Big Red Helmet

There are two things you need to know about this entry:  A.) I’m writing it with the song “Jizz in My Pants” on constant rotation inside my brain; and B.) I’m writing it directly after waking up from a three hour nap.  So if this sucks, blame Andy Samberg.  Or my ridiculous sleep schedule.  But more likely Mr. Samberg.

Anyway.

When I was a teenager, any number of things could have caused my immediate death by humiliation.  A boy knowing that I liked him?  IMMEDIATE DEATH.  Me knowing that a boy liked me?  Also, IMMEDIATE DEATH.  My father being my father in front of anyone other than my immediate family?  Just measure me for my coffin, already.

I was so easily embarrassed, and yet, I willingly wore pink plaid capris to school.  Logic, where are you?

So yes.  I was unbelievably, heartrendingly easy to humiliate as a teenager, but somewhere in the middle of college, I lost ALL SHAME about making a spectacle of myself.  I don’t know how or when it happened, but essentially it’s like I went to bed as a mere mortal and woke up as an argumentative old woman.

IT IS AWESOME.

I mean, don’t get me wrong:  I’m still shy and awkward and very easy to talk out of doing daring things, but physically, I am extremely hard to embarrass.  By which I mean, I will drag my busted, unwashed, barely dressed-ass anywhere.  Somewhere along the line, I learned to ignore shame if it meant I could save that extra ten minutes I would have used on a shower for SLEEPING.

So it was really only a matter of time before I started wearing my motorcycle helmet everywhere.

Let me explain:  when I first bought SASHA FIERCE, I tried to find something, anything to do with the giant red helmet that came with her.  When I was in the store, I would try putting it inside my bookbag, or holding it in the crook of my arm, or putting it  in my shopping cart—it was all hella inconvenient and exhausting.  So eventually, I just started leaving the helmet on whenever I went inside.

I have bought groceries while wearing a giant red helmet.

I have asked whether something is located on aisle five while wearing a giant red helmet

I have refilled my birth control prescription while wearing a giant red helmet.

I haven’t had sex while wearing the giant red helmet–YET–but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

Now, I’m a pretty anonymous-looking lady:  I’ve got medium brown hair, I’m of medium height, average weight, don’t have any noticeable signs of THE CRAZY—basically, I’m forgettable.  I’m used to being forgotten, no matter how many times I frequent a store or stop by a library.  But for some reason, wearing a giant red helmet indoors and completely nonchalantly makes people remember you.  Like, for the rest of their lives remember you.  Which I found out the hard way today.

Now, I get my facial hair ripped out on a fairly regular basis because my Italian heritage expresses itself in hirsuteness, so this afternoon I felt the five o’clock shadow on my face and decided it was time to get that shit taken care of.  Accordingly, I took a spin on SASHA FIERCE and presented myself at my usual salon.  Now, I don’t like to do this thing known as “scheduling appointments like a rational adult,” so I’ve essentially been playing Russian Roulette with a rotating group of waxers.  I don’t have a regular stylist by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought I recognized the lady sitting up at the front of the store, waiting for the next customer to walk in.  She certainly recognized me.  “I know you!” she said, gesturing towards her face.  “I did your waxing last time!”

Oh God, I thought, shame pricking through me for the first time in years.  She remembers me because she still has nightmares about my beard jumping off my chin and EATING HER FACE.

Then she pointed to my helmet and said, “You came on your bicycle last time, too!”

Maybe I should start putting the old girl inside my bookbag–oh, hell, who are we kidding?  We all know I’m too fucking lazy for that.  Infamy it is!