On the outside?
Calm.
Composed.
Demure.

I am Jackie O.
Totally Gwynnie P.

BUT (!)
On the inside?

If you can’t even turn ON the computer without the password within the training manual you fully intended to bring with you on The First Day but totally forgot to because you were so excited that you rushed out the door and due to sheepishness opted for black pants instead of the skirty illustrations of giddiness pictured in the post down under?

The above graphic pretty much describes the synapses firing.
What if they come in and I haven’t even turned on the computer yet?!

Thank the Lord The Mister answered the phone sleepily and relayed all mandatory info.

Post spontaneous combustion?  All was golden.

This is why the Steve Sanders posters at Wal-Mart were always in stock.

‘Tis no secret that I am of The Ginger Race.  And in my gingerhoodedness, my lone detriment is the disavowing any knowledge of the ability to tan.

In my youth, my brilliant plan was for my freckles to eventually merge, and I’d possess The Uber Super Human Tan.  Plan faltered, failed, and buried.

[ Youth: When Looking Good Means Looking Like Everyone Else. ]

I tried the Crisco-to-skin route in the sun-basking days of junior high when the Cool Place to Hang was Bee Creek Pool and sunscreen was laughable.  Because all of my blonde and brunette friends were disgustly perfect and brown, soaking themselves in baby oil, and I, The Redhead, pun intended: paled in comparison.

From there, I coasted on into high school and straight into the tanning beds to toast my milky white skin for Important Life Altering Everything Depends On This Night Events like “Homecoming” and “Prom”.  Everyone else was tanning, so why not me?  (score one for play-on-words 90′s reference to Cranberries record)

And after a about five really good burny burn burns equatable to Wince When You See Me proportions? I actually managed to gain more freckles color.

Never underestimate the power of Denial.

[ This is Where Reality and Acceptance Set In. ]

But then I took a chemistry course at A&M. My professor scolded me that tanning beds were A Touch of Satan. That hour-long pep talk gingerly (yes, again!) sealed my fate as a Pale. I was banished to shade and SPF for eternity.

Tan goddesses like Jennifer Aniston are just FREAKS OF NATURE. (Actually, I hear she goes to those spray tan places and spends like $98 mil on the upkeep, but whatevs.)

[ This is Where Reason Flies Out The Window And Looking Good Wins. ]

I never considered tanning until quite recently when the sudden realization that if I don’t rip the veritable sunburn band-aid off a wee teensy bit by doing something… the first day we arrive in St. John, I will immediately baste and cook like a Thanksgiving turkey, rendering myself unrecognizable two days later when we get married.

[ Here Is The Point. ]

Should I take today, this beautiful Saturday, and take advantage of the tanning bed coupons bestowed upon me in the bridal gifty package thing I got when purchasing my wedding dress?

Because I certainly don’t want my wedding pictures to look like the menu cover at Red Lobster.

[ Five Years Ago I Was Embarrassing. ]

When I first moved to Austin, I was a fresh-faced and eager young lassy, ready to embrace all that the city had to offer. A veritable beret-flinging Mary Tyler Moore. After living in corporate trafficy suity-suit Houston for four years, Austin enticed me as the artsy, younger, hipper sibling.

I will frequent random coffee shops and record stores!
I will burn incense and absorb culture!
I will Live Strong! and Keep Austin Weird!

But I could never quite pull the whole scarfy exotic Vegan Bohemian Existentialist thing off. I totally wore Gap jeans and ate Whataburger.

[ Five Years Down The Road I Got Bitter. ]

“I know it’s a big ol’ crazy shot in the dark, but… do you have anything in the klezmer genre?”

I’m wearing my best shade of Denial in hopes I won’t have to shlep all the way downtown with the traffic and the parking to Waterloo Records* where I know I’ll find exactly what I’m looking for.

“Huh?” The Best Buy girl in blue automatically looks at me disgusted.

I retreated to my car to mentally prepare to head downtown with the gamillions of people. Getting anywhere in this city takes 72 hours and a ravaging dose of Tylenol Extra Strength.

*Referential Explanationcakes:
Waterloo, a place I once practically lived in and loved, is a wildy popular record store in the epicenter of Austin known for safehousing people with hair I no longer understand and obscure music. It has a parking lot that consists of five spaces.

“My dad is worth it. My dad is worth it.” I chanted as I entered the parking lot. My panther-like eyes spy a coveted spot about to open. Sweet pickles that heavenly spot will be mine!

Two Dreadlockians standing on both sides of the car.
And yet they aren’t getting in?
They are casually discussing where to go next.

GETINTHECARANDGO!!

The good news? My trek was not made in vain. Waterloo, of course, delivered with an entire row of Israel-shaped music to choose from.

[ This Is My Last Straw. ]

Ready to purchase and getout, I took stance behind an iPod Backpack in Pigtails.
For 2 minutes.

One would assume she was standing in line to purchase the albums in her hand.
But that assumption would be wrong.

She was just standing there.
Existing.

“Scuse me,” I muttered. She didn’t budge.
“Scuse me,” I cleared my throat.

“SCUSE ME-e-E!” My voice cracked from the uncomfortable volume. “I’d like to get by now!”

I am Garth Algar.
And Waterloo is my discontent.

The Mister? A lyrics connoisseur. He is infamous in 3 counties for his ridiculously impressive talent of reciting a song, word for word, after hearing it only once.

Me: What’s that Metallica song called?
The Mister: (heavy sigh – he despises Metallica) Aww, Baby…
Me: I feel like I should bust out my ol’ combat boots and flannel with a fist pump. It’s the one with the dramatic pause. The chorus goes, ‘You know it’s sad patrooooool‘.
The Mister: What?
Me: Sad patro-hooool-uh!
The Mister: Wait. (pause) Did you just say…
Me: What?
The Mister: It’s “Sad But True”.
Me: No, no, no. ‘You know it’s sad patroooooool!’
The Mister: Nope.
Me: What? (pause) Oh.
The Mister: (silence)
Me: Wow. That makes so much more sense.
The Mister: Yep.
Me: So I can no longer taunt you for ‘Jeremy’s Broken Glass Today’?
The Mister: Nope.
Me: I need at least 5 to 10 minutes to process this.

It seemed like a full five minutes post-failure, that the camera was dead set on capturing the precise moment when Alicia Sacramone’s heart broke as she processed the utter magnitude of her gymnastic foibles, losing the gold medal for her entire team. Her face like stone as she stared in the distance – probably retreating to her happy place to fetal a big fluffy pillow.

And just to drive it home, an instant replay of her each of her failures was broadcast.
In every angle possible.
In slow motion.

[ This is Where I Lose It. ]

“TAKE THE CAMERA OFF OF HER!! TAKE THE CAMERA OFF OF HEEEER!!” I found myself Shirley MacLaining through tearful ducts. I took on the demeanor of Batty Protective Stage Mom, kneeling before the television, arms wide open as if to embrace her in television pixel box form. “Shhhh it’ll be oh-kay. That’s right. Shhhhhhhhhh.”

Ten minutes prior in stupid, somewhat odd jealous fit, I had been rolling my eyes and snarking, “Look at her. You can tell she thinks she’s SO great.”

Had it been me? I would have jet fighter piloted to the locker room winning my own gold medal for terrific speed and spontaneously combusted into a giant weeping ball of tears.

"No one else made mistakes, so it's kind of my fault" - Alicia Sacramone

Dear Alicia,
You win a gold medal for maintaining your composure in front of the entire world. Hats off to you, my dear. Hats. off.

Your Batty Protective Stage Faux Mom,
The LindeBlog.

This morning, I adapted the graceful stance of an upside down J, shuffling on a hunch and a prayer to and fro ’bout the office. See, my back and I have been disagreeing about everything lately. And I just have to sit there. And take it.

“Are you okay?” The woman who just walked into the office is clearly alarmed. She witnesses my sad attempt to pick up the fallen stapler. I look like an umbrella handle, lady. What do you think?

Me: Oh yeah. Yeah. Just can’t really move.
Lady: Do you do yoga?
Me: Oh yeah. Yeah. No.
Lady: Ooooh you should do yoga.

[ This Is The Flashback Scene. ]

My mind wanders to the phase about a decade ago when I got all gung-ho about yoga. Completely determined, I bought the workout tape, a mat for which to celebrate my oneness with the universe, and a new pair of comfy pj pants – the works. My water bottle rested peacefully at my side. Serenity serenity serenity.

I am totally Gwyneth Paltrow.
I’ll move to England.
And eat macrobiotic foods.

Because that’s what happens when you do yoga.

I giddily popped cassette into player anxious for my new lifestyle to begin. Ten minutes into the workout, the breathy instructor’s buttermilky coos of praise, “Yes. You’re doing gooooooooooooood” began to sound more like nails on a chalkboard than motivation.
Am I? Am I doing good? Because I’m pretty sure the civil war my legs are about to engage in would state otherwise. Needless to say, the yoga phase was immediately squandered and inevitable pique of interest in Tai Bo was born. I turned the tape off and opted for a rerun of Seinfeld instead.

[ Flashback Over Now. ]

“You should google some office chair exercises.” She offers as she exits. “Those things will murder you if you don’t.” Oooh. Death By Furnishing. Cool.

So I did.
Right after she left.
Aaaaaand came across this:

Office Exercises
My only option? Really?

Maybe it’s pride.
I dunno.
Maybe it’s the fact that I am a clumsy ol’ broad and my boss would walk in just as that chair beneath my hands would remember it had wheels and shimmy it’s way to Dixieland before catering to my well being.

Winter winds a-blowin’ on the outsides it was, and my determination for entertainment well outweighed the pressures of Mother Nature. Nary did I heed the weather man’s warning, but rather challenged it as I skipped to the closest Blockbuster. And by skipped I mean totally drove.

While standing in line, I noticed your typical teen walk by.

She must have been no more than 14.

How could one not notice her in a ripped tank top, shorts (winter winds, I tells ya!), and boots to the knees. Proudly carrying in her arms a framed Abbey Road poster making sure everyone would see, she spun in place, and cooed “My babieeeeees,” all the while staring at it adoringly.

Oh God.
I feel my face flush and turn away out of embarrassment.

Her mom looks tired. Desperately trying to relate to her daughter, she points to the poster. “Now I seem to remember… when this album came out. I think there was something about (pause) him? Being dead or something?”

Biting tongue.
Sweet Mary and Joseph she’s pointing at Ringo.

“And!” Daughter chimed in to sales lady, “Do you guys have Across the Universe… TO BUY?! Please please please say you do! I looooove The Beatles!” In case we, the entire postal district, didn’t happen to pick up on her gratuitous display.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” She bites an eager black fingernail. “Do you guys have Requiem for a Dream?”

Hot Topic called.
They want their Dead Kennedy’s patch back.

One last glimpse as Mother and Daughter exit Blockbuster is of her flapping her arms with glee. Her mom looks drained, yet relieved, that for the next few hours her daughter will be content. Which melted my heart, and initiated a phone call to my own mom to tell her what an angel she is for weathering the storms of my sister and me.

I got in my car, sighed, and immediately ejected Abbey Road.

What is the probability?
What are the odds?
Who’d like to take a goosey gandery gamble that the wee miniscule space from hoop to lobe (see: visual above of hoop in happier times) somehow managed to finagle a latch atop my driver’s side window as I attempt entry into my vehicle, hang itself, rip lobe, and jettison across parking lot in a suicide mission ‘neath the neighborly Jetta?

If you chose slim to none?
You are wrong.
So very wrong.

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