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Dear Diary,

Woke up this morning with a zit the size of Mount Everest. In all my canoodling with the good Doctor, I seem to have forgotten the Crimson Tide is on its way. This means operation Dazzle Doctor Dreamy will have to be temporarily aborted. But only for eight to ten days.




I can’t believe I forgot. It’s like allowing breathing to slip your mind. Who does that?  If my absentmindedness is not a telltale sign that I’m falling for Ryan, I don’t know what is. And now, I’m going to have to pay through the roof to have my delivery rushed overnight. I don’t care. It’s worth it because there’s no way I am willing to suffer more than is absolutely required.

As if the fact that Ryan seems to have taken over the part of my mind that is responsible for logical thinking isn’t frustrating enough, I think I get at least two grey hairs while I wait for my mom’s dial-up internet to boot. I think Christmas may come before the web does.

The homepage lands on a tractor supplier. It’s official. My mother is beyond any help I can offer her. What woman in her right mind shops for tractors? Maybe the same kind that forgets about her cycle. Oh God! Is my future fated for tractor shopping?  

I type my destination in the address bar and when the familiar logo of Day 28, my trusty period store comes into view, I instinctively stand, throwing my arms up in victory and yelling “woot” to no one in particular. It’s silly, it’s a waste of precious time when the countdown is on but I can’t help it.

I move my cursor over the button that says, “Make basket!” I hate that there’s an exclamation mark there, as if making a basket and spending your money at Day 28 is the most exciting thing you’ll ever do. I proceed to fill my virtual basket with feminine hygiene products, all my favourite ones, before selecting dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and caramel-filled candy bars. To that I add a bottle of red wine (go figure, right?) and a scented candle. I order the same thing every two weeks without fail. The only variable is my snacking selection. Sometimes it’s salt, sometimes it’s chocolate but always it’s good. Whoever is responsible for Day 28’s online empire of pampering women during their most miserable time is a genius.

Once my virtual cart is filled with my goodies, I opt to check out. That’s when I realize my address is no longer up to date. I don’t need the new tenant of my loft in Toronto to get my care package, so I change the information to the farm and select ‘done.’

At first I think it’s a glitch, until I click and click and click and get the same reply each time. The computer screen displays, ‘We’re sorry. Delivery is unavailable in your area. Please select a different area and try again.’

This can’t be happening. It’s unthinkable.

“No,” I mutter and click again.


“No, no, no, no, no.” I never considered this. My chest gets tight. I need a paper bag! I’m going to hyperventilate. “No, please.”

I try one more time.

“No!” I pick the mouse up and toss it, intending to send it across the room. The wire is short and without much give and the mouse bounces back, adding to my frustration.

My hands shake as I pick up the phone and dial the number listed on the ‘Contact us’ area of the website. I get an automated response detailing their hours of operation. It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday. What am I going to do? How can they do this to me? I’ve been a faithful member of Day 28 for the last three years. I feel jilted. Almost like I’ve been let down, cheated on somehow. I take back what I said about it being a trustworthy store.

I’m still trying to justify it in my head when my phone buzzes.

It’s a text from Ryan. Ryan, who doesn’t have to suffer the same kind of misery that is a regular and dreaded part of my life. I can’t talk to him right now.

            When can I see you?

I want to tell him not until Everest shrinks and the Crimson Tide has passed, but I don’t. I want to tell him to leave me alone, but I don’t. Instead, I type a quick reply.

            Busy for the next week or so. How about after that? :)

The smiley face is a total lie, but there isn’t an emoticon for lose my number for the next week to week and a half.

         A week? Where are you going for a week? I was hoping we could get together and practice kissing seeing as how you proposed.

Agh! He had to bring that up. If I’m being honest, I would love to practice kissing with Ryan and curl up inside those capable arms, and smell his baked bread scent, but it’s too big of a risk. If there were an accident, I’d never be able to look him in the face again. Avoidance is my only option at this point.

         Not going anywhere, just need to get some stuff taken care of here. XOXO

There. I’ve sent him a kiss. That ought to keep him away, at least until it’s over. I go to bed with a solid plan I need to execute immediately tomorrow and while I am wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, for the first time since I met Ryan, I feel sorry for myself.

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