I didn’t leave my apartment until 8:15 tonight. The weather out there is frightful, and, if I left my apartment, all I could think to do was buy things. I really shouldn’t be buying things right now. My focus is on being legitimately employed by my 24th birthday. So, today, I actually did make some strides toward creating my future, but I made them all clothed in flannel pajamas, lying in my bed.
It’s Tuesday; I had to clean. When I got to the yoga studio, I was convinced that I had developed a pretty severe double ear infection on my freezing walk there. It was going to be a terrible recovery, and it would most certainly turn into some sort of inner ear catastrophe, resulting in my falling on the floor of the cleaning closet from debilitating vertigo. Nobody would find me until the next cleaner came to sign in. Luckily, some sort of healing vibes floated through the floorboards from the studio upstairs and saved me. It was a close call. Likewise, I’m sure the focus on my labor helped. One time a doctor told me I would have more energy if I had a boyfriend; maybe, to him, purpose and boyfriend mean the same thing.
On my way home, I wrapped my fleece scarf around my head to protect my fragile ears. I thought about how I was doing a great job at protecting myself from contracting lice. I even thought about getting in a cab so that I could put my protection to use. But I didn’t have any money with me.
I thought about how tomorrow is December 1, and how exactly a year ago to that exact second I was getting tangled in a mosquito net, listening to helicopters fly above me, hoping they carried my mother who had come to rescue me from my Cambodian fever. I wondered what would happen to me tomorrow.
Then, something happened.
I crossed over a quiet street at a four-way stop, and something happened. I become invisible. I seriously must have vanished into my thoughts about my past and future. There’s no other explanation for why that left-turning cab charged at me like I was the open road.
Obviously, I was able to move quickly in my yoga pants. I got out of the way before the driver even needed to screech to a halt. “It’s OK,” I waved to him. He just rolled down his window, gesticulating madly and failing to make words come out of his mouth. Clearly, he thought I was a ghost. At that point, all I could think was, thank goodness he was the one who couldn’t speak, and that I hadn’t been the one glued to the street by my pink rain boots like I always am in the chase scenes of my dreams.
Suddenly, the street started to smell like stale flatulence. I picked up my pace, wondering if it was too late for me to be walking this short distance alone. I was kind of shaken up by my near-death experience. I didn’t even think about what it might have meant. I was too busy checking out how my butt looked in my spandex in the bank’s windows and wondering about that horrid stench. I was actually in the moment.