My husband and I are vacationing in Tokyo this week, so writing out this blog means I`m spending roughly 100 yen for just 30 minutes on the hostel computer. 100 yen is something like, $100.00 US dollars and is not something we budgeted for, but I thought, the blog- I must write on the blog.
(100 Yen could also amount to more like one dollar, but either way- you`re welcome.)
Tokyo is everything one could hope for- a loud, stunning, awesome city full of culture and excitement. The food is amazing, the people are wonderful, the sights are spectacular. But the one thing that really stands out to me- are the vending machines.
Japan has something like 2 million vending machines, and they sell everything in them-drinks mostly, but also food, toys, underwear- you name it, you can get it in a vending machine- and they are addicting.
`Look, another vending machine!` I shout excitedly, pointing.
`Hmm...?` My husband was ignoring me and staring at a gaggle of extremely hot Japanese women coming up from the subway, their hair glossy, their legs gleaming under short shirts, high heels clicking against the concrete like a beautiful herd of supermodels. I was guzzling down some type of mango juice I had just purchased from a previous vending machine and looked like hell. Jet-lagged and sweating, sunscreen pouring into my eyes, my jeans sticking to the insides of my legs, shirt stained with deodorant marks and mango juice. My running shoes, which I had chosen to wear for comfort and durability, now looked like a bag of dirty marshmallows I had duct-taped to my feet. I will be genuinely shocked if my husband ever has sex with me again.
`VENDING- machine....right there.` I pointed again. We were lost somewhere between Ryogoku Kokugikan and Asakusa, which is as confusing as it sounds, and I was getting both exhausted and irritable- an ideal formula for an international vacation meltdown.
`I`m going to have a boner for the next week straight,` my husband sighs, looking wistfully at the retreating pack of gorgeous women. He finally looks down at me clutching at his shirt, over-heated and foaming at the mouth. `Haven`t you had like, ten vending machine drinks today?`
`One more, and that`s it,` I said, like a true addict. I would probably go through at least six to seven more. He handed me a pile of coins and I ran to the glittering, brightly lit machine for my fix.
The lowest point came yesterday, when I managed to get my forearm caught in a vending machine door.
`Help....` I grunted, my arm caught in between a cold milk chocolate and the Plexiglas. I withered on the concrete in pain.
`Oh god, they`re going to deport us.` My husband managed to wrestle my arm free of the beast, and finally victorious, I clutched the chocolate milk in my sweaty, blood-soaked hand. `You are DONE with the vending machines,` he said, mad now. `DONE.`
I agreed, sucking down the delicious ice-cold drink with a flourish. I was done.
Until our next trip to Tokyo, of course.
Quarter Life Whatever
4 years ago