Solvable Predicaments

I’m running late again, and it’s humid and my back is drizzled with sweat that’s starting to seep through the ratty grey sweater I found at Target for six dollars last winter. “Well,” my mother would say in that tone of hers, “Who wears a sweater when it’s eighty degrees?” I suppose that’s fair, but you know how I hate any contest to my judgment.

All of my shoes are packed up for my hike back to Minneapolis so I’m wearing these: black Nunn Bush loafers with tasslels (you know the ones) from Kohl’s or somewhere. I can’t remember. They are shitty and cheap and rub against my Achilles and the heels are so loud, men turn to see a long-legged woman in something akin to Manolos, following their smug grins with a grimace of immediate disappointment. These shoes are hacked up. Salt lines from two years ago when I wore them to Turnabout. I still have the pants that ripped when they pulled my feet out from under me on the pavement outside of Lourdes. It’s hard to step confidently out the door when you’re treading on these.

I’ve spent the last three weeks hunched over the cryostat, hold up in a dark room staining slides, waiting and waiting in this fluorescent hole in the wall. I’m the only one who uses the stairwell in Stabile and I like it that way. It’s only six flights to my lab, but I’ve lost count and missed the 7th floor more than once. Out of breath, I’m trying to remind myself that “health” as I see it should really be more about cardiorespiratory fitness and muscle mass and BMI, and not whether-or-not-I-can-fit-into-those-jeans-that-have-always-been-a-bit-too-small. I spend so much time permeablizing membranes with 1% Triton and blocking with serum and what am I really doing? I’m stalling so my paycheck can grow and grow and maybe I can buy dolce jeans that actually fit (joking, why would I want jeans like that?) and those Gucci sandals on sale at Neiman’s.

When August leaves, so do I.

Hematoxylin and Eosin

Today, I gave blood as a small form of protest. I'm vying for equality here in the most generous way possible. This is my lunch sit-in. Rosa Parks would be so proud, but she couldn't "fight the power" by convincing the bus driver she was white. She didn't rest because she was tired, and I'm not giving blood because replacing a pint consumes about 650 calories.

The truth is that I'm not okay with passivity. I don't like waiting to be called. If you don't answer, I don't even want to talk anymore. I don't like being second. This game isn't fair anyway. The FDA can't tell me my blood isn't good enough. I don't receive directions or implications or expectations well. I'd rather slough them off or, better yet, trample them in my cowboy boots. Fuck you for telling me what I can't do. If you knew me at all, you'd know this part first.

I have this long list of wants. First and foremost, I want to always be creatively in charge and exert this odd form of chaotic control. Don't move my toothbrush.

I know I'm this messy, disastrous, unpredictable fixture in your life and I don't call you when I'm supposed to, but sometimes I'm sweet and bring you flowers and a Chai, or buy you the only thing you really wanted for your birthday. I just want to walk in and out of your life whenever the fuck I feel like it, but don't expect that freedom from me. You just don't get it yet, do you?

What else do I want? Everything. I want to fit into my jeans perfectly. Some are too big and others are too small and my waist oscillates between fitting comfortably into those teeny Dolce jeans I inherited and hardly squeezing into the Tavernitis I splurged on with Kara. I want more Elie Taharis, because these are perfect. I want thicker hair and lighter eyes and slimmer feet. I want to do gymnastics and speed-skate in the Olympics and learn French in two weeks and get a 39 on the MCAT. I want to be an MD PhD and backpack through South America and drive a convertible or a little red motorcycle.

This is all just a tantrum I'm throwing because summer is packing its bags and sauntering South, and this summer was perfect and excellent except for the disappearance my sisters and all that money I wasted on plane rides and Thai food. (I'm still getting over the fact that I paid for that twelve-dollar pina colada.) I had so much fun. I made soup and lasagna and cookies with Ghirardelli chocolate chips and drove to North Dakota for nothing but chocolate pudding cake and dancing in the street of something that can hardly be considered a city. I stumbled home after a game of Ring of Fire (or drove home the next morning). I almost stole a giant remote control. Friday, we'll find out if our soccer team got 1st in our league.

This is all beside the point. All I'm really trying to say is that I'm O negative. My blood is nice to have in an emergency. And so am I.