on skinny mirrors, hilarity and the overenthusiastic chicken man

There are two kinds of mirrors. Skinny and fat. The worst is when your friend thinks your fat mirror is a skinny mirror and the complacency that spreads across her face upon correction as it registers that she could be even skinnier than she thinks. Mirrors are powerful bitches. They are more capable of affecting moods than even getting a speeding ticket or getting laid before work. The type of mirror you catch yourself in can even subconsciously change your disposition. That wave of depression and lethargy that swept in like a thundercloud out of nowhere? Fat mirror. The sudden burst of radiance and energy that you attribute to your Red Bull kicking in? Skinny mirror. This is true even if you are remotely as vain as I am. Of course, there are some mirrors and reflective surfaces that should be avoided at all costs. I for one, know that I can't go around rating my attractiveness by the squashed, fat midget form reflected in the shiny door panel of some asshole's Ford Focus. I'd be on the brink of suicide each time I walked through a parking lot. So instead, when walking through these confidence-shattering zones, I keep my head up and focus on the destination ahead, muttering empowering words to myself along the way. "Fuck you, Focus" "What are you staring at, Camry?" "Look who's talking, Passat!" Mirrors, however are a bit trickier. You can't always determine their nature (skinny or fat) upon approaching them. It's just a risk you have to take. Life is full of risks. I long for the days when I didn't stress about mirrors and what pleasing or hideous image they would hold on a particular day.
In 5th grade Michelle and I made each other laugh so hard with our Down's Syndrome impressions at recess that we'd piss our pants. One day my leakage was more significant than the usual ignorable dribble. The next morning I ganked one of my mom's maxi pads from under the bathroom sink to use as reinforcement. The lofty thing bulged inside my tiny day-of the-week underwear. I was certain that my classsmates could hear the diapery swoosh over the quiet reverence of the spelling test as I squirmed uncomfortably at my desk. Ironically I didn't pee my pants that day.
Since Michelle, I can count the number of people on one hand, who have made me laugh that hard. High school held a few. Michael and Quinn in geometry. The laughin g was always at some unsuspecting quiet kid's expense. The ones who are all prettier, skinnier, and doubtlessly more successful than I am now. College went by with out much soulful laughing. It didn't count if it was drug or alcohol induced. There were witty comments here and there in the lecture hall or studio that made me snicker and think...always think. But nothing that overtook my bladder. Post college, the kids at BV cracked me up the most. Sarah and Bryan on occasion sent me running knock-kneed toward the bathroom begging them to stop. But now I make myself laugh more than anyone else does.
I was driving home from Patrick's shop yesterday, which by the way houses one of Colorado Springs' most devastating fat mirrors, when I got stuck at a red light right next to the Wild Wings chicken who was flapping his wings- arms- wingarms, eagerly at my window. I acknowleged him briefly and politely before assuming a somewhat exaggerated somber demeanor that said "I am not an asshole, but I am a serious person and am not in the mood to be flapped at." He had nice legs and cool shoes and for a brief moment I visualized myself meeting and falling in love with a beautiful, athletic and hilarious man in some neutral location such as Whole Foods or the gym, only to find out he was the man inside the ridiculous chicken costume flapping aggressively, relentlessly on the corner of Academy and N. Carefree as I hold my breath in desperate anticipation for the green light so that I could finally relax and aleiviate the awkward tension the "stare ahead" has caused my neck and head.
And when I find out that this hot guy is really the Wild Wings chicken man I'd have to let him down gently and with a new and unique excuse so as not to be like "all the other girls" who ran away. Or I could force myself to pretend the chicken gig was for a good cause. That he took on a 2nd job to help raise money for his friend who has rubella or Lou Gherig's Disease, or hell, just plain cancer for all I care, because he can't afford the treatment because the two friends had recently spent all their money on guitars and drumsets to start a band which would have had incredible potential but needed its dying bass player. I think I could respect and possibly even love a man in a chicken suit if it wall in the name of loyal friendships and rock and roll. I get so carried away sometimes...