I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a “girlie-girl”. I’ve always been a tom-boy, I don’t wear make-up or skirts with anything approaching frequency, and I know my pants size in the mens’ section, but can only guess what it might be in the illogical realm of women’s clothing. (Why is it that men are allowed to be short and fat, and purchase pants based on both waist and inseam dimensions, but women, with significantly more unpredictable curves, are expected to be a uniform shape?) My mother considers it a personal victory when I dress nicely; she believes that all my problems can be attributed to my appearance, rather than my often surly, stand-offish personality.
I have, however, throughout my life, found myself living with girlie-girls, listening to them debate shaving creams, or rattle off consumer reports on the latest at-home waxing system. They complain about their eyebrow shape, and lose sleep over broken nails, though they seem, other wise, to be perfectly intelligent people.
So I gave myself over long ago to the fact that my roommate would always take up more of the bathroom counter than I, to the point that when I do want to use one of my hair products, or a little mascara, I have to spend an hour looking for them in the unearthly bowels of the cabinet under the sink.
I’ve seen this girl VOLUNTARILY rip her eyebrow hairs out of her face one by one with a vicious pair of tweezers, so she can draw them back on. I’ve seen her aim a hair dryer on high directly at her eyelids to set her glitter-shadow. She uses products developed for chapped cow udders to keep her hands and feet soft, yet buys body wash in bulk grape flavor because she’s one of the few people who can actually use a full gallon of the stuff in a week. She girls up to go to PetsMart (not that it helps, they’re still convinced she and Anne are lesbian lovers).
She has three different types of shampoo and conditioner in the shower at the same time. Every now and then, she’ll discover some new miracle beauty combo and stick a cucumber in the blender. Of course, at the time she was at odds with her beau, so it’s anyone’s guess whether that move was truly in the interest of beauty.
I have become rather blase about what I may find when I enter our bathroom. Horse shampoo? Sure. Medieval torture devices? Why not?
But BAGELS?
That’s right, last week I walked into the bathroom shortly after waking, to find the counter covered in plastic cups, glasses, a brandy snifter, and a bag containing two Lender’s cinnamon raison bagels.
My mind quickly came up with satisfactory and rational explanations for the glasses and cups, after all, Monica’s beau had spent the night, and what with both of them being borderline winos (but, you know, in a GOOD way), I could understand a romantic interlude with alcohol in the shower or tub.
The bagels lost me.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but bagels, even cinnamon raisin bagels, aren’t exactly romantic food. When one thinks of food-related smoochies, one sees strawberries, grapes, or chocolate. French bread, maybe, because it’s French. Spaghetti, though perhaps not in the bath.
Bagels bring to mind rushed breakfasts, or business brunches.
The two of them aren’t even JEWISH.
Maybe Monica slept in, and needed to toast her bagel with her hair dryer while applying her lipstick. Maybe the unique baked properties of cinnamon and raisins do wonders for dark circles and worry lines.
Every time I entered the bathroom that day, more possibilities came to mind, growing stranger as I desperately tried to solve the mystery of the bagels.
Had she gotten too drunk, and needed something to settle her stomach? But we had plenty of bread, which would do that job much more efficiently.
They wanted breakfast in bath tub? But wouldn’t they get soggy?
By that evening, when Monica had come home and left again, the bagels were gone, though the cups remained. It was as though the bagels never existed.
I knew better; I had seen them there, many times that day.
So please, dear reader, should you know any reason, any at all why a girl would need bagels readily available by the bathroom sink, send them along.
It just wouldn’t be right to actually ask her . . . .
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