That’s suburbia for you.

I am walking in the grocery store and I have no pants or underwear on and I am mortified and praying to almighty god that nobody will notice. I pull and stretch at the front of my shirt trying to cover myself. I keep walking with my head down, staring at the floor, dying. There are people around and nobody seems to be noticing which I can’t believe. Still I daren’t look up at them to find out. In case I’m wrong.

Last night the dream was different. I was fully naked and I was less afraid. I had long hair and I used it to cover my breasts. I walked very close to the shelves in the aisles. I dared to dart furtive glances to see if anyone was noticing me. I just wanted to get out of there but I wasn’t mortified and I was fully naked this time.

Nakedness in dreams is not uncommon. It symbolizes feelings of embarrassment, shame or vulnerability. I didn’t know this but now I do yet I still do not want to analyze myself or my recurring dream. I already spend too much time inside my own head. I do wonder what more nakedness but less fear means. I’ve grown more comfortable with increasing vulnerability? My gradual acceptance of the shame of strangeness? Who knows? I know that I long for a warm embrace and soft, sincere words.

* * *

I’m spending two weeks at Good Friend John’s house. It’s luxurious like staying in a hotel. It’s comfortable like staying at my Dad’s. It’s hell like I already knew living in suburbia is.

I did my groceries at Walmart!

I decided to view the séjour as « research » and forced myself to watch one episode each of the presumed-to-be-terrible cable television shows like Kourtney and Khloé, Million Dollar Matchmaker, and Two and a Half Men.

Presumptions confirmed. To the point of disillusionment.

On the upside, thanks to GFJ, I have now discovered Fran Lebowitz. He has this documentary he’s been telling me he wants me to see. I confused it with Annie Leibovitz, the photographer, so I had staved off his promotions. We watched it. I love this woman! I watched it again. And again. And again. I want to MEMORIZE it or something. I bought her books. I’m obsessed.

* * *

That GIRL is trying to balance her Tim Horton’s coffee cup (hick!) in some sort of crevice in her purse, just so, presumably so she can turn the page of that book in her other hand. Don’t even think about it! I think. She’s definitely thinking about it! Oh I cringe at the near future. Doesn’t she understand the jerky ride that lies before her on this suburban extended-length how-on-Earth-do-they-drive-these-things bus whose square footage is DEFINITELY bigger than my downtown apartment? What is she NEW? Despite all my mental admonitions and warnings, she does it! Screws it into the abyss of whatever Metro women keep in purses, spare Kleenex and rings of endless keys for endless doors and folded pieces of paper bearing lists for shopping and to-do’s, the torn out newspaper page with the crossword puzzle she proudly finished or has almost finished and plans to later on. All this must seem like a perfectly malleable mess from which to fashion a coffee holder with a warranty at least long enough to turn a page in a book. Yes, she’s going for it, folks.

I’m watching. Of COURSE I want her to fail so I may mentally snicker in superiority as her coffee smashes and splashes all over the aisle, velour seat covers, and hopefully a plain-sight portion of her blouse. It’s HUMAN. However. No such fun.

Not only does she turn the page coffee-spilling-incident-free, but she leaves the damn thing in the purse and reaches in and pulls out some sort of sandwich that she begins to unwrap (she has laid the book down for the moment). THIS GIRL IS PRESSING HER LUCK! If she only knew how much her inconspicuous seat side activity is STRESSING ME OUT. I have a book in MY hand I could be reading but instead I’m glued to THIS.

* * *

Nine days left in suburbia, twenty-six days until Paris.

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À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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