Of Sloths, Clogs, and Superman
So my boyfriend dumped me. It was maybe the fifth or sixth time we’d split up. We took turns. One month he’d say he’d had it, the next, I’d storm out of his car before he’d even shifted into park. Break-ups lasted a few hours, a couple days. Once nearly a week. And the last time...well, read on.
For the life of me I can’t figure out why I stayed with him. If you were to ask him why he stayed with me, he’d respond, “who?” Maybe I stayed because he was funny. In retrospect I realize it wasn’t the natural, “let me entertain you” kind of funny, but more of an asshole calling attention to himself as he eviscerates you. Perhaps I stayed because when he wasn’t being insulting, he really made me laugh. And, I shamelessly confess, he was a lover who knew exactly what where and how.
So, Sloth—I call him that because he was flat out slovenly— was akin to the furry hanging upside down on a tree sloth1 creature; e.g., sloths move at a rate of about 40 yards per day and sleep 15 to 20 hours out of 24. Yes, the rainforest-dwelling sloth is a cute and interesting creature2 but when it comes to Sloth Dudes, trust me when I say don’t ever date one.
Sloth Dude could afford a decent place, but lived in a dump. Partly because he was…what’s a nice word for cheap? Frugal! That’s it! He was frugal. Far worse, however, he was lazy and appeared to have no sense of smell. I, on the other hand, am super fastidious with heightened olfactory sensitivity. Sloth Dude was a pig. I only say that because it’s true. And I grew up with three brothers! Yeah, that’s sexist, but if you ever lived with brothers, you get it. If you never did, it means you never sat on a toilet in the middle of the night after its previous occupant had either not put the seat back down or WORSE, left it down and was too damn lazy to aim. Don’t get me wrong—I love my brothers but, the gods willing, I will never have to live with them again.
Sloth’s apartment was tiny and cluttered, and it SMELLED! Not quite like sewage, more like a garbage can someone had thrown rancid eggs and spoiled herring into, then topped it off with a maggot-infested dead cat. Thus, Sloth Dude and I rarely scheduled movie night at his hovel.
I don’t remember precisely why that last breakup occurred, nor do I remember which of us brought up our previous agreement to see Superman, the Movie opening day. We’d talked about it for months. Sloth was excited to see the special effects that would enable one to “believe man can fly”—the film’s tag line. I was excited to salivate over Christopher {sigh} Reeve with whom I was irretrievably in love.
Our breakup happened in the afternoon over the phone. It was a couple decades before texting, so we broke up using our actual voices and not our fingers. Although I confess I was so angry, I gave him/the phone the finger numerous times during that call. Toward the end of the conversation, one of us reminded the other that Superman the Movie was opening that evening. We agreed to go to the 7:00 show; Sloth would pick me up at 6:30.
I was determined to look gorgeous and be on my best behavior: smiley, sweet, cheery. Most of all, I had to dress pretty. It was crucial to impress him. Honestly, not so much to win him back—which may have been a tiny part of it— but more so that one day when he reminisced about our relationship and this last date, he’d realize what a catch I was and what an ass he was for letting me get away. You know, “Hell hath no fury”3 and all that. SIDENOTE: Is it just me who looks back at her 20-year-old self with chagrin and thanks all the gods that that narcissistic, immature twit eventually grew up?
I allocated two hours to get ready, knowing I’d be indecisive about what to wear: the new flattering but uncomfortable outfit? Or the dated comfortable one that was a shade of yellow that made me look sickly? I settled on too tight jeans paired with a soft, white Hanes tee shirt. Shoes. I love shoes. LOVE them. One boyfriend upon seeing my closet for the first time, dubbed me the American Imelda Marcos. In case you didn’t know, Marcos, First Lady of the Philippines from 1965 to 1986, was corrupt. A notorious spender of the State’s money, she and her husband held the “Guinness World Record for the “Greatest Robbery of a Government.” But to her credit, she owned 3,000 pairs of shoes. True story.
Anyway, from that point on Boyfriend #Ihavenoidea called me Imelda. It’s one reason I dumped him. I’ve forgotten the others. Well, except one: he claimed all his previous girlfriends said he was a fabulous kisser. I pride myself on the fact that I never openly disputed him, despite that I’m pretty sure all of the ex’s were his junior high girlfriends who based their assessment on prior experience making out with a Ken doll.
Staring into my closet, I pulled out two pairs of clogs: a backless navy-blue set with braided strap and silver button. And a closed-heeled black pair with an embossed curlicue design etched into stiff leather. Unlike the comfy navy clogs, the stiff black shoes had a 3” heel and created the illusion that I was tall.
6:20-ish, I Vaseline’d my body into jeans, held my breath to zip and fasten them and tried on the black clogs. I admired them in the bathroom’s full-length mirror. They lengthened my legs and made 5’3” me feel Amazonian. I paced room to room, hoping to stretch them, but the clogs refused to give. I kicked them off, exchanged for the comfy navy pair. Relief! But yikes. Was this a night for comfort? I slid out of one navy clog and replaced it with a black one to compare, then resumed pacing and posing in front of my mirror. Mid pose, the doorbell rang. I rushed downstairs and greeted Sloth who shoved a bouquet of daisies in my face. They were slightly wilted — probably snagged from Safeway’s “Week Old” container. Or rescued from my next door neighbor’s trash bin. I graciously thanked Sloth and stuck his flowers into a milk bottle.
“You’re ready!” Sloth exclaimed (I was notorious for being late).
“For you? Of course.” I simpered, then realized I sounded too eager. “I’ve got one thing to do. Just be a sec.” I sashayed into the bathroom, placed my palms on either side of the porcelain sink and breathed. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I stared into the mirror. Makeup was perfect, hair was behaving, and the tee shirt accentuated my fresh tan and firm but smallish breasts. I threw my mirror self a kiss and told her, “Damn! You look good.” I let Sloth wait another five minutes then sashayed back into the living room where he was reading Cosmo.
“This thing’s crap. Get the ‘New Yorker' Or ‘LIFE’ if you need pictures.”
”Why, when I can read yours?” Shit! Did I really say that? I tied my arctic blue cardigan around my waist and said, “Shall we go?” Out we went to his blue (maybe it was green) Impala where for the first and only time, he opened my door. I have zero recollection of that too long ride to the Shelburne Road Cinemas, except that I was excited to see Christopher {sigh} Reeve fill a gigantic screen.
It wasn’t until Sloth and I were settled in our seats and my sweater slid from my lap that I saw my mis-matched shoes. Even in the dimly lit theater it was obvious I wore one black and one blue clog. What a moron! I’ve largely blanked out the mortification I experienced for the next two hours and twenty-three minutes plus ads. My only relief was when the world’s yummiest ever Superman—6’4, 188-pound Christopher {sigh} Reeve graced the 30x70 foot movie screen. During those moments I abandoned the dark hole I’d slunk into, and was transported to paradise. I luxuriated in the fantasy of living a happier-ever-after life with my red and blue suited soul mate. Even today I suspect Christopher {sigh} Reeve was the only man I ever truly loved.
Afterthought: yes, Superman, the Movie was Sloth’s and my last date.
Screen grab from Sundance Film Festival 2024:
Fascinating creatures, the sloth’s speed is “about 0.17 miles per hour but only if threatened” https://www.wwf.org.uk/learn/fascinating-facts/sloth
If you’re interested in reading more about sloths, here’s a site: http://www.slothville.com/
Adapted from William Congreve’s 1697 play "The Mourning Bride.” The actual line is "Heav’n has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn’d." Another oft-used quote from Congreve’s play is, “Music has charms to soothe a savage breast.”
Great writing! (as always)
I look forward to reading more and more of your work.
This is really funny :)