Friday, January 17, 2014

Namaste, M*therf*ckers!

I work with a guy who comes to work wearing sandals and baggy pants. He travels to Bali to learn Thai massage, dates a yoga instructor, and is the epitome of what you think about when you hear the word hippy. I got short with him earlier this evening, angry because he had gone over with his last client, making me late with the next. His tendency to do this has often made me wonder if he had given up on the concept of time as just another shackle placed on us by The Man. I hate being late more than anything. If that makes me part of the establishment, then so be it. Sensing my anger, he looked at me with his usual Zen-like calm and told me to, "Calm down, man. Don't let that negative energy infect you and mess up your massage," or some such thing. I wanted to stab him in his throat while yelling, "NAMASTE, MOTHERFUCKER!"

Cleaning my chakras is gonna be a real bitch after this one.

I later learned my anger was unwarranted as the appointment was squeezed in and totally not his fault. I felt terrible afterward, not to mention stupid for getting myself all riled up for something so petty. It reminded me of my nickname and how once upon a time I wanted to be just like him...only, without a penis.

For those of you who don't know me, Karma Girl is not my real name. Shocker, I know. It's not even a nickname I picked up for being a tree hugging vegan who wears sandals and drives a Prius. Although I do like trees and wish them no harm, our relationship has always been purely platonic. I eat meat. There. I said it. I eat the flesh of animals, and I sleep perfectly well at night knowing in my heart of hearts that if cows hadn't been domesticated by humans long ago, they would have found a way to subjugate and slaughter humanity in kind. Probably not, but it makes me feel better thinking that. My hobbit toes make sandals a bad fashion choice for me, and I drive a gas-guzzling piece of shit Nissan Altima because I'm a masochist and the environment can just suck it.

So what's up with the nickname, you ask? It was a self proclaimed title I made for myself years ago. This was back in the days when I thought it would have been cool to be born in the sixties. I wanted to turn on, tune in, and drop out. Which was funny since, by this time, I had already graduated high school, had no plans for college, and had never taken an illegal substance in my life. Nor did I have the inclination to do so. But I had this vision of what being a hippy would be like-all peace and love and hitchhiking cross country while I wrote the Great American Novel. I would pick up odd jobs on the road, and if I ran out of money, I would camp out in the woods, being one with nature...or some shit like that. This was stupid seeing as I had left home less than a handful of times-once for a vacation with relatives, the other times to evacuate various hurricanes-and was terrified of traveling too far from home. As for camping, the one time I tried it in my back yard turned into a humid, mosquito riddled nightmare that had me scooting my ass back indoors where the A/C lived. Like most things in my life, it was the idea I was in love with, not the actual doing of said thing.

Later, the nickname became more of a joke, especially when it became clear that I was poison to cars. If I wasn't getting hit by someone, I was hitting someone else, and if I had an accident free month, the car I was driving was bound to break down. The brakes went out on the very first car I ever owned. Trying to stop a moving vehicle by swerving it onto the neutral ground? Fun times for sure! Another car I owned had four flat tires all in the same month. The lemon I own now had a good bit of its parts recalled a month after I bought it. Yeah. Bad karma? Bad carma is more like it.

I have long ago made peace with the fact that I will never be flower child material, but I hang onto the name anyway out of habit, mostly because it's on my email and easy to remember. There are times when I wish I had that Zen-like calm, though. It would be nice to not get bent out of shape over the littlest things. It'll never happen, and it's just as well. Anger makes me feisty and as I said before, sandals aren't my thing.

Eat your heart out, boys!

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