Monkey Business

russ is annoyed

Tuesday, March 16, 8:00 p.m.

Kimmy squeezes into the hotel bathroom, hogging my space. “Russ, which shirt do you like better?” she asks for the third time.

Oh, man. “That one.”

She sighs, apparently exasperated. “Before you said you liked the other one.”

I’m rubbing gel in my hair, trying to decrease my head’s static. In the mirror I look like a porcupine. It’s our second night at a boutique hotel in Old Montreal. Tomorrow morning we’re going up to Mont Tremblant to ski. At the moment she’s contorting her body so she can see herself in the mirror behind me. I move, so she can have a full view. Again. “Yes, because you look good in everything.”

“No, I don’t. I looked like a fat cow in that one.”

Kimmy is constantly criticizing her body and her looks. “You do not look fat.”

“So you’re saying I look like a cow? I should never have eaten that poutine today.”

“I told you it was filling.”

“Who eats fries, cheese curds and gravy? It’s disgusting.”

“You, apparently.” She felt differently while she was inhaling it.

“I hate this shirt,” she says. “I’m changing.” Ten minutes later, she’s still changing. I’m sitting on the bed, flipping through the channels. TSN. CTV. CBC. Good old Canadian television. I miss my channels. I miss Peter Mansbridge.

“What do you think of these pants?” Kimmy asks. “Does my ass look big?”

I keep my eyes trained on the TV. “No.” I don’t understand. If she didn’t like the way any of her clothes looked, why did she bring them?

“You’re not even looking.”

Oh, man. I look at the clock. “Are you almost ready? We’re going to miss our reservation.”

“I’m trying. I’m trying to look nice-for you.” The last segment comes out as a sob. She storms into the bathroom and slams the door. What is her problem? Why is she acting like such a baby? She comes out, five minutes later, eyes red.

I turn off the TV. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Then why is she crying? I don’t get it. When Sharon was pissed, she told me. “Fine.” I’m not going to fight with her. When she wants to tell me what’s wrong, she’ll tell me.

She changes back into the first outfit she tried on.

“You look great,” I say, meaning it.

“No, I don’t. Let’s go. Do you have the room card?”

“Yes.” I stop her with my hand as she opens the door. “You look great, eh?”

She smiles. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Thanks.” She kisses me and we head out the door, only ten minutes late.

I ask the concierge how to get to the restaurant.

“You can walk, monsieur,” he says. “Eez only tree block down.”

The cold air attacks us as soon as we step outside. “Why can’t we take a cab?” Kimmy whines. “It’s freezing out here and my feet hurt.” She hasn’t stopped complaining about the cold or her feet since we got here.

Oh, man. “Why didn’t you wear the hat we bought you yesterday?”

“I can’t wear a hat out at night. I just blow-dried my hair for thirty minutes. I’m not ruining it with a ha-” Swish! She slips on the ice, and her legs split apart like she’s an action-adventure star doing a stunt. I seize her arm so she doesn’t fall.

“Maybe we should slow down,” she says. “It’s not easy to walk on ice in stilettos.”

Maybe someone shouldn’t be wearing stilettos in the middle of winter, eh?