They sat in the train together going forward, both wearing not very new sweatshirts. It was a bit cool for old sweatshirts but for the two prime-twenties male passengers this was a satisfactory arrangement in response to the climate. One held a muy non wee Starbucks paper cup in his hand, the other stabbed haphazardly with a plastic two pronged fork into a square of folded cardboard. “Ugh,” he exclaimed in Dutch, “Too much mayonnaise!” He didn’t look really Dutch; he was small framed and wore a brown beard. The brown beard threw away the soggy fries and sucked on a Space Age Mammary Pack of Yoghurt Drink.
“All those vitamins gone,” his companion remarked about the thrown away mayonnaise and oil soaked fries.
“Vitamen E?” I wondered blindly judging the benefits of mayonnaise.
I've begun to entertain myself standing next to the onion bins at the supermarket. I hold a net of red onions in one hand and a net of yellow onions in the other. “500 grams?” I think, “Is this what 500 grams feels like?” It’s been an odd couple of months passing.
“What the hell is a C?” I stood, not in the supermarket but amidst the lingerie in the mid range department store. The surgeon hadn’t said B. I stared at him and he stared back at me and I thought he would shoot me down if I said B. I could remember as a teenager quickly passing the B mark. Somehow I had a B jammed in my brain, as the thing to be. Back when I was thirteen. The surgeon said, “C then.” He was eyeing my small frame, the choice was a C or D. The maximum, my brain screamed C.
So what was it? Prefering supermarkets and onions I intensely dislike lingerie stores, both the products and spending any time in them. What am I? There’s the rub. Too much mayonnaise. Maximum one hour on this errand I told myself between gritted teeth and tearing eyes. I grabbed a number of items, none of them really having anything to do with my body type, just to see what a size said. I learned it doesn’t say much. I fled after examining items that opened in the front. “Buy a C and a D.” I was told about post surgery bras.
After the letter from the insurance arrived, I let go realizing that I had been micro managing the discomfort of my body on a day to day level. A horizon stretched out in front of me that was a giant landscape of relief. You could though, I told myself after listening to direct stories of nipple mismanagement under the knife, end up with something Dali-esque. This didn’t discourage me. I feel as though I’ve been wearing a straightjacket for thirty years so who cares if they might have to tattoo a nipple back on? Or not. Go for the photo shopped look.
“I hate that meal.” Direct words from my ex about my chicken-rice dish. I admit I can’t get the chicken to be that delightful stringy quality but the maizena-ed sauce is perfectly-a-gloopy. Just like in my school lunches when I was a kid. It’s a comfort meal. I loved a hot meal at lunchtime, and I showed up like clockwork at school for food at noon. Sometimes I fantasize about eating chicken-rice off a chipped yellow tray again. The chipped parts in the tray revealed a kind of stringy mesh fiber much like the chicken. I do add, a personalization, a healthy dose of chopped parsley after the trip to the microwave.
I was thinking there on the train that in the future, this has to do with mayonnaise, women could just pop their boobs into a machine and thwaonk zonk zonk zap them into the size they preferred, with a maximum of three treatments over a period of forty years. After getting a set of mink bodies in the mail, antique items, from a family member offloading heritage, I offered to pose semi-nude with them for a painter friend of mine, a matter of placing oil well here and a smudge there. Her eyes gleamed wickedly. I think now it’s even a better idea, after all immediately after surgery with scars I’d match the minks. People in a hundred years would look at my post op portrait, Venetian-esque, and say that’s how they used to do it back in the day, but now we just thwaonk zonk zonk the little vixens into shape.