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.