Butterflies

Earlier this week, I was exchanging light banter with one of our clients while standing in the parking lot located outside my office. Our conversation was interrupted when the client stopped mid sentence and announced "Oh, there's a butterfly!" He picked up the insect gently and raved about its vibrant yellow and blue coloring. I flinched as he shoved the butterfly enthusiastically in my direction. "Isn't it pretty?" he said. I feigned admiration. I must have been pretty convincing because he asked me if I wanted to take the butterfly inside. He seemed slightly insulted when I answered no. "Oh. Well. I guess I'll put it over here then." And he placed the butterfly on the ground by the side of the building, presumably out of harms way.

I didn't mean to offend my client's animal loving sensibilities but my office is not a wildlife sanctuary. It is a place of business. What the hell am I supposed to do with a butterfly indoors anyway- put it on a leash and pet it? Seriously. A butterfly is one of those creatures that God intended to roam free in nature. Even a meat-eating, mink coat-wearing, tree-chopping person like myself is sensitive enough to know that. Besides, I can't have butterflies, regardless of their beauty, flitting about the office willy-nilly. It's just not professional.

I don't think our client was thinking in terms of professionalism. After my heartless response, I believe he pegged me as an enemy to all things zoological and reasoned that he'd better place the butterfly as far away from the mean office manager as possible. Although I've never considered myself an animal hater, I must admit he made the right decision. Had he left the butterfly where he found it, I might have inadvertently squashed it as I walked out of the office. Once I realized my error, I would have mourned for approximately a nanosecond and then promptly scraped the butterfly off the bottom of my shoe and kept on stepping.

What kind of cold, cruel, butterfly-hating monster am I?

Keeping up appearances

I spent this past weekend visiting The Boyfriend. Even though we have been dating for a year, the distance between us has caused the relationship to progress at a much slower pace than one where both parties are geographically close to each other. Consequently, we are still in that stage where we are both trying to be the best representation of ourselves even if those representations are not entirely accurate or realistic. Or at least I thought we were both still in that stage.

After this weekend, it has become obvious that The Boyfriend has moved on to the Comfortable Phase of our relationship where superficial acts aimed at impressing the other are tossed aside in favor of something more real and ultimately more satisfying. Apparently, I didn't get the memo.

Since this would be the first visit where I stayed at his apartment and I didn't want to look my normal crappy self, I decided to do a little shopping. I bought new panties, a sexy black bra and a comfy, casual pajama set. While packing for the trip, I painstakingly picked out panties and bras that matched and even picked coordinating socks to wear with my pjs so that I would still look cute as we snuggled on the sofa and watched college basketball.

My attempts at keeping up appearances didn't stop at fashion. My first morning there, in anticipation of some early morning cuddle action, I got up before The Boyfriend and brushed my teeth, washed my face and combed my hair into an attractive ponytail. Yes, dear, my breath typically smells pleasantly minty when I wake up. And I always look this fresh-faced and well-coiffed first thing in the morning.

While I was busy trying to give the impression that I always look this good, The Boyfriend entertained no such nonsense. He confidently and comfortably kicked it in a pair of sweat pants and a holey t-shirt that looked as if it had seen better days. And he didn't let a little thing like morning breath stop him from putting his tongue down my throat. His intent was to relax and make the most of my brief stay. He wasn't worried about whether his socks matched his sweat pants; he was focused on enjoying my company.

I should take my boyfriend's lead on this issue. He really does have the right attitude. At this point in the relationship, we should be able to relax around one another, be ourselves and not be so concerned with appearances. I'm just afraid I'll scare him off once he sees me in pink hair curlers and a mud mask.

Mysophobia

The Polish sausage infused with jalapeno peppers and cheese and baked in bread dough was amenable going down that morning at breakfast but now it was starting to rebel. The only remedy for my discomfort would be a couple of Tums. And chocolate. I had neither in the house and decided to make a quick trip to Walgreens. Once there, I grabbed a large container of extra strength, fruit flavored Tums and a medium-sized bag of peanut butter M&Ms. I placed my exorbitantly priced items on the checkout counter and patiently waited my turn.

After ringing up the guy ahead of me, the cashier inhaled deeply. The superfluous mucus that threatened to escape her nose was quickly drawn back into her sinus cavity. She picked up a Kleenex, turned her head and discreetly wiped her nose. Instead of throwing the soiled article away, the cashier placed it back on the counter. The tissue looked as if it had been an unwilling participant in that routine all night.

I groaned in my head. I was not looking forward to having items that would soon be placed in my mouth fondled by a woman with the West Nile virus all over her fingers. It only increases the amount of work that I have to do once I get home. Before one tablet or M&M touches my lips, a complex set of procedures aimed at preventing contamination must be performed.

I walk through the door of my house and set the Walgreens bag down on the floor of my office. I take the items out of the bag and place them on my desk. Now I need some scissors to cut open the bag of M&Ms. I don't want to touch anything unnecessarily so I decide against rifling through my desk drawer to look for a pair of scissors and opt for the kitchen shears that are conveniently sticking out of my wooden knife block.

I use the shears to cut open the bag of candy and set it aside. I put a few squirts of antibacterial gel on my hands and rub them together. After grabbing a couple of Kleenexes out of a tissue box and placing them on my desk, I open the plastic container of Tums, turn it upside down and shake it gently until two tablets fall onto the tissues. I pick up the tissues and toss the antacids into my mouth. As I am chewing the disgustingly milky tablets, I pour some peanut butter M&Ms on the Kleenex and put more antibacterial gel on my hands. Once the gel has dried, I enjoy my chocolate treats confident that I have successfully avoided catching the bubonic plague.

Mysophobia, like all neuroses, is irrational and prone to inconsistency. Had I not been aware of the cashier's diseased state, I would have happily gone home, popped the Tums in my mouth and ate my M&Ms without giving a second thought to germs. But then a few days later, after coughing up a lung, I would have wondered how the hell I got so sick.