My boyfriend’s so hipster he thinks Spotify copies his playlists.
I was trying to be thoughtful. I like to do so with surprises. I purchased him a gift, a subscription to his favorite weekly magazine, just because I knew he liked it and just because I knew he never would subscribe.
One hundred dollars spent just because. Or maybe spent just because I like a man who reads. Or maybe spent just because I like a man who shares his knowledge of the world with me. Or maybe spent just because I like his vast vocabulary, and I like his word choice creativity and spent just because I want to nourish his mind with high brow print.
Social media cheapened my gift, my thoughtfulness, and me with a $6 promotional offer targeted directly to the man at the address I had just subscribed. Why, oh why! Come on, Facebook! Give me a break!
“It’s the thought that counts” are words people often say when good intentions are received imperfectly. My thought was intercepted by the computers; next, my thought’s context interpreted as a cheap opportunity seized instead of as a generous funding of intellect.
The computers came and plundered; they robbed the air of luxury from my gift; they robbed the air of surprise from my thought.
If you write about a boy having belly button lint, and then you sleep with him again, there’s going to be an awkward moment when he checks his belly button for lint.
Things were starting to happen. And then again. And then again. And then again. I put down a bet, that they’d happen again, and signed up for a Brazilian bikini wax. And then again. And then again. And then again.
I heard about a 12 month subscription waxing deal that offered well over a hundred dollars in saving for a $400 investment. The savings so real…. the commitment so unsteady, like a waddling toddler’s first steps… I plunged forward and signed up, crossing my fingers, holding my breath, that at the 12th month, at expiration, when the clerk lady would ask me to renew, that I would say yes, without an emotional pit of remorse and shame in my stomach for what might be lost, 12 months in the future, for what I had now that I might be mourning then. I committed to waxing; I committed to him.