There’s this spot near the entrance to the Finch subway station where some sort of air filter blows a steaming pile of hot air against you. You can’t avoid it, no matter how closely you walk against the opposite wall. Trust me, I have tried to scale the side of the wall all Spiderman-style to avoid the air blast, and it’s not simply because I wear dresses and skirts 99.9% of the time and it’s really super fun in the morning to have your skirt hem up around your ears so you can show off your daily choice in Hanky Panky color. No, the real reason to avoid it is for other reasons. It’s to avoid the whole remember when Bridget Jones takes her mini-break and loses her kerchief in the convertible and shows up looking something like the bride of Frankenstein when she arrives at the hotel? Or, well, you know when Sigourney Weaver gets allÂ possessedÂ by Zul and turns into a dog in Ghostbusters and shows up all windblown and frightening as hell?
So, truthfully, it makes almost no sense that knowing that I’m going to walk through a hot wind tunnel every morning before I show up at work, I still continue to blow dry and iron my hair every day. And I do. I hide in my bedroom bathroom and close all the doors and blow dry in my altogether. The closing of the doors is out of respect for my still-sleeping family. The nudity is out of respect for the sweat that happens when you are locked in a room with a blow dryer and an iron and no air circulation.
Hey, you know what’s a fun game I like to play while drying my hair? It’s called the boob game. It starts like this, “Wow, Ali, you boobs are seriously so super nice and still surprisingly perky, considering you have birthed three children and nourished them from those puppies for a total of 16 months of your life.” and it ends with, “Wow, Ali, what in tarnation happens to those suckers when you do that bend over to dry the bottom of your hairÂ maneuver? Seriously, lady, you may want to avoid that movement. It’s humiliating for all parties involved, especially the pair involved in the very compromising low-hanging fruit position.”
There’s something eerily not dissimilar to sun-dried tomatoes, the humiliation of the tomato family.
(Which, incidentally, are really the only kind of tomatoes I like. Ponder that.)
I think the real lesson here is to never, ever bend down braless if you’ve had three children and some recently significant weight-loss.
Or maybe the real lesson here is to sleep for an extra 20-minutes in the morning and invest in hair clips and elastic bands.
Or maybe it’s that I really should watch more Jersey Shore and be thankful that I don’t have orange skin or bad fake boobs or WEAVE IN MY HAIR that gets burnt off with weird Italian flat irons. But so help me…if Sammy and Ronnie get back together I am going to come back here and talk some more about my awesome boobs. Y’all better pray they don’t get together. Also, BRENDAN? Back in the house on Big Brother? What is wrong with America? Are you all too busy worrying about your debt ceilings to vote the right person back into the Big Brother house? Can’t you just watch old episodes of The West Wing, learn something smart, and then get back to voting for crappy reality shows?