Sometimes I can’t bear the lack of whimsy in the world. I can’t bear the funny looks at my funny words, words like ‘mellifluous’ and ‘myrmidon’ and ‘mandibular’. Nor should I fail to mention the endless sneers at my swoons, mocks at my sensitivities, and the daily careless picks at the well-worn sweater of my heart.
When I am denied the opportunity for blitheness, I get truculent (hah, there’s another one!).
Why can’t I splash in puddles? What’s wrong with wearing plum colored tights with a black work dress? I like my nerdy knee socks and my disintegrating sneakers. Why can’t I spend the better part of my day off staring at the ceiling, picking at my cuticles, and teasing my cat with a bit of discard Christmas ribbon. Why shouldn’t I cry when I want to, for PMS, for love lost, for the cruelty in the world, for the endless picky-nit choices of adulthood? For god’s sake, do you want me to grow up?
I want to be the Ballerina Grandma, the Artistic Director, the memorable Author, the limpid Starlet, the Anti-Styrofoam Crusader, Super Secret Spy Girl, Jane Austen, Audrey Hepburn, Amelia Earhart, the lady in the plum tights, the oversensitive girl, the owner of the tombstone’s epitaph: ‘She had one hell of a life.’
Is that so much to ask, World?
/”Yana” by Sergey Smirnov / [repost – ed.]