As the evening waned, Melanie did have a few regrets.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have chosen to wear ballet slippers with an outfit that strongly hinted of working on the serving line at Furr’s Cafeteria. She had initially found this ensemble to be saucily enticing, with its erotic subliminal signals of artistic athleticism (extreme dexterity!) and buffet goodness (all you can eat!). Instead, old men kept asking her if there were any steamed prunes in the kitchen and young girls kept inquiring if she had ever danced with a nutcracker. She had answers to these queries, of course, but she couldn’t share them with either demographic without the possibility of obscenity charges being filed.
Perhaps she should have invested a bit more in a decent hair-conditioner. Yes, it’s fair to say that many folks have mane-management issues whilst straddling a log on a wind-swept beach. Still, Melanie and her Chia Pet hair looked like this two seconds after stepping out of a shower. Clearly, some degree of progress could be made with her Sahara-tribute bouffant.
Then there was the whole mess with the tequila. It seemed that she couldn’t avoid being around it, no matter how hard she tried. (It never occurred to her that she should filter out the phrases “bars” and “frat parties” and “barn dances” and “people named Spike” on the primitive GPS that she was clutching in her hand as she slumped against the log.) Perhaps if she had taken a break from the spirits for at least a few minutes, she wouldn’t have played squat tag up and down the coast of South Carolina.
Still and all, at the end of the day (and Melanie had no idea what this day might be), these issues paled in comparison to her real source of dissatisfaction, irritating her even more than the sand blowing up her Blue-Plate-Special skirt. Her current paramour, whose name completely escaped her at the moment, what with all those tequila shots, clearly had no idea how to use a proper filter on Instagram. This wouldn’t do. And she wouldn’t be doing him. At least not again.
Bonus extended ending for those who scrolled this far:
Sand crab, skittering in from the left: “I find this entire post to be sexist and misogynistic.”
Sand crab, skittering in from the right: “Oh, please. That could easily be a man passing out against the log. The only difference is that the man wouldn’t have any regrets. And he wouldn’t have a GPS, because men never ask for directions.”
Sand crab, skittering up from the center: “Look, we all just need to learn how to get along and compromise or we are never going to have universal healthcare in America.”
Suddenly, a giant wave crashed ashore and swept all the crabs out to sea. In the history books, this wave would become known as the 2018 elections.
Categories: Past Imperfect