Driving to the flea market last week, my chest suddenly felt like it was being crushed.
Like a giant garlic press was squeezing my heart.
Was this some type of new panic attack?
Maybe it was Panic Attack 5.0, the latest version.
I had anti-anxiety pills with me but they wouldn’t help, this was something different.
But what?
Ah, I know what this is, of course:
It’s loneliness.
I’m lonely.
I’m really fucking lonely.
During this revelation Cher was playing on the radio.
“Do you believe in life after love?” she sang.
Yes, yes I do Cher.
Then again I don’t really understand life or love, so there’s that.
Listening to her sing reminded me of my old Cher Barbie doll whose nails I had painted bright red. Her beautiful long hair had somehow ended up horribly snarled, forcing me to cut it into a 1920’s bob, a hairstyle that didn’t suit her at all.
I had ruined Cher.
Despite feeling choked with loneliness, I made it to the parking lot where I applied gobs of lip gloss.
I figured super shiny lips would distract people from my sad girl aura.
Why is it that when you feel lonely every fucking person you see looks ridiculously happy? Like they’ve just won the lottery.
The flea market was packed. A DJ played while trendy couples and cute families checked out vintage cameras, 1970’s polyester dresses and home-made $25 hot sauces.
They were all smiling and laughing.
Literally every single person – even the kids – were vibing like they were on edibles.
Why am I the only one here alone?
I usually have no problem with going out solo, but today it was getting to me.
“It’s a cruel, cruel cruel summer…” Bananarama sang in my head.
Crushing loneliness makes me cranky and I soon found myself critiquing everything I saw:
Like enough with the crochet stuff. It was a bad look in the 70’s and the 90’s and it’s a bad look now.
Also, why are so many people selling vintage tea cups filled with soy wax? Why is that a thing?
And what about all those play-dough looking earrings in the shapes of strawberries and mushrooms?
Just stop it already.
I spotted a few cool vintage dresses, but I was unable to get to them due to the hoards of euphoric shoppers crowding me out.
Nevermind, I had plenty of vintage dresses.
Plus the main reason I had come to this particular flea market was to check out a cute bakery I’d seen on Instagram. Their cakes were magical-looking, like they were decorated by artsy fairies.
Soon I too would be euphoric and no longer lonely, because I would have cake; cake solves all problems.
But to my horror, the bakery wasn’t there.
Checking their Instagram I found they were doing a pop-up at a flea market in the west end.
The west end? They may as well be in the U.K.
Driving across Toronto from the east side to the west is a torturous journey, one I made only for emergencies.
Did this bout of garlic press squeezing my heart loneliness qualify as an emergency?
Actually it did. But I just couldn’t face the traffic.
Then – pouf! – I saw a florist stall outside the flea market tent.
Next to cake, flowers were the best soul-soother.
I bought myself an obnoxiously large bouquet, then walked my shiny lips back to the parking lot.
sparkledame 