The Other Me — Story Club Pittsburgh

Performed at Bottlerocket Sept. 16 Not much about me is casual. In fact, if you see any of my friends show up with me anywhere, they were most likely informed of the event thanks to the monthly Excel document/events calendar I send out.

I am not kidding.

I’m pretty sure I was born in heels and office attire, hot rollers in my hair, and an agenda half ticked off with check marks.

To say that I am Type A is an understatement. And while I’m generally secure with this piece of me, there’s always still this little part of me who wishes she could be go-with-the-flow or say, “I’m down with whatever,” and actually mean it.

This other me tends to come out most often when I have a crush because who wants to date a tightly wound psycho?

The best example of me wanting to appear as “cool girl” was when I was 17, and I had it bad for the class hippie – you know the type – white guy with dreads, corduroy and tie dye, smoked weed, and listened to Phish. But he was funny and smart and otherwise he was the complete opposite of me, which is probably what drew me in.

Despite our differences, he quickly became my boyfriend (because duh), and one day he invited me to a weekend camping trip listening to jam bands at a music festival.

In case it wasn’t clear, there is nothing I love more than camping and listening to multiple bands that don’t know when to end a song.

Somehow my parents permitted me to do this, and I was desperate to attend because I’d be meeting his older and tres cool friends for the first time. God, did I want to make a laid-back lady impression.

When the day came, I hopped in the car with the scents of more corduroy, patchouli, Nag Champa, and month-old scalp.

After two hours of making small talk with cool kids Michael and Madelyn, chain-smoking Parliaments, and getting a contact high from whoever’s weed in the back of a beat-up Crown Vic, we arrived at the Sunshine Daydream Farm in Terra Alta, West Virginia.

At this point, my bladder was about to burst, so my first question was, “Where is the ladies’ room?” The cool kids rolled their eyes and pointed me to a neighborhood of Porta Potties.

And yes, I realize I give high maintenance but growing up in Western PA, I could hang — I certainly had had my experiences of peeing in the woods or some farmer’s cornfield. But I had never actually been in a Porta Potty before.

The woods were too far for me to journey just to pee, so I got in line.

“This isn’t so bad,” I thought, as I feel the air underneath me brush past my butt hole, listening to the interesting acoustics and taking in new smells. “At least there’s a sink.”

I did find it odd that the large, round, pink soap was a little wet but there didn’t seem to be any running water.

“Whatever,” I thought. “I’ll just scrub extra hard and rinse my hands with a bottle of water when I get out.”

“No paper towels here, either. I’ll need to let someone know they need to service this toilet when I’m done.”

I walked out of the porta john, impressed with myself for using the shared facilities like my peers, when I started to feel like my hands were on fire.

“Nick!” I screamed, coming out of the toilet, “My hands feel like they’re swelling!” And sure enough, they were bloating like hot sausages and just as red.

I was yelling in allergic reaction and mumbling about the bathroom soap, my hands so itchy I couldn’t stand it, so my very concerned and confused boyfriend started dumping water on my hands and searching for ice and a medic.

While everyone was screeching wondering what the hell had happened to me in such a short amount of time, the coolest of the cool kids, Madelyn just stared at me blankly, sighed, took another drag on her joint and said to her boyfriend, “Nick’s new girlfriend just washed her hands with a urinal cake.”

They both rolled their eyes and walked away.

The other me, the “I’m a chill girl, too!” was rather short-lived on that trip. There was no coming back from that, and to this day, my friends beg me to tell the story of the time I thought I was cool.

And while I’d like to say my desire to be more Type B died that day and let myself just wildly hang free (as much as someone like me could), I very recently pretended to not be damn near dead asleep when a man texted me at midnight asking if I was up. But this time, at least this time I didn’t leave with any itching or burning.