked to him since.
I haven't checked my office voicemail since. (I did, however, receive two frantic e-mails from the temp -- via my personal e-mail address, which I'd given to her to use in an "emergency" -- the day after I left. Franz was already out of control: already ranting, already stomping my name through the mud, and I'd been gone less than twenty-four hours.) I haven't written about him since, here on the website or anywhere else.
And -- as much as humanly possible -- I haven't thought about him since. Until today.
Today is the last precious *Alone Day* of my vacation. My last day to putter wordlessly around the apartment, enjoying blissful solitary confinement. My last day to hang out in front of the computer without interruption. My last day to talk to myself, and to play "Red Dirt Girl" four times in a row if I feel like it, and to eat Rice Chex right out of the box. Tomorrow is Saturday, and David will be here, with all of his plans and his punk rock and his To-Do Lists, and I know I'll be swept up in all of his manic noisy energy. We'll probably hop into the Subaru and spend the day running errands. Same with Sunday. We have overnight company on Sunday night, and *family obligations* all day Monday, and then all of a sudden it'll be Tuesday ... and time for me to go back to the Totem Pole Company.
So today is "it." Today is my last Purely-Me Day. I'm going to sit here in front of the computer in my pajamas until noon. In a little while, I'm going to cook myself some scrambled eggs with salsa, and toss a couple slices of hazelnut bread under the Ugly Pink Broiler, and grind up some more Jingle Java. I'm going to spend the morning browsing for diaries at Amazon.com and catching up on eight days' worth of unread message board nonsense. I'm going to watch all three glorious hours of *The Matt Lauer Show! Starring Matt Lauer & Some Extraneous Other People.* (I have never seen the last hour of the show!! Ever! I always have to leave for the office, right at the end of the second hour.) I'm going to finish organizing all of my e-mail from the last couple of months ... and I'm going to check my archives for broken links ... and I'm going to type "Miss Fire Prevention" into assorted search engines, just for fun ... and I'm going to order myself a new hairdryer online ... and I'm going to update my AOL profile ("Occupation: Scrabble Champoin").
Later in the day I'm going to go back to Hotjobs and the Monster Board and Headhunters, to see if anything new and interesting has been posted since my last career crisis. I'm going to update my résumé ... again. I'm going to write a couple of groovy new cover letters. I'm going to sort through the box of personal stuff I brought home from the office, and decide whether or not to throw away the fudking koala bear plate, once and for all. And I'm going to think long and hard about whether I want to begin the millennium working for someone who lies to me.
But I'm still not gonna shave my legs. Not just yet, anyway.