Gumball Machine

Working from home/being in a hybrid role the past week has been glorious. Optimal, actually. I’ve gone into the office twice for the sake of…. well, I’m a socially delightful caterpillar. I don’t feel evolved enough to call myself a butterfly, honestly. Whoops.

Yesterday was my second day in office this week. I got out of my car at the same time as a woman younger than me who had parked nearby. As we headed to the elevators she said she liked my dress, that she worked at the preschool right next to the office - and that she wished she could dress up at work. I told her I wished I could dress down.

Somehow dressing down feels bolder and more radical. When I say “dress down” I mean that I still shower and wash my face. I’m not completely gross.

But there’s a certain “happy little fuck you” when I exempt myself from this stupid American ecosystem of ersatz loveliness. Of aspiring to be what people wish to know or touch. I love the moments when I can flip the table on this game. Usually I flip it just by being alone.

When I looked at my reflection at a job I had once, I would see so much emptiness - in the day, in that the office, and in myself.

It so was obvious. At least to me.

Why are we pretending any of it is beautiful?

There is a magazine I’ve sold to before. It doles out stories about just the sweetest things. I was thinking of throwing a little gem of beautiful nothingness their way. See my name in print. I tried to force a few ideas out of myself. Nothing came out.

So yes, I could still try to sew together darling words to turn over which objectively don’t have much to do with anyone’s day to day life but might soothe them for 5 minutes. Yet this whole inclination repulses me at the same time. “Yes, everything will be just fine if we just remember beautiful things.”

Do I really want to be that kind of writer? That kind of woman? Essentially a sweet little liar?

Obviously not.

I have a life I’m trying to work through here. I am nostalgic over inconsequential past memories. Memories I don’t entirely trust. I am bitter over nonsense.

I love people. I want us all to get better. For all my flaws, I have a very kind heart, am recklessly authentic, and I’ll have to just take whatever and whoever flies out of God’s gumball machine into my lap.

Happiness is not something I expect. I am too smart for that. Or at least not a fool.