Bathroom Monologue: Thank You, Lita

Thank you for having a hoarse voice. It’s a little husky, only faintly raspy, like at one distant day you were a heavy smoker. I know you never were. And thank you for raising that voice, and for the way it makes men prickle. Other men. It just makes me think of Peppermint Patty.

Thank you for having legs that are simply too long. I don’t even like legs; mine have never been any good to me. That you never know what to do with them when we go to sleep is a source of constant comfort. Also, constant knees to the groin. I will not thank you for those.

Thank you for loving to clean. I like a tidy space, but I’ve never met someone who paid that much attention to a single window pane. You make me get out of my chair, even when my spine is acting up, to play my part in the fight against grime. And thank you for pandering, and for knowing, and for leaning on my shoulders until I sit back down. We both know when I have to stop, but you’re the only one who does something about it.

Thank you for dragging my bad knee to the dance hall. Thank you for the placating words in your dolorous tone. Thank you for looking at the only man in the dance hall who’s taller than you like you’re ten years old and he’s a milkshake. Thank you for taking my permission to dance with him for the rest of the night while I sit with a pack of ice, doodling elevator shoes on my napkin.

Thank you for knowing about all the big Horror movies before I do, and for checking the midnight screenings, and for driving, and sometimes for paying, and when I need it, sometimes for letting me pay. Thank you most of all for digging little pink crescents into my forearm midnight premiere after midnight premiere. It’s a small price to pay to defend you against haunted houses.

Those fingernails. Thank you for unconsciously picking at your cuticles, punishing them for being uneven, and getting so frustrated while simultaneously glassy-eyed and unaware. And when I put my hands over yours, thank you for stopping. Thank you for letting me stop you. I wish it wasn’t a part of me, but I’m eternally grateful that you let me know I’m not alone in all my little imperfections.