I got a new job. An 8-5 job. Baby’s first 8-5. Baby’s first full day. Baby’s first office. I buy a pair of booties and I write while I wear them. I write in just my booties. My brown suede booties. I tell myself I am professional. I’ll buy a button up. I’ll keep my phone in my bag until it’s time to catch the bus and when someone asks me what time it is I’ll look at my watch. Quarter to five. Quarter to six. Press pause on me, hopping on transit, one leg on and one leg off, measure with string my angles, my legs, my leap. I am a girl in motion.
I’ve been accused of romanticizing things. I accuse myself. Je m’accuse. I am a professional. People ask me what I do and I say I’m “in” something. I’m in sales. I’m in marketing. I’m business. It’s like you’re fucking the shit out of your career. Boom. Boom. Boom.
I got a manicure the other day and I had never felt more in tune with the way my fingers articulated. The clickity clack or the way the pages turned or how my ring slid delicately up and down the shaft, knuckle to knuckle. I’ve been accused of sexualizing things (par tous) and this I admit. That’s what she said. Now my polish is chipped and my fingers chapped and everything smells of day old salmon. These are the beautiful things. Not the way you feel when you leave the salon but the way you look at yourself after a hard week.
Saturday our cat turns one. She has changed my life. She is always there. My little constant. She doesn’t ask for much and she spoons with me like I’m cutlery. Maman de chat, papa de chat. Une famille.
Next month we go to Canada to see one of my very best friends get married. I’m trying to find a bridesmaid dress. I think that I might very well cry.
I am 28 and everything is happening all at once like a rainbow that comes out before it’s even stopped raining. Look at me, look at me, I contain multitudes.