I wasn’t going to let my fear stop me. I thought about the pole dancing class I’d taken—the first item that I’d checked off of my bucket list. If I could do that, how hard could writing a blog be?
Back inside my apartment, I switched my cell phone off, determined not to have any interruptions. I changed into comfortable pants so that I wouldn’t feel restrained in any way. Then I sat down with my computer in the living room. I was about to open it up, when I realized something was missing.
I walked across the room to dim the lights a little. I didn’t want anything glaring on the screen. When I sat back down again, I realized that something else was missing. I crossed the room to turn on some soft music. Perfect. I settled back down on the couch.
Now, what should I write about? Should I be witty? Should I be dramatic? What should the first word be?
My mind was spinning with ideas. I could write about the bucket list, but I wasn’t sure I wanted that to be my first post. I could write about my weight loss journey, but I was afraid that would make readers believe that was all the blog was about. I needed something…I could always write about Max.
No, no, no. I reminded myself that I was trying to stopping thinking—obsessing—over Max.
I needed something else to keep me focused.
“Cinnamon,” I said out loud. “Cinnamon will give me that intelligent vibe that I’m needing in here.”
I walked across the room to grab the candle from the shelf in the kitchen and carried it into the living room, setting it in the middle of the coffee table. “Perfect.” I started to sit back down and then realized that I needed to actually light the candle—which meant that I had to find matches or a lighter.
Looking around the living room, I tried to remember what I might have done with a lighter. I knew I’d had one for my last birthday cake, but I hadn’t seen it since. I rummaged through the drawers in the kitchen. Then I searched through my bedside table. I ducked into my closet and began digging in my extra purses. I’d been known, on occasion, to smoke a cigarette after having a drink or two—and if I was smoking, I inevitably stole someone’s lighter by accident.
Finally I found one in the velvet black clutch I’d used last New Year’s Eve. I smiled as I flicked the lighter on. The flame that ignited burned strong. I was sure that I was ready now.
Glancing at the clock near my bed, I was surprised that it had been almost thirty minutes since I’d set out to write the blog post. Now my closet was trashed, with purses flung in all directions, so of course I needed to tidy it up.
I was excellent at procrastinating.
Chapter 3
I hurried back into the living room and picked up the candle to light it, but I had to stick my hand deep into the glass jar to get to the wick. “Ouch!” The flame singed my finger. “This makes no sense,” I muttered, feeling frustrated. Finally I managed to get the wick lit and set the candle down on the coffee table. I flopped back down on the couch, almost knocking my computer off the cushion beside it, catching it just before it could hit the floor.
I stared at the silver surface of my laptop and shook my head. I hadn’t even opened the computer and I was already exhausted.
Maybe this was a bad idea. I frowned as I moved the computer onto my lap. I thought of the list folded up safely in a box inside a drawer in my bedroom. I knew that if I started skipping out on things now, I was never going to accomplish everything. With a renewed feeling of determination, I flipped the lid open on the computer. It took me another twenty minutes to find and log in to the blog that Kat had set up for me.
“Okay, here I go,” I said, stretching my fingers. My hands hovered over the keyboard. I might not be up on technology, but I could type. Several years of college classes had taught me that. I just had no idea what to type. I couldn’t think of a single event in my life that would interest someone else.
Of course there was plenty I could write about that seemed interesting to me, but that didn’t mean anyone else would understand it. I didn’t do much other than my work at Fluff and Stuff and hanging out with Max—when he wasn’t busy with one of his many girlfriends.
Writing a blog was supposed to be inspirational, not pathetic.
I sighed and sat back against the sofa. Maybe the problem wasn’t that I couldn’t think of anything to write about, but that I had nothing interesting to write about. I needed more experiences to share. I needed more life in my life.
I glanced at the time, realizing that I had to leave for work in the next ten minutes. What I’d expected would take me no more than fifteen minutes, had taken up several hours now. I just couldn’t even begin to think of the first word to type.
Maybe something at work will spark my creativity. There was actually a good chance of that. I loved my job as manager of Fluff and Stuff. The concept of the laundromat combined with the variety shop was quite creative, and there was no shortage of interesting customers coming in and out all day. I grabbed a notebook and pen so that I could jot down any thoughts I might have while I was there, and headed out.
The laundromat was only a few blocks from my apartment, and I realized that this was probably one of the reasons that I didn’t have more to blog about. I saw the same faces each day—visited the same places each day. I couldn’t remember the last time I did or went somewhere brand new.
As I stepped into the shop I waved to Helen, who was covering the early shift.
“Not much action so far,” she called out as she hurried out the door. She had to pick up her kids from school. She had other places to be.
I didn’t really have any place that I absolutely had to be. It wasn’t until after she was long gone that I realized that she hadn’t been completely honest with me. Just about all of the dryers were running with loads that would need to be folded. Normally I’d be irritated, but today I could use the distraction.
I went into automatic mode and began emptying and folding dryer after dryer of clothes. As I was folding the last laundry order, I noticed a folded-up newspaper that someone had left behind. I picked it up to have a quick peek, looking for any events I might like to attend.
I found the Arts and Leisure section and began looking over my options. There were a few museum and art events that looked like they could be fun. I jotted down the information for a few of them. As I was doing this, a regular customer walked through the door. Barry was in his early twenties and liked to hang out while he did his laundry.
“Hi, Barry,” I said, turning the page of the newspaper.
“Hey, Sam, what are you up to?” he asked and heaved a large laundry basket up onto one of the folding tables.
“I’m just looking for something to do this evening,” I said. “I never knew there were so many activities around here.”
“Activities?” he asked, while sorting through his laundry.
“Sure, there are art walks, musical acts, museum fundraisers…”
“Oh, those kinds of activities,” he said with a nod. “There’s always something going on every weekend. Of course, it’s usually the older crowd,” he added as he tossed some of his clothes into an empty washer.
I raised an eyebrow as I looked over at him. “Well, I am older,” I said in what I hoped was a confident tone.
“You?” He laughed a little as he turned back to face me. “How old could you be?”
I stared at him for a moment. “In my thirties.”
“Thirties?” He looked genuinely surprised. I took that as a compliment.
“Is that so surprising?” I asked with a sweet smile.
“Well, I mean, you just don’t exactly act like you’re in your thirties,” he said.
He hadn’t thought I was younger because of my looks, he thought I was younger because of my behavior. “Gee, thanks.” I didn’t bother to hide my annoyance.
“Oh, please, I didn’t mean to offend you.” He rolled his eyes and laughed again. “There’s nothing wrong with being in your thirties. In fact, my aunt is thirty-five and she still go
es out every weekend.”
I looked at him, my eyes wide. “As opposed to sitting inside and knitting?” I asked in my most sarcastic tone. “Most thirty-somethings are out and about, you know.”
“I guess.” He shrugged. “My point is that she goes to this wine thing every weekend near Weston Ave. There’s a gallery there that features local artists. Afterwards, they have a wine tasting. I’m pretty sure my aunt just goes for the wine.” He laughed.
“Well, wine is a good enough excuse.” I smiled, feeling less irritated and more curious about this event that Barry was talking about.
Going out on the town would be good for me.
As the last wave of customers came in to pick up their laundry, I didn’t even notice that Barry had slipped out. Soon Fluff and Stuff was empty again.
I hadn’t come up with any ideas for the blog, but I was hoping that my evening would bring something of interest. I tidied up the small shop and made sure that everything was in its place. I had picked out many of the unique second-hand items myself; as I glanced at them I imagined that each one had its own story to tell—no doubt much more interesting than any stories I could come up with in my own life, a sad fact that I was determined to change as soon as possible.
Chapter 4
I walked back to my apartment deep in thought. I wanted to make sure that I didn’t miss a single opportunity to be interesting. I was reinventing myself, after all, and I wanted the new me to be sophisticated and cultured, not someone who would be thought of as younger. Thinking of my earlier conversation with Barry made me cringe, and I vowed to get started that very night by checking out the gallery event we’d talked about.
When I walked into my bedroom, I saw it differently. I saw the teddy bear I still had from my childhood, still sitting on the corner shelf. I saw the bedspread covered with flowers, with tiny little fairies peeking out from behind the petals. On the wall hung an old school bulletin board pinned with memories—mostly pictures of Max and me. I sighed, realizing that I had the bedroom of a teenage girl.
There was nothing alluring or sensual about the room I slept in. There was nothing sophisticated or interesting, only the remnants of my youth that had passed me by—I think it was time that I faced this fact.
I made my way over to my closet and grabbed an empty box from beneath the hanging clothes. I turned back to my room and began a cleansing. In the box went the blanket, in the box went the teddy bear, and down came the bulletin board. I tossed the bulletin board down onto the smooth surface of the bright blue sheets that the blanket had been covering. Who had blue sheets anyways? I made a mental note to buy new ones the next day.
As I looked down at the pictures on the bulletin board, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. One by one I took the pictures off the bulletin board. There was a picture of us together at Fluff and Stuff when we had just started working there. Another was of Max in his swimsuit as we prepared to run into the waves on our tropical vacation. In another picture, Max was gazing sadly down at something in his hands. It was taken a few days after his father’s funeral, and though it couldn’t be seen in the photograph, I knew that he was holding his father’s watch.
These pictures were more than just my youth, they were the real memories that I cherished—things that were important to me. I piled the pictures up and tucked them into the drawer, beside the little box that held my bucket list. Then I swept all of the fruity scented candles off my bureau and into the big box on the floor. I was determined more than ever to become somebody that someone would want to read about.
I returned the box to the bottom of my closet. I grabbed a little black dress to wear. Once I had it on and smoothed down I braved looking in the mirror. One big difference between a thin woman and a bigger woman trying on clothes was the anticipation. A thin woman might anticipate looking fabulous, while I anticipated looking like a penguin.
However, the mirror revealed that my weight loss did show. The dress actually complimented the curves of my figure. Tonight was going to be an amazing night. I wasn’t going to let anything stop me from being the woman I should have been long ago. I pinned my hair back into a neat bun at the curve of my head and smiled at my reflection.
I called a taxi, then gathered my purse, my keys, and my phone. I checked to make sure that my phone was fully charged, as I knew that I would need pictures to document my experiences. The evening was balmy and I was glad, as the dress I was wearing was on the lighter, skimpier side. I waited only a few minutes for the taxi to arrive. When I slid across the vinyl seat, the cab driver looked through the rear view mirror at me.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Wherever I can find some real culture,” I said, smiling.
He gazed at me from beneath heavy eyebrows with his lips drawn in a thin straight line. He didn’t look amused or open to helping me out.
“Weston Ave,” I said and sat back.
Chapter 5
As the cab driver drove away from my neighborhood, I studied the people walking on the sidewalks. There was such a variety, from people dressed in expensive clothing to people dressed in ratty old jeans. There was no dress code for the street; everyone got to wear what they pleased. Each person had their own destination that night, and I had to wonder how many were heading to the gallery.
“You can drop me off here,” I said and pointed to an art walk that had been set up along the sidewalk a few blocks from the gallery.
“Twenty,” he said as he applied the brakes.
“Twenty?” I knew that he was overcharging me, but I was determined not to care. I handed him the twenty-dollar bill and climbed out of the taxi.
There was a small crowd gathered around the entrance of the art walk. I could hear snippets of conversation combined with polite laughter. It was definitely not a party scene. I hoped that I could blend in well. I’d never been the most skilled when it came to social situations. I could do “cheerful and bubbly” but when it came down to real intellectual conversation, I was always a little too nervous.
I walked up to a man who was standing at the entrance of the art walk.
“Is there a cost?”
He looked back at me with his long pointed nose slightly scrunched up.
“Isn’t there always?” he said.
I stared at him blankly.
He laughed and the sound was so abrasive that it startled me. “Donations are accepted,” he said. “But not required.”
I smiled, feeling slightly nervous as I reached into my purse. I never knew how much a donation should be. If I gave too much would I look like a show-off? If I gave too little would I be insulting the artist?
Considering I hadn’t even seen the paintings yet, I handed the man a ten.
“The artist thanks you,” he said, smiling as he tucked the ten-dollar bill into a small donation box.
I felt a little more confident as I began to walk along, looking at the paintings. Each one depicted a group of people. One even featured a group of people at what appeared to be an art walk. Some were gathered at a mall. Some were in various states of repose around a lake. Others were waiting in line at a shop or sitting in a bus.
The artwork was good enough, but it was nothing spectacular. They just seemed like normal-life scenes to me. I frowned as I studied one of the last paintings. It was a group of children at a playground. They were all smiling and laughing with one another. It was a nice painting.
“Profound, isn’t it?” a woman said as she walked up beside me.
She was dressed in a sleek silver dress that seemed to be tailored to enhance the shape of her body. Her hair was flawless, her make-up was just enough. I felt awkward as I looked over at her. I didn’t really see anything profound about the painting.
“To think that she did this over the span of a year, and this is the only one.”
I really had no idea what the woman was talking about. I didn’t want to sound uninformed, but I also didn’t want to miss out on the point of the collection.
The woman regarded me for a moment, then a look of realization crossed her delicate features. “Oh, you don’t get it,” she said with a soft laugh. I must have blushed, because she rested a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, neither did I at first. This particular artist set out to do voyeur scenes of the expressions of people as they interacted with each other. She visited several different locations over a year in an attempt to capture those intimate moments between people. But she couldn’t seem to find anyone who was actually looking at each other”—she gestured to the paintings I had already walked past. “If you look at them again you’ll see that no one is facing another person. No one seems to be talking or interacting with anyone else.”
“Really?” I said, surprised. “I didn’t even notice that.”
“No one does,” the woman said. “The artist herself explained it to me, that’s why I know.”
“But this last one?” I pointed to the painting in front of us.
“The only one.” The woman nodded. “Children look at each other in the face. They laugh with each other. They look into each other’s eyes. That was what the artist was trying to point out—that at some point for some reason we stop seeing one another.”
I smiled. “That really is profound,” I said quietly.
“Yes, it is.” The woman smiled back at me.
“Do you think it’s real or do you think the artist just staged it?” It was hard for me to believe that people in so many different places didn’t bother to even look at one another.
“I honestly don’t know. But I also don’t think it really matters. I mean, it speaks to you, doesn’t it?” she asked. “These days, what do you do if you want to meet someone new? Is there somewhere you can go where it’s acceptable to just walk up and introduce yourself and ask to be friends?” She laughed a little. “We leave that honesty behind on the playground.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said, feeling rather reflective about the whole conversation.
Single Wide Female: The Bucket List Mega Bundle - 24 Books (Books #1-24) Page 5