Happiness Is...

1. Remembering there is a half eaten bag of Fritos and stale Milk Duds in your file cabinet when you are starving.

2. Tripping on your stupid rubber soled heels then realizing there is no one there to witness it.

3. Spilling your latte on your lap when you're wearing a dark brown skirt.

4. Being me, today.

Hair Conversations with Mary

I have a cute little hair stylist. Mary, my coiffure expert, is a 19 year old advanced student at the Dallas Roberts academy. She makes me almost feel young again as she chats with me about her dating life, her room-mates, all the things that I am many years beyond now. It takes about 4 hours, start to finish, for her to do my hair. But she does a fabulous job, even if she does insist on giving me the 'Utah Poof,' (see picture) so I always go back.

I sat fidgeting in the chair this past Saturday, my butt going numb at about the 100th foil. For the 78th time I picked a fallen hair (my own) off my black smock and with waggling fingers released it to the hair laden salon floor. Mary giggled.

"You don't like hair, do you?" She asked. I shuddered.

"I HATE hair. HATE it."

"Why?"

"It's a textural thing."

"Textural?"

"Yeah. Like when it's wet and gets stuck to your fingers, or when you can it tickling down the back of your shirt, or when..."

"When you pull one out of your mouth?" Mary supplied helpfully.

I wretched and swallowed excess spit. "Yes. Like that."

"That's weird. It's never bothered me."

"Yeah, I'm weird. I have a few things like that."

"Like what?"

"Wet bread. Like when they make a sandwich at Subway and they put the tomatoes next to the bread and it gets all soggy." Cyndi shudders again.

"What else?"

"Well for icky mouth-feel I'd have to say pudding, yogurt, peanut butter, jumbo marshmallows. For tactile ickyness it would be cardboard, dishwater with floaty things, and dryer lint." Cyndi shakes her hands to rid them of the phantom dishwater floaties they're now feeling. Mary smiles.

"Yeah, I know. I'm a weirdo." I reply.

"No!" She tries to assure me exuberantly. "You're just, you're just..."

"Crazy?"

"Nuh uh! No! You're totally not!"

"It's okay. Really. I know I'm warped."

She sighs and fiddles with a foil, clearly searching for something she can say to make me feel better. "I don't like ketchup. That's weird, right?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess so," I reply shifting cheeks.

"This is going to look hot," she says changing the subject.

"Sweet," I reply.

I'm a freak.


-Cyndi

For Grandpa

My wonderful, kind, and heroic Grandpa, Stephen John Richards, passed away the Sunday before last. He was a beautiful man and left his grandchildren with many lovely memories. Below is merely a few of them, as told by by my brother Stevie, his name sake, and me.

Cyndi:
It's funny, the things one remembers. For me, it's the sheets on the bed I occupied whenever we were lucky enough to be visiting our Grandpa and Grandma in Florida. It always seemed to be summertime on those occasions, the weather hot and humid enough that sheets were sufficient for night time cover. These were white and covered with pill-balls, but bedecked by a repeating pattern of grinning tabby cats wearing red high top sneakers, laces in neatly looped bows. It seemed lighter at night than I was used to, warmer as well, and I sometimes found it hard to fall asleep. Instead I would count the tabby cats, thinking of Grandpa telling me how Aunt Kass would draw cats riding horses. These sheets had been hers once, when she was young enough to live at home. I found it oddly thrilling sleeping in her white four poster bed.

On those sweltering summer days, we spent many happy hours at the pool next door, diving for rings, exploring the bottom of the pool through foggy goggled eyes. On one occasion, I had a pressing need to go to the bathroom, so Grandpa walked me back over to his house early, assuring me my brothers and Dad would be close behind.

The smells were different in Grandpa's house, as was the texture of the carpet in the room my brothers and I shared. My feet were more sensitive after coming from the pool and it reminded me vaguely of stepping on yarny little worms. I hung my bathing suit and goggles on the white bed post, hearing a faint tapping on the carpet as the dripping water saturated a spot on the carpet below. After changing back into the customary shorts and tank top I wandered out into kitchen where Grandma stood at the stove, stirring a pot pf Beanie Weenies, to which she added extra hot dogs. Grandpa, in a striped shirt, Bermuda shorts, and striped tube socks pulled up to his calves, sat at the table reading the paper. He looked up and smiled as I came in, removing his glasses, reaching for the can of Hi-C still chilly from the fridge, and pouring some into the sparkling yellow cup for me.

"Did you get all the water out of those ear pans Cinderbug?" He asked. I shook my head "no" and heard the water slosh.

"Well make sure you sleep on that side tonight, and it will come out while you sleep." It had, of course, in a warm trickle onto one of the red sneakers of the cat on the pillow case, a larger version of his clones that adorned my sheets. The same pillow which, every time I arrived for a visit, inevitably held a Barbie or new stuffed animal for me.

"Do you have any paper?" I asked him, wiping the Hi-C from my lip. "I want to draw you a picture." Grandma crossed the beige and brown linoleum and pushed a yellow pad and pen over to me.

"Here you go," she said, "What are you going to draw?"

"I'll show you," I said setting to work. I gripped the pen, scratching along the paper, until a crooked pig emerged. On his head I drew two attenuated little antennae with bulbous ends.

"Ooh, what are those? Those don't look like any pigs I've ever seen," Grandpa said, humoring me.

"They're Pigaliens!" I announced, proud as punch.

"My! Pigaliens! Have you ever seen a Pigalien Marge?" He asked.

Grandma glanced at the wide array of ceramic pigs adorning her kitchen window sill. "Nope, no pigaliens there." She remarked.

"Grandpaa!" I droned, dramatically, " they're not real!"

"Well how do you know?" He asked, his face the picture of innocence. I shrugged. I guess I didn't.

"You better sign and date this." Grandpa remarked.

"Why?" I asked.

"Well when you are a famous artist someday, this will be worth lots of money." He explained.

"But I'm not going to be a famous artist. I'm going to be a teacher." I replied.

"Maybe so," Grandma agreed. "But you better sign and date it, just in case." I did so with great importance, carefully lettering Cindy Lynn Richards in my labored child's script, then handed it over to Grandma, who placed it on the fridge, securing it with a pig magnet. She returned to the stove to stir lunch as the front door opened and closed, announcing my brothers and dad returning from the pool. They shuffled wetly to our shared room to change. Grandpa rose and walked to the cabinet, returning with a can of macaroons. He glanced at Grandma, her back was to us, and slid a macaroon across the table. He winked at me and popped one in his mouth, then quietly returned the tin to the cupboard.

I stealthily palmed the macaroon and took small bites every time Grandma's back was turned, finishing after several moments. I felt something deeply significant had transpired. Twenty years later, I still do.

The sum total of these experiences, after all is said and done, cannot be adequately measured by the passing of time, nor in beginnings or ends. Instead, they are counted in ripples and in folds, in the aligning of like hearts with shared tendency, in continuance of traditions, in the persistence of memories.

The other day, I sat at my kitchen table making a water color with Matty.

"Remember to sign and date it," I said when we finished.

"Why do you always say that?" He asked in his innocent way. He was right of course, I always did.

"Because some day, when you are a famous artist, this will be worth lots of money."

"But I'm not going the be a famous artist." He insisted.

"You never know." I replied. "You better sign it just in case." He did, of course, with great importance.

Stevie:
The other day I asked Mom to get me a grapefruit at the grocery store, not having had one for many years. I was surprised to see how muscle memory took over. I cut the large fruit in half , and with a spoon stumbled along the edges until the grapefruit was loose. I took the first bite and instantly i was transported back to Grandma and Grandpas kitchen. I could smell coffee, I could see Grandpa with his big glasses on reading the newspaper. I had looked up from my memory and realized that i was finished with the grapefruit. I began to clean up....what was i doing? I forgot the most important part, i took a glass from the cupboard and like grandpa squeezed the juice into the glass careful to remove the seeds. i took a long drink from it and it just made the memory all the more complete. Its true though, the quaint memories that your brain chooses to remember over others. I remember the blow up snake in the fruit tree in the back yard, i remember a bag of neon space men the size of army men, tucked into the tv one visit. I remember playing to vigorously with a sword laden toy once, and the sword went into someones drink. above all though i remember swimming. the tight floaties restricting my movement, grandpa slicing through the water using his hand to squirt water at us all, telling us it was a water skeeter. and then at the end of the days swimming activities, grandpa would help me out of the pool, he'd towel off my back and then wrap the towel around me. He'd stand next to me with his towel wrapped the same, and then he'd bend at his knees and press the towel along his shorts the water would wring out, he showed me how to do it and there wed stand side by side knees bent bouncing up and down on our feet getting the water out of our shorts. i remember how good the Hungry Howies pizza tasted, and how i've never found pizza that tasted anything like it. taking rides in the big car to see the eagles high in the mossy trees. i was so young but those memories are the ones i remember the clearest. I know regret serves no purpose, but i do have regrets, i regret not getting to know my grandfather . I want him to know, that if i do anything in this life, i want to be the man he was, the magic in his smile , the cute nick names he would use, the zest for life he had. I never got to tell him how much these things meant to me how precious it all was.

We love you Grandpa. You will be missed.

Exercise Alternatives

I hate running. With a passion. HATE it. Some (crazy) people have told me that one can become addicted to running, that all of the sudden one day you get a rush of endorphins and from then on you must run in order to get your "fix." Obviously I never kept with it long enough to to experience this miraculous event. My endorphins seem to favor doughnuts and chips. I mention running and they run screaming to the nearest synapse where they can cower in fear and refuse to come out until I buy them a make up doughnut. With extra sprinkles of course. I myself find the sprinkles fairly immature, but something about them pleases the dorphies.

I was taking stock the other night as I sat dumping the rubble and dust from a bag of barbecue chips down my gullet. I came to a not so startling long overdue realization. I hate exercise. In all its forms. I have not found one single activity that I can do and enjoy consistently. Allow me to illustrate for you all of the forms of exercise I have attempted to be consistent with over the years

Calf raises -Age 12-My dad has the world's most perfect calves. None of his children were fortunate enough to inherit these. Instead, my leg is roughly chicken leg shaped. Rounded at the thigh, boney and ridiculous at the calf. As I bemoaned this fact to my dad at the age of 12, he suggested that I try to build up my calves via calf raises. I started doing as many as I could after being dropped off at middle school by the bus every morning. No noticeable difference, other than strange looks and whispers from my fellow junior highers. In fact, my calves lost weight, making them even more scrawny than before. Fail.


Beef jerky can filled with rocks (no, I'm not kidding) - Age 12 - After my brilliant plan to enlarge my calves didn't work, I then decided that perhaps I could make everything more proportional by slimming my thighs. Having no access to a home gym or any of the handy exercise tapes at the time, I hatched a what I thought to be a visionary plan to create weights by filling a beef jerky can with rocks from our alley. I would then sit on the end of my bed, toes pointed ceilingward, and balance the can of rocks on my ankles while straightening my legs. Well, I think I have addressed the topic of my coordination thoroughly enough that any of you reading can guess how this went. Bruised foot, rocks on floor, shapeless thighs remained.

Step up platform - Age 14 -
Overly ambitious and allowance money to burn, I purchased a large turquoise rectangular chunk of Styrofoam that Walmart had branded the "Step it Up," along with its accompanying tape, complete with over caffeinated spandex clad bouncy instructor. During the first workout I managed to trip on said Step it Up, loose my balance, and fall on top of my guinea pig cage. Bruises, shame, pissed off guinea pig, but alas, no increase in fitness level.

Tai Bo - Age 21 - This one I actually kept at for a solid month on the STBN diet. If you don't know what that is, go Google. Then I went on a trip and remembered what naught food looked like. Consequently, it looked significantly more appealing than Billy Blanks encased in spandex. If I'm EVER looking at something wrapped that tight, it better be a sausage. Bratwurst, preferably. Or Cheddarwurst *drools. Yes, well, anyway. They didn't work.

Gym membership #1 w/ personal trainer and eating program - Age 22 -Total Fitness - My first experience with a personal trainer. He made me bench press things. He drew up an eating plan for me. It repeated the same three meals every day. "You don't mind repetitive meals do you? I know I don't" he said, neck veins bulging. I kicked him in the shin and ran away.

Pilates series- Age 23 - Literally, I ordered it, and ten minutes later was eating my "I better get all my snacking in before the DVDs arrive and I have to get serious" bag of Cheetos, when decided I didn't really need to be that flexible. And Mari Windsor did have a slightly crazed look about her. And the chick in the demonstration had a funky toe. Probably pilates wasn't for me, I decided licking the away the orange Cheeto dust. DVDs arrive, find a home on the shelf, gather dust.

Gym membership #2 w/o personal trainer/w/Tanning Pass and Special K diet - Age 23 - Okay, so the pilates didn't work out. When the flier arrived for a $9.95 gym membership I waddled in and signed up, this time refusing the person trainer. No offense Brock. I did however sign up for the tanning pass, thinking that perhaps bronzing my lard would somehow motivate me to actually lose some. Simultaneously I decided I would give the Special K diet a try. You know, the one where you eat nothing but cardboard flakes for breakfast and lunch and by dinner time you crap out a box? Anyhoo - long story short - tanning proved to redden rather than bronze the fat, making it extraordinarily difficult to sit on any exercise machine. Instead I consoled myself by wolfing a tub of Godiva Raspberry chocolate truffle ice cream. Needless to say, I didn't go back. And also forgot to cancel the membership. In fact, I think I'm still being charged for it.

Power 90 - Age 24 - This was by far the most successful. And low and behold I actually stuck with it 90 days and lost 30 some odd pounds. But then I remembered food. And I like food. And I ate food. And got fat. Tony Horton and his fitness minions still live in my DVD case next to the pilates DVDs. I'm waiting for he and Mari Windsor to breed a super-race from my media cabinet any time now.

Gym membership #3 - Age 27 - This would be the ill fated on campus gym where I currently work. Where all the dudes go to grunt and sweat over their lunch break. The gym membership I am still paying for. At the gym I have not been to since Marchish. Somehow wandering downstairs for a super duper triple chocolate chunk cookie has been so much more satisfying.

And yet, somehow, I have managed to lose weight since the beginning of the year and am back in my Power 90 clothes. *Shrugs.

This settles it. I will not run again. Unless someone is chasing me with a gun. Or a knife. Or better yet, a gun and a knife. Moreover, no running for Cyndi unless she is being chased with several really big guns and really big knives.



-Cyndi

I Make Bad Shoe Decisions

Hi. My name is Cyndi. And I make bad shoe decisions. Allow me to illustrate how a bad shoe decision happens, for those of you who are more practical than I.

The morning begins. Cyndi drags herself out of bed at 4:45 am to get ready for the carpool she must meet at 6:10am. Yes you heard me right. After a quick glance in the bathroom mirror, Cyndi decides her hair can surely go one more day without being washed and blow dried. Cyndi crawls back into bed.

Fast forward an hour and fifteen minutes. (I'm sleeping and then putting on make-up during this bit. Bo-ring). Cyndi stands before her closet, peering at her shoes, wondering which ones she should wear today. Thence commences the battle between Practical Cyndi and Shallow Cyndi.

SC: Hmm, I just got a pedicure and my toes are looking pretty cute. Probably I should wear some open toed shoes today.
PC: You only have one pair of open toed shoes. Last time you wore them you ended up with four bloody gaping holes in your foot.
SC: I don't seem to remember that. I'll bet they won't hurt this time.
PC: Look down, genius. See those purpley lumpy scars? That would be from the open toed shoes in question.
SC: *Looks down. Ooh! Those little flowers they painted on my toes are so cute! I really should wear those open toed shoes.
PC: Heeello? Did you not hear what I just said? Those shoes are thinly veiled foot torture devices created by a misogynistic designer who has never had to fit his foot into a female shoe! DO NOT WEAR THEM!
SC: Hey look! They have ankle strappies! I forgot about the strappies! I love ankle strappies! *Reaches for the shoes.
PC: You're gonna be soooorrry. Crap. WE'RE going to be sorry. I hate you.
SC: *Humming to herself.* Yay! Cute shoes, cute shoes!
PC: *Sighs in disgust.

Fast forward another hour and a half. Cyndi is walking past the duck pond on her way into the building where she works.

PC: Ow. ow. ow. ow. OW!
SC: Must walk cute. Must not show excruciating pain. Must radiate confidence. Repeat -I'm on the catwalk. I'm on the catwalk.
PC: Catwalk my hiney! Sawing our feet off would less painful! Holy hannah! YOUCH!
SC: Must smile. Must not grimace. Must...Sweet googley moogley these freaking things hurt! Why in the heck did I wear these stupid things?
PC: Because you are a shallow moron who is willing to sacrifice pain for fashion. Ow. ow. ow.
SC: Must get to desk. Must sit. Must not limp in pain. *Grins maniacally to disguise the excruciating pain in her feet while greeting a co-worker in the elevator. "Good Morning! How are you!"
Coworker: *Eyes Cyndi dubiously.* Good morning. Are you okay?
PS: No you dipstick! I'm considering cutting my feet off with an index card! You wanna help?
SC: Oh yes! Just great thanks. Well, have a great day!*Cyndi lurches out of the elevator and limps to her chair and collapses.
PS: Well better assess the damage. *Moves aside ankle strappy.* Nice. A bloody blister. And before 8am. You just had to have the ankle strappies. Great job, Foofy. Great job.
SC: Oh shut up and give me a bandaid.

So now I have on two bandaids. And I'm taking the elevator up and down from the 4th floor. And still considering cutting my feet of with an index card. Or perhaps my desk scissors. But the strappies are really cute.

Cyndi

Getting to know me...

Stand by for more useless information about Moi...

1. What is your occupation right now? International spy (who happens to moonlight as an assistant to the CIO)
2. What color are your socks right now? I own two pairs of socks (I used to own more but the boys co-opt them when they tire of rotating through the pile they keep under their bed). My socks are worn for running purposes only. I'm not running right now, obviously, because I am typing. But I am pretty sure they are white right now.
3. What are you listening to right now? The buzz of the label maker from my co-worker's cube.
4. What was the last thing that you ate? A vanilla cone from McDonald's. The dollar menu rocks!
5 . Can you drive a stick shift? I can drive an AWESOME stick shift. I can double clutch and only flash my break lights to warn the people behind me I'm turning. I can rev the engine and glide seamlessly into 1st, 2nd, and 3rd without so much of as a hiccup. Wait. Do I have to do these things outside my head for this to count?
6. Last person you spoke to on the phone? Andy, my Lurve.
7. Do you like the person who sent this to you? I adore her. Even if she did delight in making me wear clothes that didn't fit for her own amusement.
8. How old are you today? About 12. I'm hoping to age 4 years mentally before I have to drive home. Wouldn't want to get arrested or anything.
9. What is your favorite sport to watch on TV? Soccer. I have recently discovered the men's Euro Cup in HD. Me likey.
10. What is your favorite drink? Milk
11. Have you ever dyed your hair? *Whistles loudly and looks around.* Why no. But it has changed colors about 78 times over the last 16 years. Damndest thing really.
12. Favorite food? The kind I can eat.
13. What is the last movie you watched? You Don't Mess with the Zohan. Deesco deesco!
14. Favorite day of the year? Summer solstice.
15. How do you vent anger? I bitch. Loudly. To myself.
16. What was your favorite toy as a child? My Easy Bake Oven
17. What is your favorite season? Fall
19. Do you want your friends to e-mail you back? NA
20. Who is the most likely to respond? NA
21. Who is least likely to respond? Everyone I am not emailing.
22. Living Arrangements? Townhouse in happy valley.
23. When was the last time you cried? *Cyndi shouts: "Wolf! Wolf!" Co workers eye her strangely.* Just now.
24. What is on the floor of your closet? Shoes and laundry waiting to be washed.
25. Who is the friend you have had the longest that you are sending to? Not really sending it anywhere but to cyberspace. Cyberspace, how long have we been friends? We're not? Oh. Well then.
26. What did you do last night? Stuffed myself with Peruvian food. Whined about being too stuffed with Peruvian food to run. Ate a McDonald's ice cream cone. Whined about being to stuffed with Peruvian food and an ice cream code to run.
27. What are you most afraid of? Death. Or hair. Soooo gross when it's wet and gets tangled in your fingers. *Shudders.
28. Plain, cheese, or spicy hamburgers? Yes.
29. Favorite dog breed? NOT the chihuahua. One attempted hot carl is enough for me, thank you.
30. Favorite day of the week? Thursday
31. How many states have you lived in? 6ish
32. Favorite music? Loves me a bit of everything. Cept Country. Blerg.

Cyndi vs.The Gray Pants

*Note: This is a semi-dramatic recounting of actual events that occurred approximately 8 years ago. As my memory has faded over the years, some of this has been filled in by the best reality-based supplementation my little brain can offer.*

Cyndi glances up from her French book. Madame Martine and her en francais pupils fail to distract her from the rift in the cosmic vibrations of the small apartment bedroom. The bitter February Idaho wind howls outside the window punctuated by the stacatto shouts of inane co-eds engaging in yet another uber-flirty snow ball fight.
Across the room Heather sighs heavily from her cinder-block raised bed, her normally animated face as lifeless as TV static at 2am. It's the same expression she's worn all evening.
"Okay Heph, what's wrong?" Cyndi asks. Heph is short for heipher, a pet name they use to address eachother often.
"Nothing." Heather replies, glazed eyes passing over the same page for the twentieth time.
"Nothing, right. You've been looking at the same page for an hour."
"Oh?" She replies.
"Um, yeah. Now are you going to tell me what's up?"
"It's nothing."
"Awww, come on. You know I'm going to nag you till you tell me."
"I got a 90 on that stupid poli-sci paper I've been working on forever."
For Heather, overachiever extraordinaire, a 90 on a paper was somewhere near to skipping through the quad naked during a class break on a list of desirable occurrences. In fact, public nudity might have been vastly preferable to a sub standard grade.
"A 90. Wow. That's horrible." Cyndi replies.
Registering the note of sarcasm in her friend's voice, Heather testily sets her book down on the mattress. Her husky voice raises an octave, expressing her exasperation.
"That's an A minus. I've never had below an A in that class."
"How much is the paper worth?"
"A third of our grade. I'll never pull a straight 4.0 now."
Cyndi winces. "Sorry honey."
Heather drops back on the mattress, folding her perfectly shaped bronze legs at an unnatural angle, staring listlessly at the wall.
"Hmm," Cyndi muses. "What can we do to cheer you up?"
"It's no big deal," Heather replies.
"I could make you a taco salad."
"Nah, I already had a turkey sandwich."
"We could go up to campus and watch people fall." Cyndi says, snickering as she remembers the beefy jock they'd seen biff it on a patch of ice earlier that day. He'd risen quickly and done the standard frantic glance about to see if anyone had witnessed his spill. Someone had.
"Too cold."
"Well crap. That's about all I had. Isn't there anything I can do?" Heather shakes her head no but pauses abruptly, a crooked smile quirking the corner of her mouth into smile.
Cyndi swallows hard. She's seen this look before; it has never ended well for her.
Heather slides a sideways glance to her, only meeting her eyes at the last second.
"Well, you could try on my gray pants. That might help." They often traded shirts, but at 4 inches taller and 3 sizes larger, Cyndi had flatly refused to try on any of Heather's pants despite her eager insisting. Even a simpleton could do that math.
"No. Absolutely not. No m'am."
Heather's lower lip juts out in a mock pout. "Aww pleeeease? I thought you said you wanted to cheer me up."
"I do, but not by attempting to squeeze my fat ass into your pants."
Heather heaves a heart-breakingly heavy sigh and leans back dramatically. "Oh well. I guess I'll just have to be depressed then." She stares up at the ceiling. The game is far from over, and Heather is more than a worthy opponent. They know each other well. Cyndi desperately thinks of something, anything to offer as a last bid.
"Really baby, I'll do anything else. Just not the pants. How about a foot rub?" Heather ups the ante once more, judging by the last offer she's already won.
"You know I'd try on your pants if you asked me to," Heather replies slyly. True, yes. She would. Given, everything of Cyndi's she tried on always fit her better, grateful for Heathers's perfect curves instead of Cyndi's categorically flat butt and too long legs. But this fact did not matter. Reciprocity is key to the exchange and Heather's lawyer mind has the logic well in hand.
Cyndi sighs in defeat.
"Alright, where are they?"
"Yay!" Heather shouts exultingly, springing from the end of the bed with more energy than she's demonstrated all night, possibly all semester. She locates them quickly, her closet being color coded and sorted by item type, a stark contrast to Cyndi's mish mash of overlapping hangers and general closet entropy next door."Here they are!" she sings tossing the hanger onto Cyndi's bed.
Cyndi eyes the pants dubiously. They are shorter and smaller than she remembers. Might as well get it over with.
"Turn around," she instructs Heather, removing her jeans.
"As if," Heather replies.
Bending over, Cyndi removes the pants from the hanger and slips them over her feet. By the time the hips of the pants reach her thighs, the cuffs are already 3 inches above ankle level. A throaty guffaw shakes the air as the pants cease their ascent, refusing to clear Cyndi's hips.
"Well, that's as far as they go." Cyndi says, arms akimbo.
"Come on! You haven't even tried to get them on yet." Heather manages, catching her breath.
'For piss sakes," Cyndi sighs, eager for the humiliation to be over, even if she is glad to see her friend laughing again. She grabs the waistband and yanks it upward. The pants raise a further few inches above her ankle and manage to clear her hips. They are now firmly wedged everywhere they were not meant to go and will go no further. Cyndi notes that she could sooner morph into a giraffe upon command than be able to zip them.
Heather screams with laughter, tears streaming down her face. She is unable to catch her breath. Cyndi shifts on her feet, delicately trying to extract the fabric from it's uncomfortable lodgings, waiting for the laughter to subside.
"Are we done here?" she asks.
Heather gasps for air and coughs wiping tears away. "Oh fine, go ahead. You can take them off."
"Thank the gods." Cyndi mutters, pulling the pants downward. They refuse to move. Cyndi hops up and down and manages to get one leg out before promptly falling over sideways, narrowly missing the corner of the pressed wood dresser provided by the apartments. Someone thumps the ceiling below, incensed their Jance Kapp Perry song has been interrrupted by such an unceremonious crash.
The room has gone silent. Looking up from the floor, Cyndi sees her friend convulsing with laughter, silent now as her body shakes with uncontrolled mirth.
"Always glad to help," Cyndi says, extracting her other leg from the pants. "Are we feeling better now?"
Several moments pass before Heather is able to answer. "Yes," she finally manages, "much."
"So glad." Says Cyndi flopping on her bed and resuming her French studies.
"Are you sure you don't want to try on the black ones?" Heather suggests innocently, "I'm sure they'd fit better."
"I'm sooo not falling for that one." Cyndi replies tersely.
"Oh well" Heather replies. "It worth a shot."


There you go. Thanks again to Heather for the suggestion. Love you baby!

Cyndi

PS. And no, Heather, I will not try on any of your pants for old time's sake. : )