Blood-flow Restricting Wetsuits

I am the MacGyver of bad situations.

Give me a used band-aid, some Clamato, and a swatch from Elton John’s waistcoat, and I’ll fix you right up.

I can make anything good enough, always.  Whether it’s a relationship requiring complicated mental gymnastics to turn a loser into an Alec Baldwin-esque powerhouse or finding storage space in an apartment the size of the interior of a Ford Taurus, I can make it work.

This is an amazing superpower, and has helped me survive brainless jobs that would give a robot repetitive-stress disorder, being stranded on an open-air train platform in a foreign country overnight because the Italian Transport Authority decided Carnival was a perfect time to go on strike, and a therapist who told me to “be gentle” to my “lovesick” stalker.

Not that there isn’t something to be said about being flexible and inventive, how else would you twerk?  But if it’s your only move, it becomes as tight and blood-flow restricting as a wetsuit I once wore in a size based on my weight, which I super-duper lied about.  Too much making the best of things doesn’t leave room for creation; settling for the way things are doesn’t lend itself to making them the way you want them to be.  Instead, you end up sucking your stomach back into your spine, hoping the sea sweeps you into its raging darkness to put you out of your misery, and then you’ll never know how long it takes before the seam line indents fade from your skin and your thighs to go back to their natural color.

Sometimes, good enough isn’t enough.  Sometimes having something isn’t better than having nothing, because from nothing you can make anything. And that, like a nice, loose pair of sweatpants, is everything