Something was definitely wrong.
She could no longer bring herself to playing her turns in the trendy smartphone games she shared with friends. Mustering up the energy to spell “qi” or draw a stick-figure Tina Fey wasn’t the issue; it was more like the pressure to fit “bitch” into the grid or come up with an image for Skrillex she could approximate with her pointer finger was just too heavy.
Also, she’d begun to think in the past tense, and we all know how foreboding that is.
Ohhhh, how grand hope is. And how powerful. But in between anticipation and receipt, when she knows she’s won but hasn’t yet begun to reap its benefits, lies a moment of terror intermixed with a breathy calm that’s forced but real. She can’t seem to see any options but indulgence regularly tainted by irrational pouts.
So she buys things.
And ends up in the present tense.
‘Hope! That’s it!’ she cried. Internally, of course. One wouldn’t want to embarrass oneself, even alone in the house, with unnecessary (read: not hilarious) exclamations. What if there was a quota?
‘I think I’ll have it tattooed on my finger. With “love.” And “mine.” Under my wedding band. When I get one.’
She’d really have to work on that.
She’s up late again, itching. Wincing from a particularly sore self-inflicted scratch, she watches the lamppost outside, waiting for it to make its move.
It doesn’t. Of course.
She listens for the passing trains, imagines the stories of the carnies on this one, the smugglers on that one; the potential for passing circuses and moonshine distillers ripe at 4am.
Who cares that it’s the twenty-first century. The dresses were better back then anyway.
Wouldn’t it be easier to hitch a ride somewhere, change her name, live on cash, wait tables in some roadside diner on roller-skates for cash and free meals? That’d get rid of debt, expectation, her past.
Not that it’s a sordid one; nope, it’s just boring and sad. Treading water in a sea of debt – most stupidly earned, not even fun – and uncontrolled emotions like a giant, fat baby who was never made to grow up.
She blames most things on abusive boyfriends, daddy’s money, birth order and “the economy.” They probably get some of the credit in reality, too, not just her mind.
But bootstraps are more like treadmills, online bill-pay and graduate degrees these days; no one can do those for you. And that’s just overwhelming.
Which trickles down until it hits things like “prospect of brushing hair” and “likelihood of wearing pants” and “possibility of checking the mail,” making “chance of folding laundry” and “potential for leaving house” and “opportunity for social interaction” feel like moving mountains.
- Champagne cocktails
- Cheese
- Margot
- Lemon water
- Love
- Kisses
- The internets
- The intertubes
- Ice
- Trees
- La Jolla
- Heavy carbohydrates
- Light carbohydrates
- Airport bars
- Window frames
- Buford Highway
- SSRIs
- AquaNet
- Belgian wheat beers
- CoffeeMate fat-free French Vanilla Creamer
- Butter
- Glitter
- Sex
- Quesadillas
- Crayons
- Pear, goat cheese & prosciutto crudités
- Narcotics
- Bourbon
- Lemon curd
- Medium Dunlop guitar picks
- Cheese dip
- Star-shaped bullet points
- Sippy cups
- Eyebrow waxing
- Grilled cheese sandwiches
- Sequins
- Vibrators
- The right mix of squishy & firm pillows
- Imitrex
- Puppies
- fresh bergamot citrus perfume
- Sewing machines
- Mason jars
- Lace
- Cheese fondue
what about you? any ideas to add to the list?
