Spinning

Chapter 4: possessed by the devil

An unrelenting cascade of sweat trickles down my chest, like a line of ants that have picked up the scent of discarded food. I'm in my dress, sweltering in the disgusting heat of the subway car, oppressed by the 300-pound secretary taking up all of her seat and half of mine. Thank god Jake is so skinny. I force one of my cheeks onto his seat. It's called a salad and a Stairmaster, you goddamn bloated caterpillar in a dress. I didn't run 6 miles this morning for my goddamn health.

My stomach is grumbling. I hope she can hear it. I haven't eaten anything today, but I enjoyed a nice double glass of white wine after my run, before meeting Jake at the train station. Sobriety is not an option, here.

Jake was chipper to see me, too goddamn chipper, and he lovingly reminded me that we haven't seen each other in nearly two weeks. I wish I had another goddamn two weeks. He puts his arm around me as the world's largest paperweight presses her thigh into mine. I shrug him off, citing "subway sweat".

We finally get to the goddamn venue, into fresh air, away from the female butter-filled tumbleweed.

"Jordan, you look beautiful, as always. I love the red!"

"Thanks Auntie June, I did it last week!" Please, I beg the gods, no more hair colorography comments.

"Your dress is so stunning Jordan, I wish I had a waist like yours!"

"Stop it, Auntie Paula, your dress is gorgeous!" That's the ugliest goddamn shade of yellow. You're shaming the mustard family.

Two aunts down, 6 more to go, plus 8 uncles, one step-aunt, 24 cousins, my own mother, father, sister, brother, the groom and bride, aunt of the bride on her Dad's side, uncle's sister-in-law, uncle's sister-in-law's kids, and one hundred other strangers to go. I shuttle Jake to get me a glass of wine.

It's a weird duality, the size of the Thornley clan and my goddamn hatred for people. A throng of bodies is my strongest ally, surprisingly, and Carl Jung is the biggest goddamn idiot of the psychology field. Introverts prefer one-on-one conversations? Ha! Introverts prefer zero conversations, first off, at least when your initials are J.V.T, but second, the more people around, the better. I have all these zombie bodies milling around between tables, between conversations, and it's the most genius thing because I can leave a torturous conversation with my Auntie Shauna about her daily goddamn track workouts with a quick, "Oh sorry Auntie, I just saw Christopher's girlfriend, I want to see how her mum is doing," and a quick exit to another screwdriver-under-the-fingernail conversation, or just a quick dash to the bathroom and a not-so-quick sit on the toilet, where my brain cells undergo apoptosis.

Dinner is finally served, which is another blessing because I'm on my (according to Jake) fourth glass of wine (read: sixth) and I need some red meat to block the bloodstream alcohol absorption. I see dearest mother eyeing me closely. Luckily, dearest sister is not far behind in the count, and at a naïve twenty years old, she is my mother's greatest concern now.

                                                                                        ****

A homeless man was on our stoop when we returned past midnight. He reeked, and he must've been enjoying the enlightenment of some narcotic, because his eyes twitched unconsciously. I stared on in disgust, and maybe a dash of pity, but only a dash. Jake shooed him away so we could get up the steps. He slumped away, unbalanced, and fell into the stoop next door. I vowed to call the police if he wasn't gone by my hungover walk to get breakfast tomorrow.

The wedding was painful, but for reasons I had not predicted. It was easy to disappear in the crowd, mind my own business, let Jake chat with my sister, the exception being when Christopher's drunk girlfriend used me as a body shield during a dance off.