(Un)Healthy Obsession

I stared at the number in disbelief for a very long time.

30.

An incredulous grin pulled at the corners of my mouth, but I didn’t want to smile yet.  I just wanted to stare and gape and praise Celestia.  Maybe it was sacrilegious to direct most of my prayers to a fictional pony-goddess, but I didn’t mean it to be.  It’s not like I knelt at my bedside at night and thanked her for my daily bread, but whenever something incredible happened—something wonderful that I could hardly believe or explain—my thoughts went straight to the Sun Princess and her lovable subjects.  After all, it was almost always thanks to them in one way or another.

“Honey?” I heard my wife call through the fitting room door.  “Are you all right in there?”

Her voice broke my trance; I glanced at the mirror for a moment and chortled at my own appearance.  As of that morning, my blonde hair was cropped pretty short, but long enough to be styled.  Whatever paste the hairdresser had used gave it a great look.  I had no idea my hair could even look like that.  Following my reflection downward, I briefly examined my face—was that handsome thing really my face?  Were those my blue eyes behind those wireframe spectacles?  Was that my barely crooked nose and straight, gleaming teeth?  Was that my clean-shaven, angular jawline?—and admired my lean torso, covered by a white t-shirt proudly bearing Rainbow Dash’s cutie mark.  Beyond that was the comical bit: I wasn’t wearing pants at the moment.  The pair that had recently hugged my waist was grasped in my white-knuckled hands with the inner tag shining its embroidered size into my sparkling eyes.

30.  I had dropped down to a size 30.

“I… I’m fine, Crystal,” I choked, only then noticing the emotional lump in my throat.

“You sure?” she asked with growing concern.

I brushed the embarrassing tears from my eyes and cleared my throat.  “Yeah, really, I’m fine.  I’m great, actually.  Just, uh… just zoned out for a bit.”

Crystal laughed at me; even through the door I could make out the resonant chime at the top of her laugh.  “Thinking about that show of yours again, huh?”

“It’s not that show of mine,” I teased, pulling the baggy sweatpants I had worn into the fitting room back over my skinny white legs.  Skinny!  “You introduced me to it, after all.”

“And I’m so glad I did,” she said sarcastically, although I knew she really meant it.  “So, have you tried on all those jeans yet?  Which ones fit best?  Thirty-six?  Thirty-four?”

I opened the door and pushed my soon-to-be-new pair of Levi’s into her beautiful face.

She gasped.  I cried a little.  We hugged.

30.

Three stories up, eight rooms down and to the left from the elevator.  That’s where he was staying.  For now.

He read the directions one more time and staggered down the hallway.  Eight rooms down and to the left… eight rooms down and to the left…

He stuck his key into the handle and tried to open the door.  It didn’t work.  Angrily, he clasped the knob between his shaking hands and rattled the whole door on its hinges, growling like a dog.  To his surprise, somebody opened it from the inside.

“Can I help you?” asked an old, silver-haired woman in a bright pink bath robe.

Bright pink.

The man stared at the soft robe for a long time—too long, apparently.  With a disgruntled huff, the old woman wrapped her robe tighter around her body and slammed the door.  Dazed, the man only blinked at the noise and continued to stare mindlessly.

He heard a giggle to his right.  “You silly!  You tried to open the wrong door!  Again!”

With a painful hiccup, he slowly turned his head to the cheery visitor, annoyed by her volume and vigor.

“Not now, Pinkie Pie,” he grumbled, dragging his feet toward the animated pony.  She bounced backward and led him to the correct keyhole, pointing at it energetically with a springy sort of noise that ground against the man’s sensitive ears.

“Thanks, Pinkster,” he mumbled, reaching out to pat the chest-high horse’s head.  But, of course, his hand passed through open air for the millionth time, and his colorful illusion disappeared.  He sighed, already missing his obnoxious friend, and made his way slowly to the bed.  On his pillow sat his laptop, right where he had left it.  Grunting with effort and squinting at the piercing light of its screen, the drunken man kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed, wriggling toward the laptop on his belly.  Netflix was already open.  All he had to do was click “Next Episode.”

Season 2, Episode 13.  He smiled.  He liked this one.  Pinkie featured.