The Hickey

There’s no way getting around it, folks. Y’all know what I’m writing about.

What spurned my decision to share with you a remarkably embarrassing and really low point in my life was a conversation I had via email with a coworker that started with the burn on my arm and ended with the accidental curling iron burn that every woman has experienced at least once and then segued, seamlessly, into hickey talk.

Because sometimes that’s what women who work in offices talk about via work email. Hickeys.

The worst part about my hickey tale is that it occurred only once and years after high school. Years. In fact, it occurred post-college, too, so I was absolutely old enough to know better than to engage in activity that would result in a visible neck hickey.

Something all teenage girls need to know right now: Hickeys are not awesome. I know you think they are now, but they’re a lot like all the things that happen during puberty.

Puberty. That’s a joke.

So I had this boyfriend, and he thought it would be fun to give me a hickey, or I thought it would be fun for him to do so, or we both thought, together, as grown adults, that it would be novel (and no, we weren’t drunk, which makes this even more embarrassing — my mother is literally dying right now, reading all this).

The huge flaw in our plan: It was summertime. If you must obtain a neck hickey, for pete’s sakes, don’t do it in the summertime.

So, of course, I had to go to work with other grown-ups and hope no one noticed. As it turns out, there is no way you’ll manage that unless you are silent and swift like a ninja.

Not to say that I’m not silent and swift like a ninja.

Something all teenage girls need to further know: No matter where you end up in life, you will work with at least one creepy guy. It’s just going to happen. And that one creepy guy is going to have a radar built into his creepy self that will immediately pick up on things like, say, neck hickeys. He’ll have a voice that projects well. He’ll have questions.

He’ll have a lot of questions. As if hickeys are actually complicated. As if we don’t all know how they happen, like babies and hangovers. And, if you’re lucky enough to work with him full-time, he’ll pester you about it for a solid eight hours.

This is my real life, every day. I cannot make this sort of stuff up and I cannot tell a lie.

 

UPDATE: Seriously don’t Google image search neck hickeys. Just don’t do it.

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