Making My Life Seem More Exciting than it Actually Is

Operation Toddler Hands

A short four days later, the following Tuesday, was the day it happened. I entered the bus prepared, with some four markers, the maxi-pad, and a friend to make me feel less awkward. Seating myself next to Car Woman that day with our specific purpose in mind made me feel something like a prisoner, trapped by my own determination to not turn back. But even more so, I felt like someone who really enjoyed talking in a dramatic manner.

"Woman of the Car," I spoke in a terrible british accent, since that's generally associated with drama, at least in my mind. "Today we carry out Operation Toddler Hands, in response to the failure of Operation Boy Hands. Your thoughts on the matter?"

"What a time to be alive."

There was some controversy between us about who would make the first mark on the pad. I'm pretty sure in the end, I just went for it. Fun fact: it was far more difficult than it should have been. For one, it was unconvincely two dimensional and that mysterious scent that normally jumps out at you in an attempt to murder your nostrils remained nonexistent. Marking some red here and some brown here, we hoped no one would notice how obviously staged it had been. Questioning our questionable lives, we took a moment to admire our admittedly sloppy work and smiled at each other in pride.

"Woman, do you think he'll actually think it's real?"

"Can we just take a moment and imagine how great that would be?"

However, when the bus stopped and we had to get off, a new obstacle presented itself: we had no idea where to hide such an object. It's not like our bus driver, or any staff member really, would approve of a middle schooler carrying around what appeared the be the result of my uterus trying to squeeze through my vagina. After much debate, probably a full two seconds of it, it was decided that I would just have to fold it and shove it in my pocket and hope with my entire soul that the universe loved me enough to ensure that it didn't fall out. It never did.

Placing the pad in his locker that day felt much the same as placing the muffin did just a few short days before, if somewhat more tentative. I felt the need to be shy, because there was a sense of impurity associated with my action; gee, I wonder why. Again, I was anxious throughout the day to see what would happen.

The true tragedy of that day, perhaps my life, was that I didn't get to see what went down myself, but on my way to Science, I knew it was good, because before I could step into the classroom, I was berated by humans who had already guessed it was me.

The questions, "Jo, was it you? Are you even real? What is your life?" were repeated around me several times, until I confirmed, that yes, I am that awesome, or, to another's point of view, that bitchy. The summary I got from the witnesses was difficult to understand, since they were laughing too hard to talk,but apparently this is what happened, or at least how I picture it:

Target #01, being the horrible human being he is, was just casually flirting with a million females at once; nothing unusual. But then, as his unnecessarly powerful middle-school-person cologne fills the air and burns everyone's eyes off, he opens his locker with his unnaturally large hands, and behold, there is it. Of course, being a male, he was at a disadvantage; without much experience with these sort of things, he assumed that this unrealistically lovely, scentless, and chunkless pad had actually been used, despite the fact that it was looked faker than the special effects of the world's greatest movie, Sharknado. And, in one of the most beautiful turn of events ever to occur in history, he picked it up and threw into the crowd, where it landed on a nearby water fountain.

Assumably this is where people started to laugh, and hopefully his face turned red and he died inside. More likely, his annoying tanness hid what would have been extra humiliating blush and he was just like, "Wtf," before removing his phone (one of those really expensive ones that just came out, I might add) from the pocket of the pants he wore everyday for a million years. And, with a look of disgust on his face to match the disgust of his face (I know, I'm just so nice), he flicks it into a nearby trashcan, one that coincidentally was the same one I found The Toilet Muffin. He sure has a habit of dumping my hard work in there.

Thus concludes Operation Toddler Hands, and in all honesty could have very possibly been the conclusion of the war on Target #01 as well. But I think if you've made it this far into this collection of memoirs, you know that I'm too crazy to let things end here. Which brings us to Operation Baby Hands.

Yes, you should be scared.