I’m Out, People

I’ve thrown aside the trappings of capitalism. I’m no longer carrying credit cards. I let go of the gift cards that have been weighing me down. I relinquished the cash I’ve been carrying. I am now living without these fixtures of commercialism and financial competition. I can see the world anew, without the weight of the economy bearing down on me.

And, while I’m at it, I’m snubbing my nose at the requirement that I be tracked and identified by the government. Until some unknown future date, I will be walking around free from the little laminated cards that tie us to our states, telling anyone who catches a peek the date we were born and whether or not we wear glasses. The biggest sacrifice is that it will be more difficult to order a glass of wine, but that’s just a struggle I’ll have to face for the privilege of freedom.

I am now liberated from the tiny cards and bits of paper we’re forced to carry around to prove we belong. I will walk without the burden of making decisions about which capitalist institutions I should frequent and which I should avoid. I will demonstrate my distaste for the man’s incessant control by discarding the documents he says we must attach to ourselves when we leave our homes. I am moving around lighter and more in tune with what’s happening around me.

Two days ago, someone stole my wallet.

Something Worth Its Space

I saw Hamilton over the weekend and it was so beautiful. It was a reminder that life is small and big all at once, that our giant moments and tiny building blocks are set up right next to one another—that if we grip our toes into the cracks in our foundation, we might just reach the ledge where we’re meant to be. It made me consider whether I’m really using my moments, whether I’m creating something worth the space it takes. It made me think I need to hustle harder. Hustle how, I’m not sure, but here I am.

I watched the men and women on that stage, telling the tale of a person who was expected to fail but instead helped build a nation, telling it in their own language, holding it up to a new light, and it struck a tiny hammer against the hardened lava that had built up around the creative self living in my bones.

So, I’m on a mission to find more miniature crowbars to take to these developing rifts. I’m going to feed the gaps with art and music and treetops and then wait as they grow and grow. After awhile, something worth the space it takes might come out.

Stripes and Polka Dots

I recently got two news pairs of shoes, my first soccer cleats and a stylish set of rain boots. Both came from the children’s section. That is the gift of tiny feet—snazzy shoes for bargain prices. The curse: bad balance. It’s worth it. You can fall in style.

The real challenge when shopping in the kid’s section is differentiating between cool, funky designs and awkward, lame ones. Kids can’t always tell the difference, so designers are usually just throwing lawn darts into the air and hoping they don’t fall on an unlucky fashion victim. Children are mostly just attracted to bright colors and shiny objects. Like crows. But as adults, we’re supposed to know better, to be chic and trendy. At least, that’s what the fashion magazines in the grocery store check-out lane seem to be telling me.

But since those magazine don’t taste as good as popsicles or pizza, they don’t make it into my cart, and the lessons just won’t stick. Instead, I usually think the most stylish person in the store with me is the toddler wearing a tutu and a baseball cap. They’re happy and we’re happy looking at them. We’d probably not pick that outfit out ourselves, but maybe we should. We could be excluding all kinds of cool combinations from our lives. Polka dots and stripes could be your jam.

And that’s what I hope to gain from my children’s department shopping excursions.

Rock what you like and forget about the judgment. Looking for a hairy pink mini backpack? You’ll find that in the kid’s section. Wish you had tights covered in shiny unicorns? Children’s aisle. Need a shirt with seventeen pockets? You know where to find it. Feel like dressing like a giant cheeseburger? Go for it. In your free time. Or get a job as a hype man at a fast food restaurant. Basically, go after what you want and wear what you like. That’s why I’ll be wearing my furry Chewbacca costume to work tomorrow. HR, here I come.

Somehow, I’m Still Here

As you guys know, I took an unfortunate elbow to the face two weeks ago. One concussion, one and a half black eyes, and four nose x-rays later, I am now walking around looking like a person with a regular face. Well, as regular as it was three weeks ago.

I’m not really supposed to be on a computer, but since it’s my job to be on a computer, I have been breaking that rule. It doesn’t go well. It starts to feel like I have one of those wind-up chimpanzee toys that play the cymbals inside my head. Not pleasant for me or the chimp. I guess this is what you get for placing yourself in danger, or, in my case, going outside. Still, I survived. Again. Somehow. The world seems pretty set on killing me, and yet, here I am.

Two months ago I went to the doctor for the first time in awhile. I was getting a check up because my body wasn’t cooperating and also because I am getting old. Those things might be related, but I’m not convinced. I think I may have angered a witch in a past life. Or a current life. I can’t rule it out.

As part of the appointment, I had to tell the doctor about my medical history, including the list of strange and varied ways the world has tried to take me out over the last eight years. I thought it was just the kind of stuff the universe throws at you, but my doctor’s kind but perplexed facial expressions as I explained my predicaments seemed to indicate otherwise.

I explained how I have low blood pressure, but it’s totally fine. Just one time I fainted and fell into the Metro tracks. I told her I had Shingles and sometimes the nerves in my arm still throw tiny knitting parties under my skin. I revealed that two summers ago I’d been bitten by a tick—twice—and gotten Lyme Disease—twice. I described how recently I’d gone to a stomach doctor and he put a tube down my throat and told me my stomach was eating itself, but that I’d taken some pills and my stomach has started to eat other things.

And that’s just what made it to the top of my ever-growing list. Dave seems to think he should put me in a giant bubble every time I leave the house, or, really, every time I get out of bed. I like to think I am just really great at surviving. What doesn’t kill you makes you… confused and tired?