Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Farewell My Gay Chewbacca

It was January 4th of this year at around 10:30 a.m. when I encountered this incredible creature. At first glance, it seemed he might belong to the human race. Upon closer scrutiny, however, it became obvious he was a partially shaved Wookiee in an acupuncturist disguise--immaculate dress pants, shirt, tie and shiny leather shoes. My assessment was mainly based on his high level of huggability and the gorgeousness of his fluffy face fur.

He giggled a lot. A lot, a lot, a lot! Sometimes for no discernible reason. (A great example of when a Wookiee tries to emulate humans but ends up overdoing it.) In stark contrast to his furry-dude face was his sisterly, genteel accent. My acupuncturist/Chewbacca was conspicuously gay.

Before the treatment, he asked me many routine questions. The topic of my bowel movement seemed to deeply fascinate him, though. No one (not even my medical doctors) had ever shown such genuine curiosity about my poop. Gay Chewbacca wanted to know everything about it--color, size, shape, consistency, frequency. "It's normal," said I, wondering what my poop had to do with my insomnia (which was the main reason I was there). "Does it hold a shape or disintegrate when it comes out?" he kept pressing. "It's really normal," I replied.

By the end of that first session, he certainly became my extramarital crush. Yeah, go ahead and judge me. But how could I not love a giggly poop-obsessed Wookiee who talked like a sorority girl? I knew that ungaying a Wookiee wasn't a skill I had or could possibly develop. I could never have him. I just enjoyed seeing him. That was all.

We saw eye to eye in many matters. We agreed that the second floor of his office building was haunted, that my toe socks gave me a superpower, and that everybody should own a cape.

He seemed to like my name. In fact, he totally overused it, saying it in almost every sentence when we spoke. (Another human habit often ineptly emulated by Wookiees.)

Sometime at the end of February, I granted him a Pilates gift card, a one-class pass to the studio I frequented. It was because he had expressed his interest in Pilates once or twice. Also, I wanted to observe him in a different environment, without his acupuncturist disguise. Maybe his Wookiee nature would come out more.

He thanked me earnestly but never used the card. I don't really know why and could only guess what happened. So a homeless person probably approached him one day and asked for some change. My generous Wookiee must have reached for his wallet, found no change and replied, "No, but here's a Pilates gift card. Take it. You need to stay fit living under a freeway." Yeah, that's probably how it went.

I initially felt somewhat rejected but soon shrugged it off, deciding not to take it too personally. I remember a dear friend of mine once gave me shocking-pink, hoop earrings with three-inch diameters. I never wore those hideous disco artifacts. I despised the gift but not the giver.

Last Friday was the last time I saw him alive. I was complaining about my tight shoulders, and he asked me what happened. "Training, training, training," I said, "I train almost every day." The Wookie was so confused by my remark he temporarily forgot human language. It seemed like a string of questions was flashing through his mind--What training is this anthropoid talking about? She expects me to remember every single thing she's ever told me? Oh this species is so plagued with self-entitlement--and then he flat out asked me what I was training for. "The Olympics?" he joked.

Yeah, Gay Chewbacca didn't remember I was a Pilates instructor in the making, even though I talked about it every time I saw him (FYI, I saw him every other week, not every other year), brought my Pilates books to study while getting needled quite often, and gave him a fucking Pilates gift card. Just like that, he was dead to me. An urge to catapult him back to Planet Kashyyyk suddenly arose. I hated him with every molecule of my ridiculous, petty, self-important soul.

Yes, I know, I know, I know he had many patients, not just me. But I'm petty, okay? I didn't dream of romantic reciprocation but wholeheartedly believed there was some platonic caring. Well, I've never been more wrong.

I'm sure it will take him years to become aware of my absence. And once he does, he'll just put my file away, out of sight, forever locked inside the cabinet with a huge red label "Unmemorable Homo Sapiens." That's how it ends. Goodbye, my Wookiee, goodbye. 

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