Year of the Chick (11 page)

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Whatever happened to the glory of man, in all his rugged nakedness?

I’m not too sure, but when it comes to art and anatomy, all I hear about is women. I don’t deny the beauty that is smooth and curvy “woman,” but I certainly have my limits (such is the curse of being “hetero”).

And that brings me to men…manly men.

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I continued typing for half an hour straight. By the time I was finished expressing my love for art (that’s all it was), I instinctively opened my e-mail.

And that’s when I saw it again.

James had written me back.

But it’s half past three a.m. in Barcelona!

I excitedly clicked on the message:

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Hello Roms,

Then I will leave it to you to connect us on Facebook…if you are not against such a thing, of course.
 

J

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Even when he wanted something, he came out of it looking cool. How did he do that? Maybe he was really Daniel Craig, but with a different name and picture to stay anonymous.

Because yeah, Daniel Craig likes to blog on the side.

I would certainly add him as a friend, but a much more important task lay before me first; I had to comb through all my pics and delete every one that wasn’t hot.

I scrutinized picture after picture, deleting any image with the slightest hint of a flaw.

A speck of a zit?
Delete.

A slightly oily forehead?
Delete.

Any angle that revealed a semblance of a double chin?
Delete!

And on the flip side: any angle that created the illusion of bigger boobs?
Keep, keep, keep!

By the time I was finished it was half past ten, and I’d gone from my original two hundred and sixty photos, right down to forty-three. I crossed my fingers as I sent him a “friend request.”

Please don’t think I’m ugly!

I brushed my teeth and soon drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a world where he’d find my face agreeable.

***

The next morning I awoke to five new e-mails. Three of them were comments from last night’s blog post (
yeah, as if I care right now
), and one was a “friend acceptance” from James (
hooray!
).

A final e-mail was written by the man himself.

I opened his e-mail first.

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Good morning Roms.

Nice to see we are “friends” now.

Enjoy your day.

J

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I beamed with delight, and my smile cracked the patches of dried-up drool that were covering my cheeks.

Before I could hop, skip and dance my way to the bathroom, I suddenly remembered Facebook, and the fact that I could now view his profile.

My stomach switched the dial to “barf” as I nervously clicked on his page.

I sighed with relief at his “single” relationship status.

Then I saw his five hundred friends, which was another big sigh of relief. Hopefully some would serve as character witnesses later in our “online relationship.”

And the best part of all? His picture was not a fake!

He was everything his first picture claimed, with a sparkling pair of blue eyes to boot!

I could see all this from photos he’d posted of his nights in Barcelona, and trips to all of Spain’s most popular beaches. I smiled as I clicked from picture to picture, soaking in his sexy appearance.

By the tenth picture, my smile turned into a neutral purse of the lips
. Is that girl just his friend? What’s with his arm around her shoulder?

By the twentieth picture I was squirming in bed.
Are there THAT many beach babes in Spain?
By the thirty-sixth and final picture, I was frozen in disbelief.

I closed my laptop and tried to erase the images from my mind, but how could I? Some hot friends here, a bunch of bikini-clad bombshells there, it was culture shock of the cruelest kind. I lived in Canada, where not only did the average-looking girls outnumber the hotties, but where six months of the year we didn’t worry as much about our abs or legs or asses. We were too busy sporting our jeans and puffy winter coats!

I felt the sudden urge to puke, but I didn’t like the thought of mixing any vomit with my morning breath. So I forced it down and rose to brush my teeth.
 

Feeling zero desire for food of any kind, I went straight from the bathroom to bed, and back to my dangerous laptop.

I clicked through his pictures again, as masochism took its hold. Had he no ugly friends? And why did the appearance of female friends out-number the males? And were those girls even only his friends? There was a hidden desire in those glitter-coated eyes, I could sense it. And did he really have to frequent all those bunny-laden beaches? Couldn’t he just get a spray tan and call it a day?

I left for work with no real answers to go on, and only a vague recollection that I’d woke up with a beaming smile...

Chapter Nine

On the train in to work I closed my eyes tight and tried to take a nap. Too bad for me I remained wide-awake, and I couldn’t stop obsessing over James’s local hottie surroundings. But was I even surprised? As if he’d willingly go where the “uglies” were at. Not that ugly women were confined to certain places. Well maybe the library.

My brain wasn’t even making sense anymore, for goodness sake I loved the library! It was all his fault for leaving me with so many questions.

MEN!

When I finally arrived at the office, an e-mail to James was the first thing I wrote:

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Hey James,

Nice pictures! You sure seem to run with a hottie social circle ;-)

Romi

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The “wink” in my message was only for show. I was angry. It was crazy to feel all this rage towards a guy I’d only e-mailed for a couple of weeks. Even crazier was that my emotions fake or real were confined to concrete words and typed out winks.

Who even “winks” in real life? That would be the creepiest shit ever!

I twirled a strand of hair ferociously between my fingers, almost enjoying the pain.

Before ever drawing any blood from my scalp, I released the hair as his e-mail response rolled in.

Well that was fast.

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Hello Roms,

That’s a small bite of the Catalonian spirit that breathes through this city, you should taste it one day. Moving to this city was an easy decision I can assure you.

How is Canada today? Still covered in a blanket of snow?

Warmest regards,

J

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My stomach rolled around in my body three times. I felt wretched, and then I felt wretched for feeling wretched.

I did not like being the lowly street rat in this tale of two Internet hearts.
And NO it’s not still winter in Canada, and NO I’m not jealous!

To top it all off, did he have to sound so smart and proper in all his e-mails? It was attractive of course, but not when it made my e-mails sound like ghetto-trash. How did he even get so distinguished-sounding? Probably all that time spent writing screenplays.
Ohhh, you’re so fancy!

I needed a good comeback response. Perhaps I could drop in a line that made fun of Spain, so he would feel like a loser for living there.

What was in Spain anyway? Sexy dancing. Awesome food. Beautiful weather…

DAMMIT!

I tried something different by Googling “Why Spain sucks.”

Most of the responses were in Spanish (so Spaniards hated Spain?), or focused on the theme of why Spain “doesn’t” suck.

You’ve failed me, Google!

Throughout the day I read his e-mail many more times, hoping it would sprout some ideas. On the tenth read, I heard a voice that made me jump in my chair.

“Well, well, well, what’s going on over here? Sending personal e-mails at work?”

I let out a gasp as my boss Todd hovered right above me.

I turned with a reddened set of ears but composure in my voice. “You know how it is boss, I’m a popular gal.”

“You? Popular? Don’t make me laugh. Who the hell’s James?”

Todd leaned in closer, trying to read off the screen.

“Stop reading it, loser!” I closed down the page as quickly as I could. “It’s no one. And besides, is it wrong to have some friendly male correspondence? It doesn’t always have to be romance.”

“Who said anything about romance? I’m more concerned about stalking. Like I’m worried for the guy you’re stalking in that e-mail. Seriously Romer, don’t harass people on the Internet, it’ll get you into trouble.”

“I am NOT a stalker! Anyway he’s just a friend. Mild acquaintance more like.” I couldn’t look Todd in the eye, and he noticed.

“Dude...oh no. This is not some guy you met on the Internet is it? Are you ‘cyber-dating’? Because I’ll tell you right now, whoever he is, add thirty years and a criminal record.”

“What? Cyber-dating? Me? I may be single but I’m not desperate. HAHAHA. HAHAHAHAHA.”

Was he buying it?

Todd cocked his head and eyed me strangely.

“Alright,” he said. “Time to get the critters from daycare. Now don’t be a loser and work ‘till five o’ clock or anything.”

“Yeah, like I’m gonna work ‘till five for YOU.”

Todd smiled and shuffled away, with my psycho-cyber-cover still in tact.

As soon as he was gone I packed up my belongings too.

Time to help Laura find the perfect dress, and time to admit I have an Internet problem.

***

I browsed through the aisles of Tiffany and Co., with my face all aglow from the light bouncing off the pretty jewels. I was totally entranced by the engagement rings, but it was less an ancient demand that floated in my head (drilled inside by modern society, bridal magazines and girly competition), and more an obsession with the meaning of it all. To think that a man, any man, would spend so much money on a piece of rock, to tell her she was his for good. Did guys really do that? What an incredible feeling it would be, to no longer fear getting dumped.

“Would you like to try one on?”

I jumped at the sound of the Tiffany’s associate, and his surprisingly friendly voice. Why would he even ask?

Maybe I looked like a classy girl with a wealthy boyfriend. And why not? I was wearing a pink and satiny shirt that tied in the front with a puffy bow (one of my recent purchases, after Laura once told me I dress like a bag of shit…
a girl never forgets
). I looked like money, it was true.

I stood frozen as I stared at the elf-like associate, with his delicate gestures and disturbingly small hands.

Finally I answered. “Uhh...no. I, I, I...” I wasn’t really sure why my mouth seized up, but all I could do was gurgle with a wide-eyed freak-girl expression. What I wanted to say was that a girl who hasn’t dated in two (and a half) long years shouldn’t be trying on twenty-thousand-dollar engagement rings. But it wasn’t my favourite conversation.

The Tiffany’s elf looked disturbed and glided away, with Laura quickly taking his place.

“So are you ready to be my very own personal shopper?”

“Absolutely. Bring on the slut stores!” I laughed and patted her on the shoulder.

“You need to shut the hell up. But…we will be visiting the slut stores.”

And off we went, to find my friend something sexy with a dash of smut.

***

“I am NOT comfortable with this. It shows all the curves of my ass!”

I rolled my eyes. “When will you learn that the curves of your ass drive all the men wild? And it’s pink. And it’s a halter dress. Hot arms, hot shoulders, hot ass, what’s the problem?”

Laura was on dress number twenty at the seventh store we’d visited. I was tired, but I still understood her need for the perfect look.

“I’m scared that it shows too much!”

“Okay, let’s just clarify your goals a bit. On a scale of ‘one to slut,’ how slutty do you really wanna look?”

“Umm....six?”

“Only a six?” I shook my head. “Well now I have a whole new vision in mind. Let’s hit up the Guess Store next.” Laura changed back into her navy blue suit as I considered my secret plot. The Guess Store was at the opposite end of the mall, so as we made our way down there I would bring up the Internet guy.