So I was writing an email to a friend today. This friend of mine recently landed a sweet temporary job down in Illinois working with a production coordinator on television show. (Or is it a movie? Documentary? Whatever. Details). Point is, that's really cool.
But I didn't just say, "That's really cool." I said... are you ready for this? I said, "That sounds radical."
You guys. I said radical. As if radical is a word that's been used more than once in that context since 1993. And I didn't mean it. It just slipped out in the email. Because now I type more than I actually speak, and words "slip out" in emails. And I say words like radical. Radical. Like, that's rad, man.
And it's not even rad, which could almost - almost - be excusable. I had to, like the literary nerd that I am, spell it out. Sort of like typing miscellaneous instead of misc., which I always do, because shortened words geek me out and make me feel inadequate. And I'm suddenly coming to the conclusion that I'm a freak.
So I've decided that in order to solve this dilemma, I'll just bring radical back into our vernacular. Sort of like the word, if we can even call it a word, "gayrod," which I also just typed in an instant message to a friend. I'm suddenly afraid I fell asleep last night and woke up as an 11-year-old, which is kind of embarrassing, and I hope I don't look like a greasy boy, like I did when I was actually 11.
But what is more embarrassing than each of these vocabulary flaps is the fact that today, as my gynecologist was performing her acrobats in my lady place, she says to me, "So I hear the half marathon went well." Perplexed, I say, "Yes," secretly wondering if my vagina screams, "I ran a half marathon, can you tell?"
And she replies, "I read your articles in the newspaper."
And that's how I died. Because now the woman who knows my baby-maker inside and out will see my name in print and say to her husband, "Hey, honey. Come here. This one here, she has such a healthy uterus."