Femiphobia part 3

(Please read part 1 and 2 before you read this entry or it won't make as much sense!)

My piles of letters are written and put away, and life continues on. Another moment of definition and then reality brings me back. Unfortunately no matter how deep my thoughts are, or how great my epiphany, the dishes, laundry and bills and other various survival tasks are still waiting. And today's task is laundry.

The great thing about apartment living is the inconvenience of doing laundry. Really one of my favorite inconveniences in life. I think I'd rather watch my toenail polish flake off. Perhaps you're one of those young professionals who continue to live in apartments because of your love for the city, but more likely you probably don't have the luxury of your laundry machines actually being in your apartment. Since I am of the more frugal variety, a.k.a. paying off student loans until I'm sixty, I am one driven to brave community laundry rooms. And let me explain, that apartment laundry rooms involve several strategic steps. It is not for the faint of heart. First, I load up a flimsy basket with overflowing dirty clothes, I then pile on a tub of detergent, a stack of quarters, and wallah, I have a balancing act deserving of the circus. My stuffed bunny clad feet then shuffle carefully down three flights of precariously narrow stairs, through several heavy metal doors and down into a creepy basement. Once past the wire-caged storage units and probably several families of rats, I finally will reach my destination and more often then not the greatest inconvenience of all: full machines. Today is a lucky day, which is good, because I am extremely short on time. There is one machine that is unoccupied. I practically beam as I dump my burden into the machine, followed by a healthy dose of detergent. I count out my coins and then realize why today I was so fortunate. A hand scrolled note is hanging haphazardly from the coin slot; “out of order” ruins my last shred of patience with laundry. I kick the machine, stub my toe, and develop new profanities under my breath. Who knew a former president's name could be such a satisfying obscenity.

The machines continue to spin their loads, and I swear they are all humming the same thing: “ you-will-never-have-enough-time”. Now my inconvenience becomes my convenience, because the next step is to go one below the level of apartment laundry rooms and out to a laundry mat. The only thing that makes it even lower, my clothes are full of soap.

Once I arrive at said laundry mat, and my soapy clothes are spinning happily away, I settle into red plastic chairs to wait. I squint against the fluorescent lights, smell the warm dryer smells and begin to people watch. Now I know what your are thinking, how is a relationship phobic person such as myself going to like people watching? Let me explain to you this under appreciated art. First, you have to find an alternative place to direct your attention in case of a people watching emergency. The first rule: never get caught staring. Usually places like laundry mats have plenty of outdated magazines to feign interest in, or if you're lucky, there may even be a distant television. The farther away the TV the better. This gives you space to peruse the room between you and the program you are “watching” with a easy opportunity to look up quickly if someone glances your way. Rule number two, if someone does notice you looking, act as if you don't notice and quickly engage in your fake activity. Rule number three, if someone is watching you, and attempts to catch your eye, pull out your emergency pair of headphones and pretend you are napping. Rule number four, if you are combining eavesdropping with people watching, make sure you stay silent, your face neutral. One time I laugh out loud when listening in on a conversation. It was bad, I had to pretend I was crazy.

I tried to enjoy my observation time, but today I felt too jumpy to really get into it. Every time the little bell above the door would jingle, I would catch myself looking up to see who was coming in. Time after time I made eye contact. Its hard to look inconspicuous when you look like you're waiting for someone. That was exactly how I felt, too. Like I had told my best friend or boyfriend that they should meet me over our delicates to chat. But I didn't have a boyfriend and there was no current best friend to call, so why did I feel so expectant?

I picked up last year's US magazine and tried to distract myself with the day to day of the rich and famous. Why people pay good money to watch Bradjolina buy coffee is beyond me. There are starving kids in Africa and we feast our ego on how ugly a famous rear looks with a swimsuit wedgie.

Extraordinary of the Everyday Kind

The quietness of a new morning; the world recovering from an entire year in one night's going away party. Some drank in celebration of the best year they've had, others in hopes for a better one with cleans slates and new resolutions. Inside they plead with the unseen world, that if they celebrated enough, this upcoming year will fulfill its promise. They had hope and expectation; they ignored the fear for tomorrow; the clock's ticking, for the first time that year, made them feel free from past mistakes.

But now this last day's midnight has come and gone, and its the beginning of the first day of a year's mistakes, and the day is calm and clear. I barely see more than a car or two on a normally busy highway. It's eight in the morning and the peace is still undisturbed. I haven't set my goals for these upcoming twelve months, 365 days and fifty-two weeks. Right now the only thing I'm resolving to do is drink more water and find my bed a little sooner tonight. I had to fake awake with caffeine this morning and will have counterfeit hydration throughout the rest of the day with no small amount of lotions and lip gloss. All I want to do is attach an IV drip to my arm and plop face-down into a pile of pillows. I'll decide on tomorrow's goals...maybe tomorrow?

I wish I could keep driving, and enjoy this time to myself. Slow the speed of the day and the season and breathe. But the ticking of the clock is still going, and I wonder why time is now my enemy, where last night we cheered it on to bring in the future with celebration. What do I want this year to bring? What do I want to discover and learn? What will change?

I feel the grief of dying dreams, of readjusting reality, and the clarity of practicality coming into focus. Once again I've stepped towards an unknown purpose, and away from all that I thought life would be. And I breathe a prayer, “Lord, my dreams are lost by the wayside, show me what You've already decided for me.” I know He never wanted the pain of the death I've experienced, but I've clung stubbornly to the supposed to be's. I've censored His vision, and when my ear was not tuned to His call and direction, I listened to whatever screamed the loudest. But now the spectacular is stripped away, the potential is a pile of nothing, and I am left waiting, average, suspended, hoping to be simple enough to be used. If being last will make me first in His plan, if having nothing to offer is everything He is asking for, than my empty hands, all though blindingly painful at times, are open, and I'll wait. Whether the morning is peaceful, or the rush of the day pushes in, I'll offer up the absolutely nothing that I am.

Next year when the clock moves forward, the ball drops down, while some people celebrate and some mourn, I will know that whatever happened is extraordinary, even if it is of the everyday kind.