Stop leaving me notes, Minneapolis!

Three notes. I've gotten three passive aggressive notes in the last month from strangers commenting on my behavior. Three finicky messages, referencing three different forms of my transportation. C'mon people!

1. The first note, slipped under my apartment door, on pink stationary:

"STOP slamming your door. Your door slamming is out of control. You are bothering people on MORE THAN ONE FLOOR. PLEASE. STOP."

To be fair, our carpet was just ripped up in the hallway and as soon as you let the hallway door slip from your hands, it slams on its own. When I'm carrying my bike up and down two floors, gently letting the door close behind me has admittedly not been my #1 priority. After I got the note, I started being much more careful about the doors, but the note seemed like a huge overreaction. As it turned out, it was. A week later, Steph and I were leaving my apartment and we got stopped in the hall by a large, husky man that slowly sauntered into the hallway as soon as he heard us out there. He shuffled toward me with a sly look on his face and said "You the door slammer?" as he held out his hand for a shake. I took his hand and said "No". He stared into my face, not letting go of his firm hold on my hand, and told me that his girlfriend lives here and he's a veteran and when doors slam at night he thinks they're gun shots and it has to stop. I told him I really haven't been slamming doors and I'm hardly ever even at my apartment. "I think it's the girl next to you," he said. "I met her and she seemed nice, but...she's not. She's not nice at all." I told him I didn't think any of us are intentionally slamming doors and that he should probably call our landlord and ask for the carpet to be reinstalled. "Anna - just stop. Stop it. Stop right there," he said. "I'm on your side." And then, just to heap on to the level of creep, he says, "I've been watching you out back in the parking lot. Your hair looks really nice when it's up. You should wear it like that more often." Needless to say, I've been zooming in and out of this house like a squirrel in traffic ever since, never stopping to linger outside.

2. The second, a note precisely written out and delicately taped to the handle of my bicycle, which was parked outside a friend's house during our rehearsal:

"What kind of a person would park a bike in front of someone's sidewalk?"

I'm going to draw a mental picture for you of what was going on here. My friend's house is a duplex that is up on a very small hill, so it has two separate cement walkways that start with a small set of stairs then lead up to each doorway in front of the house. Now, it was later at night so I parked my bike in front of his neighbor's walkway, but didn't think it was a big deal because I knew they had a baby so they probably weren't out late, and anyone could take ONE step to the side to get to the second step. Easy peasy, right? WRONG. Apparently I'm a terrible person. But I mean really. Who leaves a note on a bike? Perplexed, I stood there holding the note for a while, then decided the proper thing to do would be to tape the note back on their first step in order to shame them in the morning when they discovered my bike gone and their anal retentiveness staring them in the face. Shame! Shame on unnecessary note writers!

3. A two-page letter, pages numbered, with a scrap of paper taped to the second page to elongate the message, written in black sharpie and found underneath my windshield wiper. All caps. Location: the one-way street in front of my beef's house.

"Hey! I just wanted to take a minute to thank you for parking here. Seriously, great job. Please park here often. You'd be surprised how many jerkoffs and J-holes park here. No permits, 3 feet from the curb, expired tabs, just a MESS. You, however, are the exception. You keep Fremont going! Thanks! --Fremont Neighborhood Association (FNA) est. 2010"

Well I tell you, my day was MADE. After staring at the note for about five minutes and determining that it wasn't sarcastic, that it was likely from an overly-dorky neighborhood association member who genuinely was thankful that I had a permit and did a good parking job, a calm came over me. It was as if the universe was saying "Hey Anna. Don't even think about those first two notes. This third note is a message for you from Minneapolis, nay, the world, that you are doing a good job here on Earth. From your parking job to your permit-having to frankly being just a great person, I just wanted to say, well, thanks." I drove away with a smile stretched ear to ear thinking that some stranger out there took the time to write me a two-page letter THANKING me for my behavior. I was doing ok.

The next day, with a spring in my step, I remembered that I hadn't told my bf about the note I got in front of his house yet! "Hey - I forgot to tell you what I found on my car the other day!" I said, to which he replied, "Oh, you got my note??"

GREAT.

Happy fats.

Guess what? Everything's going well in your life, you've got great friends, you've got a boyfriend, work is good, living situation is great, the weather's getting warmer, the dinners are lasting longer, the beer is flowing harder, the gym membership is canceled, you're going to family reunions, hanging out at the lake, the new tires on your bike require less effort, you're seeing movies which require candy, the snacks are flowing like the mighty Mississipi...

BOOM. You've got the happy fats. Or more accurately, I've got the happy fats.

Look, I love my boyfriend. And bless him for being a big fan of me whatever size I am (and for being boy enough not to know the difference) but I've gained ELEVEN POUNDS since I started dating him. I think there might be some element of "letting myself go" but honestly I'm just a happy eater. If I'm even a little lonely or depressed I just don't have an appetite. If I'm happy, it's Anna-delicious-food-eating-fun-time. And then there's the social aspect. You're making dinner for each other, you're grilling out for your friends, you're having lady dates to keep up with your gal pals, and the fun times almost always involve some aspect of food. Doesn't sound too bad right?

But seriously. I had to buy new pants. And shorts. And skirts. And that shit gets expensive! To cut down on the sloppy body I started standing at work, so now I'm one of those weird "standers" whose head rises far above the cubical walls confusing passers-by and coworkers. A dude who shares a cube wall with me and doesn't understand the concept of a standing desk kept trying to order McDonalds from me during my first week of standing. But I'm finding all that standing is doing is making me rock back and forth all the time making my feet kill. So.

I'm not too worried about it - AT THIS POINT. I don't think I've reached whale-status yet, and I'm planning on the weight gain plateauing at, well, at 5 pounds ago, and it's summer so I'll keep biking and eating vegetables and crap but I think in the long run, I prefer happy eats to the rockin' body that comes with somber, foodless stretches of inactivity and lonely nights. Although I suppose I could just become a sad eater too. Yeah! Maybe I'll do that.

Naaaaaaaaaaah. Pass the chimichangas!