Wherever I go, there I am
This is a writing exercise from my friends Stacy and Mary–they tagged me on Fakebook and I couldn’t resist. It originated with their friend Seth and it should be said that all three of them are very talented writers. If anyone wants to give it a try, please let me know when you’ve posted so I can come read.
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I live too often for the future, missing what’s happening now, even though I realize I’m doing it.
I work for a woman who, while conversing in my office one time, started her period, snatched three Kleenex tissues from the box on my desk, lifted her skirt and stuffed them into her underwear. She was wearing fishnet stockings with Birkenstock sandals and a denim prairie skirt. We’ve never discussed the many things wrong with the scenario.
I talk loudest when I’ve been drinking and almost always feel embarrassed later.
I wish I had lived alone in my own apartment just once my life, so I knew what it would be like not to feel guilty for leaving dishes in the sink, underwear on the floor, books stacked on the headboard.
I enjoy the hum of the refrigerator after putting my daughter down for her nap and the sound of clothes turning over in the dryer.
I look in the mirror and always see what I don’t like first.
I smell the canyon at dusk and inhale to savor it but usually can’t smell it anymore after a third breath.
I hide my vibrator—okay, my vibrators—when I go out of town, even if nobody is staying at my house.
I pray only when I’m desperate: Even though I don’t believe in it, I know it can’t hurt.
I walk with long fast strides, a natural pace that my mother at one time misconstrued as me not wanting to be with her.
I sing in the car but my daughter tells me to stop, which makes me want to sing louder.
I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue, make chicken pot pie from scratch, and stand up for what I believe in without appearing to doubt myself.
I watch the checker at Target bag my things and can imagine her watching late-night television in her lonely apartment. She’s un-pretty, she’s losing her hair and I think that most people probably look past her. I want to touch her hand and tell her it’s okay, that she’s not alone. But maybe she is and anyway, she’d think I was crazy.
I yearn to be free sometimes of the life I’ve chosen and instead travel the world alone with my camera.
I daydream about traveling the world alone with my camera. I would love it but…then…who would I show my pictures to at the end of the day?
I want to not want all of the material things I want.
I cry too easily and at unexpected moments but I don’t ever look beautiful when I’m doing it.
I read and read and read as much as time permits and then feel myself lost along the spectrum of writerly talent.
I love my life but still find myself thinking, “Is this all there is?” And then…
…I wonder what’s wrong with me that I have such simmering discontent.
I touch my daughter’s skin and imagine what it’s like to be in it.
I hurt my head today by slamming it into the corner of a bookshelf. There was blood all over my hand. It dripped down my face and onto my jeans and I thought about the time my brother cracked my head open. I have never liked him.
I fear dying, being alone, and being homeless. I fear dying alone and homeless.
I hope my daughter is never called “nigger” but I’m afraid it’s inevitable and I know my heart will be broken each time hers is.
I break even when I go to Las Vegas because I always pocket the original amount I’ve gambled and because I know when to stop.
I eat in the middle of the night, usually standing by the light of the refrigerator. I’m generally too tired to brush my teeth before going back to bed.
I quit having the “social cigarette” after I had pneumonia earlier this year. I miss the buzz but my hangovers aren’t as brutal.
I bathe with my daughter and am envious of her young flesh and the happiness she derives from a plastic tumbler.
I drink one cup of coffee every weekday morning, two on weekends, each with a little milk and one cube of raw sugar.
I save the best of myself for my child and sometimes this hurts my marriage.
I hug people and this can be extremely awkward if the person I’m hugging isn’t a hugger, which is often something I don’t find out until I move to hug them.
I miss the dizziness of falling in love, the early and exciting days of my marriage, and sometimes long for something else. But I also cherish the depth and richness that the years have given my relationship.
I forgive my father for not wanting me.
I’ve learned that nothing is permanent, everything changes, that you have to hold on when life is tough and recognize when it’s glorious.
I have to learn to get over the fact that my ass is round. I’m nearly forty and it’s time to accept myself as I am.
I don’t have time for all the things I want to do. I try to jam everything in to a tiny 24-hour space, then I wonder why I missed my exit.
I kiss my husband’s bare shoulder while he sleeps at night because sometimes, the only way I can be tender toward him is when he’s unaware of it.
I wonder …didn’t I already do this one?
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