Fridays, December 20th.

It's Friday. I have my bottle of Pepsi and I'm watching cheap garments swirl inside a drum with Walmart brand detergent. I never wear real clothes throughout the week so it's always baffling how full my basket will be at the end of the week. I wear the same two uniforms, five days. In between, I'm chipping off dried on ranch dressing and mashed potatoes off my tits with a fingernail before clocking in. At the end of the day, I throw on some mens sweatpants and an undershirt succumbing to the next phase in my day as my life as a shapeless blob.

Now, here I am, free from my duties of suggesting cocktails and prime cuts of meat, finally free to dress myself as a young woman. It's 60 degrees and tomorrow is the first day of Winter. I've just looked down at myself to see what I've chosen. A black tunic, leggings, wedged booties and my black raincoat. Save for the soft, pink rosette in my hair, an after thought to tuck a wisp of hair behind my ear, I look like the grim reaper's daughter. I forget what my body looks like at times. I'm waiting for January, I suppose.

In January I'll trek down to the bus station and meet my sweetheart in the cold. I'll dress like a Victoria's Secret model, lace, unnaturally hairless and soft, under my Eskimo suit. He'll crush me against his body in the wind and snow and I'll feel so precious.

I walk back to my little apartment and heave my hamper onto my bed. I assault the Keurig and coil up on the low, defeated looking segment of the couch, clutching my geisha mug. Knees to chest, I write my mental grocery list and sip away. It's earthy and smooth, no sweetness, no milk deluded comfort in my cup. I want another, but my stomach aches with hunger. 

Pushing filet mignon and smiling hasn't been so profitable as of late. Call it the economy, call it the season of giving. I dine on ugly, discarded rolls and salads from the salad line at work. At home, I make a little meatloaf and a bag of streamed vegetables for around $10 once a week. I still have Christmas presents to buy. Another coffee to fill the space.

I won't be home for Christmas.

I've not written since I've moved. I regret that so much.

I'm a server at family restaurant now. I'm a damn good one. Anything I've ever been, I've tried to be a damn good one. I've only been there a little over four months and they've let me train three other servers. I love training. It's awful that I do. The whole time I was in school I resisted the notion of ever teaching English or Art. Maybe it's the one on one aspect that I enjoy? Maybe I just wanted to read, write, and work in the service industry.

But that's enough bragging about my lame life choices.

Today, we servers had a potluck Christmas party. We huddled around a long table in a closed dining room covered in various Tupperware containers, a feast of pastas, casseroles, chips and dip, supplementing just a bit from the salad station. I made dessert, as always. It wasn't a company Christmas party, a sparkling cocktail dress and heels affair, it was a crusty apron and non-slip shoes hit-and-run. We stuffed our faces as in between serving tables, bitching and swapping recipes. It was wonderful. We thanked one another for our contributions and said "merry Christmas" again and again.

This is the strangest Christmas yet. I won't see my family this year. Of course I'll have my sister, but it'll only feel like I'm intruding on the first Christmas she'll have with her new husband. I'll sit back with Kitty trying to get her to rip the wrapping paper on the new toys and collar I bought her, giving them their privacy. I wish I could work. I could be at the restaurant with my odd little work family in our greasy little uniforms, stealing cups of dried cranberries from the prep station, harassing one another with terrible jukebox picks, and bribing the bartender for a paper kid's cup of cheer.

I came home and cried. I only have $36.28 to show for a 7 hour day of work. I know I need to find another job, but god, I don't want to. I adore my work family.

I did it.

I cut my hair.

I told her exactly what I wanted and I starred straight ahead into the mirror. I never fidgeted, I never shook, I never blushed, I never cried. I don't know what to say about the entire experience but that I'm exhausted now. I've developed a cold in the last couple days and oh, I'd love to just sleep, but I've got to preserve the day before it leaves my memory.

Without warning, she snipped through my pony tail and laid it on top of the counter in front of me. I starred at the bundle of hair and noted the tonality. The colors ranged from an ash brown, auburn to chocolate, with one single silver stand centered under the rubber band.

My back was peppered with short, dark hairs that had fallen into my cape and the stylist, who wore a comically voluminous platinum wedge, added so much product that I looked like one of those unfortunate looking twins from the original Parent Trap. The whole way home I mashed it down and combed with my fingers, pressing down on every angle.

I came home and went right to the shower. I washed and scrubbed my scalp until it tingled all over. I ran a big, fluffy towel all over my head, over and over, round and round and let it fall. My hair was jet black and spiky, dripping water all over my bare shoulders. I leaned my hips into the vanity and plucked little locks, rearranging them around my face. I smiled. The ends of my hair were like conical spears, pointing at my cheek bones as if to say "here they are!"

Barefaced and pink from the hot water, I felt lovely. Not pretty, not cute-- certainly never sexy-- just lovely. In the foggy mirror I admired my neck and shoulders, my cheekbones and my jaw line, running my finger from my ear to the tip of my chin. I saw the shape of my pink ears poking out from underneath and appreciated how delicate they felt between my fingers. I combed my hair forward, back and side to side. It looked lovely each way I styled it.

Since that day, I've been very sick.

My nose is rosy pink from blowing it constantly. All of my energy has been sapped. My voice is gruff and dry. I've spent today smiling weakly at people and combing my fingers along the back of my head. Two people told me I looked like an elf, another told me I was absolutely adorable from head to toe.

Well. Thanks.

Finally, finally, I have my place to write. I have my cup of lady grey tea with honey, and for the life of me, as much as I struggle to recall the sights and smells of the past few days, give a rich description of the world around me, I don't care. I can't seem to make myself care.

Maybe that's it. Maybe that's the transformation. I don't care. And not in a bad way. I'm in control of my life. It's going to be okay.

Dragging feet.

Today was the first of the 50% off sale at work, which meant a excess of ladder climbing, lifting, bending and reaching of all kinds. Moving inventory from the stock room to long folding tables in the center of the floor.

The store was hot and humid, my cat eyeliner felt greasy and itchy around my eyes and I wanted so badly to wipe it away with the back of my hand. We threw a lot of the boxes to each other, at the tables. We kicked them. We swore like men in a garage basting themselves with grease and testosterone and laughed like maniacs when a customer caught us dropping a mother of pearl.

I slapped a few HALF OFF THE ORIGINAL PRICE signs up and we sat back with a hot pizza from the place next door.

Well, come and get em.

My boss and another salesperson had a home brewed beer inside of a water bottle. I laid on the floor with my book and a bowl of fresh sliced strawberries I'd brought from home, nibbling them slowly. Strawberries have always felt like a luxury to me. So cold and tender. I love the way the freckling of seeds concentrated on the tip of the berry feels on my tongue. I listened to Beyonce, Crazy In Love and wiggled my hips a bit against the carpet to the music, swinging my feet.

Truthfully, the work day consisted of few hours of actual work. The rest was lounging, waiting to drive home with the windows down, shouting along with the staticy radio to go home and take off my pants.

The sky darkened. I crawled into a chair, he took a nap on the floor. When he woke, we drew tiny dicks on boxes of Clarks. Some with wings. Some with capes. We giggled and talked about how we'd suffer at our next job with such a long, long time of basking in such freedom for so long.

Our lives are devoid of responsibility there. We open late. We close early. We try on shoes. We watch movies. We drink. We make sex jokes. It's enviable, from the outside looking in, but my god, I miss someone expecting something from me.

Sold out show.

There's a girl sitting next to me talking to her friend. She's so sweet and polite and happy... Really just cheerful. Possibly Canadian. I don't think I've ever had a friend that sounds like her. I'm a little depressed thinking about it.

A light post on something heavy.

A lot has happened in the last few days, but I don't know that I want to talk about it in much detail.

I visited my great grandmother again. I'm still a runt who will die alone, especially after I gave up my hair.

My sister and her husband came to visit.

I've worked nearly every day.

But let's keep this light.

Want to hear what's in my bag? Probably not. You can learn an awful lot about a person from what they carry with them. Of course, you can learn an awful lot about a person from their writing. But this my blog, so eat it.

In my purse, and mind you, it is rather large, I've got a great lot of practical things. I'd love to model it after Hermione's charmed handbag or Mary Poppin's satchel.

Keys. Work keys. House keys. Grandparent's house keys. Old house keys. Jeep key. A hand sanitizer. A metal tear drop shaped keychain with my name bought by boy in Frankenmuth during one of our many breakups.

Snow White Wallet. $90.04 in cash. A debit card. A worn college student ID where I'm at least 20lbs heavier. My sister's address. A few free Redbox codes. Kroger card. An awkward picture of boy from when he was 14.

A cork screw. Self explanatory.

A tea tin containing loose Lady Grey tea and a few fat little packages made up of a coffee filter and loose tea leaves. A tin tea ball. A tea cup with little geishas painted on it.

The Bell Jar. Pristine, but read four times. Inside there's a receipt from when I bought the book, but the text has worn off.

A small notebook. I doodled mermaids on the cover. There's lists of things to buy and things to do in there. I still rather I'd be the only one to read it, thanks.

Three ink pens. One I stole from work, one I stole from the bank and one given to me last week at work because I was kind to her. It's my favorite. It's a baby pink color with a rubber ball you click. The ink flows smoothly.

One pair of socks. I hate wet socks. They make me angry. It's a precaution. You're welcomed.

A keeper. If you don't know what that is, it's a small rubber cup you insert like a tampon that holds the fluid instead of sucking it up into a wad of bleached cotton. You wash and rewash it. I've used it long enough to save me $30. So... There's that.

My birth control. It's a pale yellow compact with the look of disapproval drawn on it with Sharpie. It used to make me violently ill, now it just let's me be free and live my life.

A condom. I remember kind of using the other two in the pack. For like five minutes. Then we remembered we hated them. It's the thought that... Coun... I'm an idiot.

A pocket knife. It's about four inches long and is covered in pink cupcake stickers, but oh, it's sharp. I usually use it for cutting little plastic tags off something I just night and can't wait to use.

Lipstick. I have about thirty lipsticks to my name. In my purse I keep a dark raisin color called Hera. I keep a deep purple called Black Cherry. A pretty peachy pink called Delight. Then my favorite, with the lamest name, Really Red. It's a matte, classy red that I wish to god I didn't feel like I was playing dress up in it whenever I wear it.

So that's it.
And everything is quite necessary.

Sylvia Plath, help.

“I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.” 

So I'll tell you a story or two.

I remember one night telling him how it didn't make any difference as to whether or not he thought he'd break my heart. We were laying on a mattress on the floor, his bed, under the guise that I was staying at a friend's. We listened to the fireworks from that humid room, murmuring all sorts of wonderful things to one another between each pop and flash of light. I was foolish enough for lying in regards to my whereabouts with a boy I hardly knew, but wise enough to stop him when he uttered such a naive sentence. 

"You can't say that. Some day you will and it'll hurt very much." 

"You can't know that." 

But I did know. I knew that I'd given a part of myself away to him. I gave him a place to live in my mind and leading roles in my dreams, day and night. I gave him my heart and promised my innocence. God, you know, I didn't even like boys any more, only him. I shook my head. "You will, and it's okay. I want to feel everything." 

What a statement for a 19 year old girl. Feel everything. Bathe in heartbreak, regret, remorse. Give it all to me, I wanna feel it all. What on earth was I thinking? And how can I get it all back? I felt so brave laying next to him in that little apartment. He watched me intently, his eyes glittering in the dark. He kissed me. The kid made me feel like a goddess. I knew I couldn't see the future but I didn't care. In that moment I was beautiful and powerful, now alone in my bed, I feel so small second guessing every word I write. Then again, since that moment I've felt quite a few more things. 

"I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited."

And I suppose that that's what I meant. I was inarticulate in my youth and my mental status. Laying in bed with boys does that to me. It ties my tongue in knots and plays keep-away with coherent thoughts. It makes me brazen and oh, routinely unfathomably stupid, but that's a story for another night.  

Oh.

"kiss me and you will see how important I am."

And of course, I haven't been kissed in over a year.

The last boy to kiss me was a boy driving me home from a bar. I was very drunk. Very drunk and very sad. I asked him to kiss me. He was kind enough to tell me I didn't know what I was asking for. "I don't want to hurt your feelings," he said, sliding my necklace around my neck so that the puzzle piece pendant was centered between my prominent clavicles. I shivered. "I just met you and I know you aren't yourself right now. Later I will, okay?"

He drove me home. We talked the whole way. He told me he was studying to be a cardiologist. A heart doctor. I cried. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he held me for a moment. He hushed me gently and gave me a peck on the cheek. I pretended not to notice. Later, I pretended I didn't want it, but I really did need it. Looking back, it was such a reassuring thing. Such a kind stranger. Thank you.










“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” 


What a terrible way to end this piece.




I need a kiss.

I made a customer cry today.

As I was bagging a woman's items, she asked, "would you wear these to church?"

I wouldn't wear these unless I was a clown at a child's birthday party.

"Oh, I dunno. It really depends on who you are and your style!"

"Where do you go to church, huh-nee?" Her voice was syrupy sweet.

"I don't go."

"Well, may I ask why not?"

"It's a personal choice. I just don't." I smiled gently.

"Don't you know our lord and save-YOUR, Jesus Christ?"

"Well... Yeah..." Oh no. I felt it coming on. Her eyes, puffy and rimmed with only black liquid liner behind her dollar store readers narrowed. I squared my hips and dropped my arms to my sides. I smiled, tilting my head innocently. I didn't want to fight. I just wanted to go sit back in the window and close my eyes.

"IN the beginning, there was ONLY GOD," she spat.

I stared into her eyes. They were strangely colorless. Cloudy, muddy eyes. Cataracts, maybe.

"YOU KNOW THAT. You know that Jesus is real. You know Jesus."

I paused. "Yeah."

"Jesus Christ? You know that he died on the cross to save us from our sins. He did that for me and you and everyone. YOU KNOW THAT. You believe that he did that for you, don't you?!" My eyes searched her face trying to understand an emotion. Her temples began to glisten and her mouth twitched at the corner. She stared into my skull. My skull. I swear I felt her eyes on the back of my skull.

I remained upright and neutral. "I know the...  story." I couldn't back down, but I didn't want to instigate a long stay.

She began sobbing. Sobbing. Why? "He would not have died for you for no reason. He wouldn't have. He created you!" She swept one arm dramatically towards the parking lot. "HOW could you look out there and not FEEL the luhv he has for you and know he created that beautiful earf?" She tore a bit of tissue paper out of her shoe box and wiped her eyes and forehead. "Look!" She gestured towards the parking lot again.

Struggling not to laugh, I looked into the lot. A shoe box someone had dumped on the way out the door laying in a handicapped parking space.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah."

"I had kidney cancer and it could have burst and killed me, the doctor said, but God didn't let it! He healed me! Explain that."

"That's good. I'm glad you lived." I said evenly.

She pointed a finger in my face. "When you die, if you do not believe in Heaven, what will happen to you? Ha!" Oh, she really had me now.

"My body will rot in the ground. Or I'll be cremated. I haven't decided." I strained to keep my tone as flat as possible.

"CRE-mated? And your eternal soul?!"

"My friends and family will remember me, I hope."

She scoffed and sobbed. It made a horrendous noise. "Well, huh-nee. I luhv you. I will pray for you. I will not let you go to Hell. Hell is real. Everyone is allowed to go to Heaven, you choose to go to Hell and I do not believe you're a meanin to make that choice! What's your name? For a prayer list."

"No thank you."

She gathered her bags with another heaving sob and pushed through the door. It swung back and chimed a second time and third time.

Kitty. March, 2012

Barely an audible sound is easily choked out at this point. I've downed so many cups of lady grey with honey that I caught my first glimpse of the bottom of my tea tin. It reflected my half-open left eye, all distorted and dull as I miserably tapped my chipped finger nails against the side of the box, flicking in the curled black leaves and rinds, as Kitty snaked around my pickery calves. I gruffly muttered a greeting as she flopped onto her back, exposing her pristine white belly, downey soft and forbidden. I gently patted her middle with my foot twice. Her eyes bulged comically, claws out, she clamped around my foot like a bear trap and I hobbled to the sink moaning with my tea cup. It never hurt when she latched that way. It never hurt when she nibbled and sucked on my toes, but pretending that it did seemed to excite her. monster. 

She's my cat. It seems strange to say since I love in this house with her and my family, to say she's my cat... Well... Let me explain. I was sad. No. I was depressed. I was completely breathless every moment of wakefulness. This boy, this dumb boy made me tired and worried and scared. I couldn't take care of him. I couldn't say the right words or do the right thing. I was utterly heart broken. My chest felt like it had this great dead weight instead of a heart. I cried constantly. I cried myself to sleep. I cried in my sleep. 

 My mom asked if I wanted to go to the shelter. I quickly showered and dressed, I didn't bother with makeup because I couldn't help it. I cried the entire time I got ready. I looked like hell. I talked about stripes. I talked about white and grey! I wanted a male. A kitten! A little guy to care for. My voice shook. I felt so nauseated and weak. It took everything to hold back tears. I was excited and afraid. 

 I held kittens and big boys. Stripey, wild looking things. I ohed and awed all of them, scratching their little heads and indiscriminately kissing behind their ears. I didn't think. I just loved on them and hugged them close. As I was slipping a kitten back into its pen, something patted the top of my head. I looked up to see a lazy calico with one limb slipped through the bars of its pen. She swiped at me again. Mom reached in for her and held her like a baby. "Oh my... This one passes the cuddle test! She's pretty, isn't she?" "She's... Alright. Can I hold her?" I've never really liked calicos. I've always thought they looked so mangy, like they had had a terrible dye job or something. I nuzzled her with my nose and scratched under her chin. I'll be honest. I didn't want to go home without adopting one. I needed something. God, I really did. I could feel my phone heavy in my pocket. I could feel it cold against my ass with the reminder that he'd yet to say a small hello for the day. Not a "good morning." Not a "go to hell." I draped the skinny calico over my shoulder. "I know she's not a kitten, but she's smallish. She seems young." "I dunno..." She tilted her head to the side like she does and ruffled the fur on top of the calico's head. "She is sweet." "I like her a lot, mom." "She did ask for our attention, didn't she?" We came home with her, of course. I wanted to cry the while way home but I just held onto the kitty and loved on her. I thanked mom and chattered about toys and collars, all of which mom bought. I fought tears the entire time, it was so sweet what my mother did for her heartbroken daughter. I tried to be strong, covering my fragility with some happy-go-lucky babbling. Names and catnip and oh god, I'm crying now thinking of it. On adoption papers it stated she was six months old and 5lbs on March 23rd. She's now a lovely 11.8lbs, spayed, and grumpy as can be. It took us days to come up with a name. I loved Sophia and fifteen other terrible cat names, but I just couldn't make a decision. It wasn't until I was sitting at my desk, texting below my keyboard at work one night that I did come up with a name. A perfect sound alike with my own when given my last name. I texted him, trying to sound cheerful. Trying to relax and smile. Maybe nudge him to smile. "What if I call her Kitty? Is that terrible? She could be my sidekick." "No, kid. That sounds beautiful. It really does. Nothing could be sweeter. Kiddo, I need to tell you something awful." "If it's bad, wait until I get off of work." I sent the text and stared at my phone for a moment before sending another. "No. Tell me now. Waiting is torture." So he did. So I quit. Without a word, without a sound. I wrote a note. I transferred the phones to the nurses' station. I left my name badge. I locked the office. I went home. That night I tucked myself and Kitty into my bed under my thick, teal corduroy blanket, and as I pet her and nuzzled her, I did not cry myself to sleep.

Broken bones.

My great grandmother is 99 years old. 

She fell a week ago and up until just yesterday did she resist staying in the hospital. She's broken her back and oh, despite it all, she looks wonderful. We went to see her today. She laid there in her big mechanical bed, door ajar, eyes shut and hands folded patiently on her stomach. I knocked gently on the open door and she laughed and clapped her hands together in joy. 

We all piled into the room, taking turns edging around the bed for a hug. Her cheek was smooth and warm against mine as she hugged me firmly. She always hugged us tight and thumps us on the back. Instead of her typical matte and slightly flaky foundation, she was barefaced. Her skin was so soft and such a sweet shade of pink. Her blue-grey hair was unkempt from lying in bed, but it was darling. It really was. She didn't look like a frail, fragile old woman. She looked soft and dolly-like in her floral summer night gown. 

Fortunately for me, she wasn't wearing her glasses. Not a word was said about my hair. 

"I've never been so helpless in my whole life," she fretted, wiggling a bobby pin. "I just don't know what to do. I've taken care of myself all my life. Always." 

I played with one of her socked feet under her sheet and smiled at her gently. "You're going to have a rough time for a while, but you'll get better." 

She nodded briefly.

She talked to mom about work and my dad, she talked to my siblings about school. She asked me about my boyfriend. "Is that feller that's going to take you away from all of us still in the picture?" 

We've been broken up over a year now, she knows that.

"You know, I love him very much but we've both got some growing up to do. That's all I can say right now. I won't be taken away though, I promise you that." It was nothing but the truth.

She said very little about her pain, about her condition. Almost as if she didn't want us to take notice. She winced now and again as she attempted to reposition herself. "They didn't give me so much pain medicine cause I'm so small. They didn't know what I could handle. Maybe I coulda had more." She hissed in pain and she attempted to straighten herself. She raised her eyebrows at me. "You're sort of the runt of the litter, aren't ya?" 

I laughed. "Aren't you?" 

Funny statement from a woman who isn't even five feet tall. 

She pawed at the air between us and smiled. 

It upset her that she didn't have any candy to give us like she always does. 

She talked about god. 

She quoted my great grandfather. He died 12 years ago, but to this day, she speaks about him in present tense. 

I like that. 

After some time, she asked us to help sit her upright so that she could eat the meal that had long since gone cold on her bedside table. She caught her breath in pain as she shifted her weight. I caught sight of my sister's bottom lip trembling and took it as a reminder to check my own expression. 

Slow, slow. I readjusted her pillow under her head and slid the arm of the table over her chest. I rearranged her entree, drink and dessert on her tray so that she could reach them properly. I unrolled her silverware roll and laid the pieces out. "Honey, you don't have to do that." She struggled to peel open her carton of milk. "You know, I've never drank milk in my life until I came to this place. They act like I should." My mom left to reheat her coffee and tell a nurse she needed more pain medication. 

"Here." I took the carton from her and easily peeled it, popped open her bendy straw and slid it in, refolding the paper around it so it wouldn't leak on her nightgown. 

"You'd make a good nurse yet. Better a nurse than an old maid!" She clapped her hands at her own joke.

"Eh, I'd be an awful nurse. I just like you. Even if you do think I'll be an old maid."

"I don't. I was just foolin with ya." She squeezed my hand. Her arm was so bruised and a terrible, thick rubber tubing was taped to her tissuey skin. I tried not to look and just focus on the strength of her touch. She's such a tough woman. I told her so many times. Tough and stubborn.  

The straw slapped her chin as she went in for a drink. "Ha! I know where my mouth is. This is not the first time I've used a straw." She took half a sip. "There. You know, I've never been so helpless in my life." She set the carton back onto the tray and grabbed her fork, stabbing a now cold steamed carrot. She brought the carrot halfway to her mouth and shut her eyes. 

"Heavenly Father, please bless the food I'm about to receive for the nourishment of my body." I looked to see that my mother and siblings had snapped their heads down and closed their eyes. My mom and sister seemed to be fighting tears, their mouths twisting. My brother furrowed his brow. My eyes went back to her. I liked to watch her pray. I've never really understood closing your eyes for prayer. "and thank you Lord, God for bringing my family to be near me. We ask that you be with us. We honor you in our hearts, in Jesus's name." 

She opened her eyes and popped the carrot slice into her her mouth. "Cold. Ha!" She scooped a bit of the mashed potatoes and made a face. "All cold. If you want some, I can ask them to bring another plate. I've got lots. Take anything you want. I asked for a little bit of carrots and look! I wonder kindly what a lot is." We politely declined. She reached for the little strawberry shortcake on the far side of her tray and tore it to bits between her fingers, sucking the strawberries off of each slice between sips of scalding hot coffee. She wrinkled her nose and grinned. I felt my body relax. I hadn't realized how tense it was. 

We hugged her goodbye. She hugged me even tighter and kissed my cheek. I kissed her forehead. 

She's bounced back from a heart attack at age 97. Why should a broken back slow her down now when she hugs me so tight? A week without so much as an aspirin, she walked around her house, up and down stairs with a broken back. Why would this stop her?

There's nothing broken about her. 

Last day.

I drove to work today sucking poppy seeds out of my teeth and playing with the radio. Every channel was a sermon. Yesterday was Sunday. Yesterday. Right?

I couldn't find a single song to sing along to, only old white guys with echoing microphones. One man spoke about women obeying their husbands. No. Absolutely not. I snapped the radio off. I hate driving in silence. I hate being there in that musty metal box with my thoughts. I rolled down the windows. I could smell fresh cut grass and wild onions, a scent I've always loved. The sound of the wind being sucked through the windows along with the Jeep's squeaking belt served as a staticy radio.

I'm a terrible driver. I'll admit it to anyone.

I speed. I accelerate through turns, possibly on two wheels. I've swerved into the next lane for a squirrel without considering oncoming traffic. On my second road test (I failed the first), I was one mark away from not getting my license. The instructor was so theatrical about making slashes through the score sheet and reviewing my errors that I burst into tears when he told me I had passed. "What's wrong with you, girl? You passed!"
I just sobbed. "You don't understand, I hate this. It's so stressful, I just... I just..."
"Now honey, you'll never have to do this ever again, smile! Where'd she get those pretty blue eyes, mom?"

At work, I was harassed about the new guy. It's something I suspected would happen sooner or later. We hit it off from the start, I'll admit it. Similar interests. We laugh a lot. We chat a lot. But so long as I am where I am in my so very complicated matters of the heart (insert rolling eyes), such thoughts are only entertained by those who have grown tired of their own lives. "He's just your type! If he broke up with his girlfriend, would you date him?"
"He's moving back to the city not long after you. How thick are the walls in your new apartment? Because that boy is going to..."
Incredible.
At least the cop who keeps trying to corner me and show me his dick didn't have the time to bother today.

I tuned them all out for a moment, leaning my head against the window and thinking of that talk on Saturday night. I told my friend I wanted to have a baby before I was thirty. I don't know why the words even came out of my mouth, they just did. I want to have our first child before I'm thirty. "Well before then. We'll be ready, sure we will, kid! Easy." It made me grin like an absolute fool. As fantastically stupid as the thought of being ready to have a child is, I laid in my bed, my eyes shimmering with tears in the dark. I wondered what conception would be like. Who intends to make a baby? What's it like? I bet there's some strange, primal sense of duty and accomplishment. Satisfaction. As an animal, aren't we programmed to make more of us? Isn't the success of a species based on population? Maybe I'm ruining sex in general, here. I'll shut up.

I wish there were a way to truly know sometimes if I really knew what I wanted or if I were haplessly falling in love with ideas all my life only to grow out of them, change my mind. Any child of mine was likely to have some grandiose name that I'd stumbled upon in a book. Something strange, something old, something important. Hypatia. Hippolyta! Something I'd one morning wake up and cringe about, embarrassed that I'd ever once thought that was a good idea. Something my poor child would cry to me about being burdened with an awful name after a bad day at school. Naming my child alone, I'm not sure I could be trusted with. Truthfully, I'd never wanted a child before I met him. Never had I even entertained the idea. It feels right. It feels right at this moment. But who's to say that a child isn't something that is a formerly wonderful idea? How terrible it would be to have your entire existence regretted by another.

It was a slow day. I couldn't make myself fuss around the store, straightening, lacing and stuffing shoes like I usually do. Instead, I sat in the window playing with my hair and thinking about my unborn children. Running my fingers through my hair and feeling the heat of the sun on the outermost layer, then sliding my hand underneath where it was much cooler. I held it there for a moment, fingers combed through midway through the length, appreciating the weight and shine before letting the strands sweep through my fingers and across my palm.

I was saying goodbye.

My coworkers buzzed around me, yammering on about tomorrow. They asked me to hold my hair up off my face to see my cheekbones and the angle of my jaw. They asked me to explain again what I wanted. They rambled on about different celebrities and their hair cuts and local stylists and who's talented and who isn't.

I suppose the attention is flattering, the support is definitely nice. My own mother has been almost completely silent about the issue ever since I brought it up as a hypothetical months ago. While I thank her for not saying "no, don't do it," it does hurt that I know that there's a chance of her refusing to look at me tomorrow afternoon in some sort of protest. God, I hope not. Even if it looks terrible, please. I can't stand to have her not look at me.

Finish that novel?

Today I had to introduce myself a lot. Answer get-to-know-you questions. My youngest sister was annoyed to be asked if she had a boyfriend and which college she's wanting to go to, but that's nothing compared to having a pretty pile of debt and a couple degrees under your belt while explaining to people that you're in a minimum wage job. "I sell shoes." The subject, among women, thankfully shifted to my tiny black pat pointed stilettos. My toes were numb and feverish.

My sister, after twenty minutes kicked off her mint sued pumps and ran around the basement-like congregation hall with tears in her eyes, hugging and thanking everyone who showed for the reception. Supremely happy and overwhelmed, her eyes welled at the opening of each glitter dusted card. Her happiness was the rare, contagious sort. Even if you're the slightest bit envious you can't help but want to be nearer and nearer to the one smiling, laughing and joking, positively glowing from the inside out, and that she was. Her white dress flared away from her body like a shade for her illuminated skin. I, in my black sheath that showed my every jaunty angle considered taking a seat near the contractor bags in the corner stuffed with plastic cutlery, cups, and plates and paper.

Instead, I leaned back in my aluminum folding chair, nibbling m&ms and snapping pictures. I'm rotten, I know, but one girl's wedding shower is another's apartment warming party. I could picture my Black Cherry lipstick neatly printed on the rim of her pretty set of Anchor glasses and smearing my mascara on her fluffy new cream colored towels after a steamy shower.

"She's moving in with us in the fall!" My sister explained to a particularly pushy member of the church. "We've got a two-bedroom apartment. She's bringing her cat."

"Oh," she responded with confusion. "will you be going to the college, then?"

"Oh... Um. No. Just working."

I felt like a nuisance. I'm moving in with my newly wed younger sister. With my cat. I felt the woman's eyes scanning me, looking for a clue. Some disability. Handicap... some sign of lesbianism, perhaps? I couldn't answer any questions regarding a true plan of action.

"Well then, let me invite you to our church. I hope you'll accept."

"Oh, thank you. That's sweet of you." I rocked on my heels for a moment and adjusted a bobby pin before excusing myself.

I cleared a few abandoned potluck stained plastic plates away from a table, wondering if I had ever burdened someone's mind by questioning them about plans. I dismissed the idea and replaced it with shameful thoughts. Maybe I should join a church. I don't have many friends. I bet at my wedding I could really collect the goods if I had a church family. If I got married. Maybe if the church served wine I could cope with sacrificing those hours and pleasantries. Rotten. Stop it.

I needed my bed in my cramped, cluttered little room. I needed to roll sore my ankles and wrists round and round until they make satisfying little popping sounds. I wanted to fall asleep listening to a bluesy voice and dream and dream. I wanted to dream of something new. I've dreamed of my hair for so many nights now. My mom combing though it with her fingers as she chatted about her day, my cat swatting at a braid as I bent to fill her bowl, my every strand turning white in the sun. It's no surprise that I should dream of my hair. In two days, I'll be cutting it. Almost all of it will be gone this time.

Laugh if you want to, but part of me is hoping for a somewhat baptismal event. A life altering change. How freeing it must be to have short hair! With my luck, I'll look like a little boy. But maybe that freedom isn't just a physical sense of lightness, but a psychological thread to be cut. A particularly stubborn thread. I've hidden under my long hair for years, questioning whether I was pretty, attempting to possess all of the qualities of a pretty girl. Long, dark lashes, blushed cheeks, glossed lips, padded bras, and long hair, braided with pink silk flowers, hiding one side of my face behind a curtain of the stuff, reddening at the slightest bit of attention. Recognizing the warmth of my face and chest only causes a silent panic and a deeper shade of embarrassment.

My friend, my dearest friend with the sweetest heart. I no longer blush when he tells me sweet things. I think it's because I've stopped arguing with myself to decide if what he says is genuine. He tells me every day that I'm beautiful inside and out, I doubt he's forgotten a day in the last year. Maybe that's what it takes, blunt force. Cramming the thought into my skull. Thank you, kid. I can't let your efforts be in vain.

And so, as uncomfortable as I am in my skin, in my situation, and in my shoes, I need to do things that scare me.

I've decided to write about them.