Tangled Up in Boredom

Most of my days as a newbie flight attendant are spent on reserve. What does that mean? Well basically it means sitting for hours on end, some times days waiting for one simple 15 second phone call. Often times it’s worth it. Other times....you find your self going beyond insane with boredom. Some of the things that one has done while being on reserve would make anyone cringe, and sometimes they are just down right creepy. The other day I found myself lying on the carpet in a floor length gown and a beanie moaning “Save meeeee” to my roommates potted plant....then I proceeded to have a conversation with it.  Boredom can make anyone go nutty. Anywho, this song perfectly illustrates how I feel while waiting for the illustrious phone call:

Im Sorry I Threw Up All Over Your Cat

“ 'I am sorry I threw up all over your..’  does that say ‘cat’?’ I read allowed the shaky white icing on the poop brown cake. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and my day just got interesting.

“Yes. It’s an inside joke. I was going to write ‘ Im sorry I threw up all your semen’ but thought it was a bit too suggestive.” This is Kate. Kate and I met on a cold Christmas day in Portland. We were both delirious and ended up bonding over a cup of nasty orange juice and the stories of our unfortunate love lives. I had ended a 6 year long transatlantic relationship a year prior and she had just ended 6 controlling years with her ex-fiancé. Now a month later Kate was sitting at my table with a weird homemade cake, a hormone induced chocolate craving Filipina roommate, and a decision. The decision: to give the cake or to eat the cake.

“Yeahhh...You can’t give him this cake.” I said with determination.

“But why?!”Kate said defensively.

“That’s exactly my point Kate. Why? Why would you give him a cake?! ” 

“Because a cake says 'Im sorry, I want to get back together'?” Her big blue eyes filled with longing but her voice sounded unsure.

“But why? Because you certainly don’t want to get back together. That is why you are here, single, looking at the extra room in my apartment to rent. So I say eat the fucking cake.” I said as I handed over a knife and fork.

In that moment I saw Kate, I saw myself, and  I saw the cake. I was angry and I was angry for two reasons. Angry because one, I used to be her. I was that vulnerable and confused girl two years ago about to give her ex a cake but afraid of what it might mean: reconciliation, familiarity, unhappiness. And second, I was angry because I wanted to eat the mother fucking cake that her ex most certainly would have pissed on and left out for the raccoons. In fact, she had a whole household persuading her not to give away the cake. The Filipina who never understood the meaning or complexities of a real relationship wanted to eat it, I wanted to salvage what dignity Kate had left and didn’t want the cake to be thrown away, and Kate who was searching for a guilt free card wanted to have it make everything better. 

“What do you mean I can’t eat it. You made it for us right?” The Filipina said with one ear turned towards us waiting for a yes and one ear pushed up against her phone listening intently to the compliments from her current beau.

“NO, Kate made the cake for someone else.”

“Don’t give it to him. Lets just eat it.” The Filipina said as she eyed the cake hungrily.

“I can’t! It is supposed to make everything okay.”

“Kate...no matter what the hell happens nothing you do will ever make him feel okay with you being you....ever...”

At this point the cake became our personal motto for relationships. The Filipina was in the business of consuming. Consuming hearts, consuming things, consuming cake. I was terrified to throw something away that was still perfectly good. Good guy, good sex, good friendship, good life, good cake. And Kate...Kate just wanted things to be better, so-let-me-just-give-you-a-cake better.  This is what our conversation developed into. We began getting metaphorical all the while the cake just remained a cake: delicious, tempting, edible... a mother fucking cake.

“This cake is evil. This cake is everything that held you back in the relationship. It’s hate, doubt, misery. This cake is death cake. Take this knife and stab it.”

“But I can’t” 

“STAB THE CAKE!”

I realized then that I was getting confrontational with what essentially was sugar, butter and bread. I was turning into my worst feminine archetype...the emotional female. I was fighting for cake suicide like I was fighting for the suffrage movement. The cake just got personal. I had to get a grip.

“Kate...you weren’t happy. Let it go.” 

And with that she did. 

She stopped, stared at the cake, and before I knew what was happening she had thrown her hands into the frosting with such force that the table shook like a small act of god. She had a manic smile on her face and she pushed her hands in further. Determination set into every crevice of her youthful scowl.  "Fuck the Cake! RIO! YOU-CAN-HAVE-YOUR-MOTHER-FUCKING-CAKE!!!” She then picked up the knife with a triumphant yelp and stabbed the cake repeatedly.

Looking at the pure willpower it took for this young 25 year old to, in a sense, say goodbye to someone she really loved I was in awe. I might have been fighting over cake but she was fighting over her guilt.

An hour later Kate opened my apartment door with a resigned look. “Thanks. Im glad I’m not giving him the cake, but...I miss him.” and with that she left my apartment feeling lonely but a little be more free. She was free from the pressure of being someone else, free of the burden of trying to piece together a very broken and irreparable relationship and free of one very fucked up half eaten cake.