First, go red. Next, wake at 3:00 a.m. and worry about what will become of someone like you. Take to short, shallow breaths. Ride the bus reading Julia Child. Worry. Try on various shades of lipstick: blue-pink, red-orange, abalone pearl. Worry. Worry. Worry. Decide you could possibly, someday, be fierce. If certain things would only fall into place. If only you could know more. Prop the pillows and sleep sitting up. Decide your dreams are trying to tell you something. Recite the lyrics to "My Generation" as if you wrote them. As if you understood them. See the orange cat sleeping on the floor. Understand that all things are still eventually. Accept there are some decisions you can't make now. Know just one thing in one moment in one small place in your soul. Know only one thing. Live on that.
Hello, may I help you?
No thanks, I'm just browsing.
Are you looking for anything in particular?
Well, dreams, if you must know.
Oh, we have many fine dreams. Have you ever owned one before?
Do you get repeat purchases?
First I'll need to know if you're interested in a complete dream or just some detail work.
A complete dream, I think. I mean, I guess, I'm not, I don't, I can't...
Let's see here, I have a sea dream in stock. Oh and here's a lovely family dream.
Those don't seem like me.
How about a nice, solid property dream? Very popular with people your age.
When you look at me, what do you see?
An escape dreamer?
A beleaguered dreamer?
Dream-repellent?
Let's say I buy one of these dreams.
THEN WHAT?
I'm sorry.
THEN WHAT?
I'm sorry.
This is the crown of an angel, surely; a fierce red-toned ghost who's wooed me away from my platinum dreams. What was it Philip K. Dick said of Sophia in Valis? That she was "touched by the finger of God". Naturally, I wondered what a celestial caress might really look like. Would it crack at your scalp and run down over your forehead like a butter blond egg yolk? Or shoot out from your skull in three wide stripes like bolts of electric pink lightning? Never mind, I tried both. I never looked touched. On Saturday I am going in for "statement hair" (see: "notice-me", "I'm still here" and "if it's really bright people won't look at anything else"). We'll just see if there's anything left to say about divine fingers after that.
As I type this I am nursing a plump pink gouge on the skin where my thumb meets my Mount of Venus. Right? The padded part of your palm. That's the Mount of Venus. I have no idea why they call it that. Moving on. Yesterday I was victimized by a manila folder. This isn't the first time I've gone to battle with those beige folios. They're sharp as blades. I had only wanted to file an invoice. A simple invoice. And forget about replacing the water cooler bottle. We're talking serious potential injury there. A dislocated shoulder, bare minimum. Sodden rayon slacks, guaranteed. Then there's paperclip puncture (tetanus, stat!), accidental packing tape hair removal, email ennui and (heads bow) the most devastating office injury of all: death from complications related to minutiae poisoning. We've lost so many, so very, very many.
According to the July 2010 issue of Glamour, securing the #2 spot in their list of the Hardest Words for a Guy to Say is: "Can you save your yoga pants for, you know, yoga?" So that means "I think I prefer men" and "I haven't loved you since you went back to school" might come in after "I'm totally not down with cotton pants". Lo, the many mistakes I've made. Here, then a brief list of my other regrets:
- I regret having gratefully accepted a bag of hand-me-downs from a friend who'd lost forty pounds
- I regret pretending to understand the difference between "stupid fat" and "intelligent fat" as explained to me by a woman who was neither
- I regret allowing myself the cool, comforting embrace of a muumuu
- I regret ever having tasted Pinkberry
I am not a NO REGRETS gladiator. I don't see how you can leap toe-first into a pool of change if your diving board is free of barnacles. In the name of evolution, I declare:
I regret.
Onward?
Resolution: I will not Google myself. I will not Google myself. I will not Google myself. It can only cause internal bleeding, you know. There I am, nine pages in. That's a six-page downgrade from this time last year. I am quite behind myself. Realization: I appear second only to the American Horse Breeder's Association member, English quilt and chain mail designers who share my given name. Reconciliation: I have done nothing electronically indelible this year. I have no imprint.
Alas, there is good news. Shameful use of the word corpulent in reference to me has been downgraded to page twelve.
Progress, indeed.
Freedom is sliding the elastic waistband of these green palazzo beach pants over my pitted pockets of upper thigh skin, only to discover that no one is looking at me (and they never were). What, then, is the difference between emotional maturity and total apathy? Have I accepted my spider veins or do I just no longer care?
Maxi dresses are completely over. I decide this as I stand sheathed in one. I decide this as two strips of double-stick fashion tape are securing its breast panels to my breastplate. Waiting on the corner of 55th and Park behind a woman whose lower torso is encased in her pencil skirt like tight snake muscle shimmering beneath its scales, I decide: maxi dresses are completely over. I decide maxi dresses are completely over because it is one decision I can make. I cannot make a disappointment into the body of a snake. I can only wear it taped to my skin and too long, sweeping the streets like a paintbrush.
