3 Packages

Yesterday was a red-letter day, for not one, not two, but three packages were delivered to my door.

The first was an eagerly-anticipated shrunken-schoolboy blazer that, in the magical way of certain eBay purchases, fit just right.

The second was one of those UV lamps, courtesy of my dad. Now, you may wonder why he'd send this to me on the first 60-degree week of the year, but you must udnerstand that it was only this past Sunday that my folks saw a segment about SAD on CBS, and determined that it was the cause of all my problems. Very dear, of course, and as soon as I drag myself away from the real thing, I plan to bask regularly, even though I'm told the glare renders computers screens invisible.

The third was the oddest and requires a bit of dull background. Perhaps you'll recall that a few years ago, when we first started dating, Slim and I had a Big Misunderstanding. In essence, I thought it was tacitly understood that we were "exclusive," and he hadn't gotten the memo (ugh, two phrases I hate in one sentence!) It precipitated a break and much kowtowing and my lifetime supply of donuts from Peter Pan. Anyway, at the time, a couple of his friends were aware that he was seeing both me and the incredibly glamorous and stunning British fashion designer of whose existence I was not aware. Indeed, they hung out with her! They thought, like him, that I was "cool" with it, although anyone who knew me at all would have known I've never been cool with anything in my life, less that. As a result, after the fact, I've always found seeing these two friends of his about the most humiliating thing in the world, and they evoke a very unpleasant time for me and an irrational part of my mind always thinks they're snickering at me, even though that's silly. Which, in a way, is too bad, since we twice had a good time, once involving lard bread and once involving dancing at Home Sweet Home.

Apparently one of them, the one who works for a sock company, asked Slim, last week, why it is that I never come on their outings or join them for dinner. Slim, being an ass, told them frankly that it reminds me of being cuckholded and that I find the very sight of them humiliating. (This level of neurosis should really be classified information, except for the fact that I'm writing about it here.) So then, yesterday, arrived in the mail, with no explanation or note, a large box of women's socks. Which, presumably, is supposed to make me less uncomfortable. It kind of does the exact opposite. But don't get me wrong, I can use the socks.