You Smell Like My Pillow

I had an odd day. Strange, even. Maybe it was just a Monday, or I was due for an unusual day, either way it was … odd.

Many puzzling things were said, unexpected things happened, and part of my day even felt like a dream, but… an odd one.

Contributing to the oddity was an elevator ride I took with a security guard at work this morning. I noticed him approaching the elevator as I was, and we did the whole ‘which one of us is going to press the call button’ dance. Always a strong indicator of an awkward elevator ride coming. As I got in and the doors closed, I thought about the fact that we’ve rarely spoken. He occasionally mumbles good morning, and I respond back politely hoping to sound cheerful, but not overly enthusiastic, because he strikes me as… um, weird.

You know what I mean by weird, one of those security guards you read about on CNN.com who has a coffee table full of militia magazines, failed the police psych eval, and lives in their mother’s basement? The one that eventually walked in somewhere and shot people up because a girl rejected them or because the grocery store didn’t have tangerines? You know who I’m talking about.

As visions of him with an AK47 danced through my head, I was interrupted by these words… “You smell like my pillow”. Trying to hide the ‘what the fuck’ eyebrows, I answered ” Come again?” to which he repeated “You smell like my pillow”.

The elevator doors opened and I hurriedly exited. He was right behind me and I was hoping to make a graceful entrance through the doors and past his desk without being compared to another inanimate object he slept on. Just then he said ” You know, like Downy”. BIG INHALE THROUGH THE NOSE. “Smells good!”

I laughed uncomfortably and said ” Oh really?” while my hands desperately sought the door handle. Once safely through the door, and almost past his desk, I responded with “Oh, must be my fabric softener” and hurried past. To my horror he passed his desk and followed me. “Yeah, definitely, I was trying to figure out what scent!” BIG INHALE THROUGH THE NOSE. “I think it’s the spring one with the flowers, am I right?”

We’re now 20 steps closer to my desk, and he’s still following me like I’m the Downy pied piper. I felt like the Snuggle bear with a flute dancing through a meadow.

As we approached my desk, I mumbled “I’mnotsuremaybeit’sGainorsomething”. I watched and waited as he stood there in front of my desk. I kept waiting to hear ‘GAIN?????? I HATE GAIN!!!! And so does my AK47!!!!” rata-tat-tat-tat-tat tat tat tat

Instead he simply replied, “Yeah, maybe” and walked away muttering ‘Downy… Pillow…. Mumble… Fresh… Towels… More mumbling’.

I came home, and pitched the fabric softener. It was Downy.

Hello There Mr Chiropractor

I’ve had some crazy shoulder socket pain this past week, which usually happens when my neck is screwed up. This has led to me become one with a heating pad this weekend.

While laying here today, pondering life (or eating Easter candy and watching Netflix) I realized a way I could vastly improve my quality of life.

You ready? Marry a chiropractor. Yeah. It’s pretty genius. I have minimal desire to ever be married, and even less desire to ever procreate, so my idea of marrying a chiropractor should not be taken lightly. Think about it, it’s the perfect marriage. A man who can make up for all of his annoying traits by aligning my neck and back on a daily basis.

And this little idea of mine isn’t just a one-sided solution. I would Stepford wife it UP for a chiropractor. Fresh muffins in the morning? Sure, honey. Laundry done daily? No problem. Sex on demand? You got it. I’d throw away all of my hopes and dreams, initiative, success, and need for intellectual stimulation – all to be adjusted on demand.

This fantasy leads me to two conclusions. One, I may have laid on the heating pad too long, and two I should see my chiropractor ASAP. I’m clearly delirious from pain.