Fuchsia is a fun word to say

I was sitting in a coffee shop the other day, trying to enjoy a few moments of peace. I take time to myself very seriously, if only because I don’t get much of it, and so try to look as dour and cruel as possible when I’m out in a public place. It seems like an odd strategy to avoid human interaction, I know, but it works most of the time. On this day, however, it did not. I was reading a book on a health issue that I’ve been battling, and despite my best efforts to keep the spine tactfully hidden, I must have flashed the cover at some point because this woman, THIS WOMAN WHO I CANNOT EVEN BEGIN TO DESCRIBE, came waltzing up to me and said “OH! ARE YOU SUFFERING FROM THAT PARTICULAR MALADY?”

Besides the fact that that is a terribly impertinent and personal question, I first have to address the fact that she was wearing head to toe fuchsia. FUCHSIA. Let’s start with the base layer, shall we? It was a jumpsuit. A JUMPSUIT. It was splendid, covered in gold, shiny buttons with a gold, shiny belt that gave off the impression that her lunch was trying to make a break for it as the buttons below the belt were bulging with such vigor, I was worried for the safety of my face should one of them give way. Also, the camel toe. SWEET MARY. It was right at my eye level which made me feel stabby. The jumpsuit was covered with a leather coat of the same hue with some business on the lapel that looked as though a parrot had committed suicide on her person and, rather than cleaning it off, she went “Meh, the colors are nice!” And indeed, anything that was a departure from the fuchsia was welcome, however gruesome it may have ended up looking. The ensemble was finished with a pair of boots (fuchsia, need you ask?) that came up to her knee and were giving her an extra four inches of height. Somewhere, a stripper is looking for her fancy shoes.

While I admired her dedication to color, the overall effect was one of her being a commemorative mosaic made out of old Lee Press On nails. Which is to say it was a whole lot of look and I instinctively reached for my bottle of Advil as my head was in danger of exploding, though a shot of tequila would have been a more suitable choice.

While I drank her in, she proceeded to go on and ON about how she! too! had suffered! from the very same thing I was reading up on, back in the 60’s (which is presumably when she bought and first wore her getup) and had been able to overcome! and live! and not have to be on terrifying amounts of medication! (and yes, she spoke with such gusto that the exclamation points are allowable. Also, I think her belt was somewhat cutting off her air supply). Regardless, I didn’t have to say much as she just wanted to get her spiel out, which was nice since I’m not in the business of divulging my medical history to strangers. She then asked if I wanted her to tell me about what her doctors had recommended for her when she! was! suffering!

I was trying to figure out how to kindly explain that I had a feeling medicine had advanced since then. In the 60’s, what? They could apply a poultice, and perhaps shake a rain stick at you and hope for the best? Recommend that you not shvitz and smoke some high quality grass? I was spared, however, as her cell phone rang. She had to take the call, and said “Well, best of luck to you!” and went click-click-clicking on her fuchsia way. I felt the immediate need to lie down. Or have a sandwich.

I went back to my book after looking around to see if someone else had seen this outlandish display of crazy. The man next to me caught my eye and leaned over with this little nugget: “Whatever your health issue, I would strongly suggest not taking advice from someone who wears a jumpsuit out in public without irony.”

Agreed. Someone write that down.