sadness

sadness is like a wall you have to climb over. everyday, you are given something to stack on top of each other to help you over the wall. sometimes the stack becomes high enough for your eyes to look over the top, and even though you aren't over, you feel relief. then the things you've stacked fall out from under you, and you feel worse than before. and you begin to look back too much and you lose sight of stacking the objects back up again. and you feel like you'll never feel better. but for some reason, you remember the wall, and you stack those things back up again. over time, you lift yourself up and over. and each time you do this, your muscles get stronger, and you choose to let your heart get harder or softer in the process.

my heart becomes softer, stronger, but frustratingly not wiser, with each time. i keep running toward those whose hearts are hard. almost as soon as they let me in, they shut me out. and each time, they give me a new wall to climb over.

my personal hell

Oftentimes, when I see or hear of a large group of people flocking to something, I flock the other way. Examples of this are opting to study abroad in South Africa instead of Europe. Or say a new album comes out that everyone is raving about it. I won't pick it up for a few months, or maybe even years.

It's stupid in some ways because it's not as if I don't want to see Europe or hear amazing music. It's just the way I make a lot of decisions, the way my mind takes things in and processes them: very slowly.

The even stupider thing is that when it comes to normal adult responsibilities, I can be the same way. "Oh, I should get a full time job to support me? No, I don't need that. Oh, everyone should have health insurance? No, not me!"

I do come around eventually.

Even more specifically, when it comes to being a girl, I tend to move at a snail's pace, and it is here I introduce the theme of this essay: Bra Shopping.

I go bra shopping maybe once a year. The last time I went, I shopped at Victoria Secret (huge mistake) because I wanted to feel sexy (it just made me feel like crap). I wore the bra almost everyday this past year, switching it out with a couple of older, more horrible bras. I willfully subjected myself to pain on a daily basis, but I kept telling myself it was better than the pain of bra shopping.

It wasn't until I moved in with my current roommate that I realized maybe I wasn't normal. I entered the laundry room one day to see at least two dozen of her pretty bras hanging out to dry. The straps on my one bra dug deeper into my shoulders.

Yesterday, it snowed in Knoxville. Newscasters told people to stay indoors. So, what did I do? I drove to the mall. To go bra shopping.

I walked through the department store and found the lady at the counter, floating in the midst of padded pairs of cups. I said something to the extent of, "Help me," so we walked into the fitting room.

She measured me and told me I was wearing the wrong size (as I am every time I am fitted) and then we walked around while she grabbed various bras, all with the same theme: three eye-hooks down the back and thick ugly straps. I pointed to a prettier bra and said, "Can I try something like this?" to which she politely replied, "I don't think they carry that in your size."

She handed me the bras and I walked into the fitting room. Each one had its small problem, riding up in the back, boob-spillage in the front, straps digging in the shoulders, cups gaping on the sides.

Over and over, the lady brought more and more bras for me to try. I'd let her in to look and she'd say, "Oh no, that won't do. I'll be right back." The cycle seemed endless: Try on. Complete frustration. More bras. Regain hope.

I tried on no less than forty bras yesterday. I walked out of the store with four. A new record. None of them are pretty, but they fit.

I think I'll mark my calendar to go bra shopping again in a couple of months. Maybe I can find a big ole bra, but this time in pink.

apple slices

Sometimes I find myself flipping through tv channels, allowing different places and people to parade before me inside that glass and plastic box. I don't want to feel like I'm missing anything. I'm glad I didn't miss seeing this one lady. She was small and elderly, with long gray hair. She lived in the mountains and wore a pink night gown. I still see her climbing a ladder up to the roof of her house holding a pan of freshly cut apples with her bony fingers. She lays the apples out on her tin roof to let them dry in the hot sun.