FRESH YARN PRESENTS:

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By Meredith Hoffa

PAGE TWO:
"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE A LADY BUT YOU'RE NOT ONE!" he shrieked into my shoulder. "FAR FROM IT! ASSHOLE THIS, ASSHOLE THAT! YOU'RE DISGUSTING!"

I tried to just focus on maintaining my tranquil, blissed-out look, but what happened next took the crazy to a whole new level: Tiny Man started circling me. Yes, circling. Prowling, like a cheetah or a wolf or a very attentive tailor. And as he orbited me, creepily sizing me up, I grew increasingly nervous. It seemed he was preparing to strike. And by strike I don't mean physically, I mean verbally. His tongue was doing that jab-jab thing again which told me something was in the works.

"LEMME TELL YOU SOMETHING ABOUT YOU, YOUNG LADY!" Tiny Man squealed.

He was practically upon me. Honestly, I've never been so excruciatingly adjacent to someone I wasn't hugging. All I could think about was that he was surely judging my vaguely oily T-zone. And then suddenly I realized: He was going to insult my appearance. Definitely. And the anticipation of this made me crazy-tense. What if he busted out with, "Your forehead is huger than Helen Hunt's!" or, "Your teeth are enormous, jackrabbit!"? Even though I'd already intellectually accepted these things as true, I still would've been slightly devastated if he'd said them, the same way you feel bad when kids make uncensored observations about you; it stings simply because it's the cold, hard truth being uttered aloud.

As Tiny Man continued circling and gawking, all I could do was brace myself. Ohmigod, I prayed silently. Call me ugly on the inside but please don't call me ugly on the outside. It didn't matter that I had already deemed him possibly nuts on all levels. I still cared.

"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! THE WAY YOU WERE STANDING IN THE WRONG PLACE!"

A customer shot me a vaguely sympathetic look as he left the teller and then my ding finally came. Thank GOD. I practically sprinted to the window and throughout my transaction with the kind, efficient Armenian or Persian teller, I used my sweetest voice, saying please and thank you no less than thirty times. Loudly. I wanted all five people in that bank to know that I was a delightful person. But frankly it was hard to concentrate on my pleases and thank yous because a mere ten feet away, Tiny Man was ranting to the Greeter.

"THAT YOUNG LADY IS DISGUSTING! SHE SAID ASSHOLE! IN A BANK!"

I got my quarters and, after thanking the teller in a freakishly loud voice, headed out. As I passed the Greeter I rolled my eyes, fully expecting some sign of solidarity in return -- the Smirk of Understanding, maybe, or just any small gesture that'd say whoa, some people. But her expression was completely devoid of any bonding quality and suddenly I felt a bolt of anxiety. A surge of un-tetheredness. Were we not bound by our common allegiance against Team Tiny Man? Or… wait. She didn't think I was the freak in the bank, did she? She didn't think I was some creep who just went around bringing "asshole" into harmonious banks, did she? Maybe she thought I'd soiled her bank with my lowbrow ways. Say asshole at Bristol Farms if you want -- but not at Bank of America. She was probably thinking that. Maybe everyone was thinking that. Ohmigod.

I walked out with a pit in my gut, that something's-awry pit that just kind of hovers and gnaws and makes everything feel gross and unsettled. One thing was for sure, though: A trip to the bank to procure quarters is nothing like a trip to the neighborhood cobbler. As it turns out, the bank is just a regular pain in the ass errand. Like the DMV or the goddamn Rite Aid Pharmacy.

As I drove to yoga I checked my rearview mirror at least a half a dozen times. I don't quite know what I actually expected to see -- I guess I thought Tiny Man might be trailing me or something. Like on foot, maybe? Or coasting on his Ralphs shopping cart? Or perhaps driving a Bentley? In the moment, all these options seemed horrifyingly plausible, and the last thing I wanted was to be caught unawares. But I made it to class, and, of course, Tiny Man was nowhere to be seen. Alas, he and I were done with each other. It was over.

But as Fusako’s soothing voice piped through the sound-system signaling the start of class, what I discovered was that it wasn’t over at all. Because as I stood in Tadasana pose in front of the mirror, I found myself scrutinizing the figure reflected back at me.

I don’t look like a lady, I ruminated, taking in my sweat-suited torso and disheveled hair sprigging out wildly from my neon Forever 21 headband. I should work on being more of a lady. Whatever that means. But more importantly, am I really “disgusting”? Disgusting? I guess bringing asshole talk into lovely Bank of America IS the kind of thing a disgusting person would do… so… this makes me a little disgusting! Good god. How would I even go about fixing that?...

Unfortunately I barely registered Fusako’s end-of-class head rub. My mind was still whirring. So, in the name of progress and self-improvement, I made a commitment -- right then and there. It was time to Take Care of Business. First task on my list: I must finally do something about my oily t-zone.

Even if it means a trip to the goddamn Rite Aid Pharmacy.

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