hands full.
New town. New space. New faces. I used to pretend that I would create a new definition of me when I moved when I was a child. That this time I would be the popular bubbly one, and that this time I would be the serious musician and this time I would be pagan and not a good proto-Methodist-Church-member. I never did, I never could. When I was young I was too tightly laced to the truth to be able to lie about what was important to me.
So there I was, the bookworm, the human dictionary ('cause Encyclopdia Brown was already the human encyclopedia), the smart girl, the girl in glasses. My mother dressed me like herself -- overlarge jeans with elasticized waists, turtlenecks from LL Bean or Lands End, sweaters. I still own sweaters that I used to wear when I was 10 or 12 or 14. Some of them I still wear. I won't tell you which.
At the end of the day, I don't have the energy to pretend. I had my co-workers and bosses entirely fooled at my last job, until the stress cracked me and the "real" Lina came out. HR's assistant director was concerned -- I was wearing too much black (orly?!) as opposed to the pastel-coloured button down shirts and blazers and dress slacks. My bosses wondered what had happened to super-nice, always bubbly, smiling Lina. I explained that working 80-120 hours a week was a bit draining, going on into the 4th month. It flew about as well as a wet paper airplane.
Who am I, who will I be, in this new town with these new people? I'm not the same girl who moved to Bloomington heart broken after her 16th birthday party. I'm not the same girl who moved into Collins LLC and was the quota-filler for her scholarship. Nor the riotous protester with purple hair, speaking and organizing against the government and its race in 2003 to upset Sadam. I'm not the same girl who was left broken /enabled herself to be broken by a guy before flying off to France, nor the same girl who came back. Not the Lina who lived on Cascades, brilliant drugged into oblivion while reading the Federalists and crying over linguistics, touching scenes in Sex in the City and eating Le Mai's brilliant culinary masterpieces and Cody's Mayonnaise Cake. I'm not the thin and pale post-grad working 3 jobs at 80 hours a week to pay medical bills, unable to buy groceries and buying gasoline for the car in 13-dollar increments, counted out in 1-dollar bills in tips from bussing drunken cheese sauce and ranch dip off of tables. I'm not the corporate whore to the publishing industry, nor am I am boheme who spent the summer driving where the road took her, working where she could, sleeping where she pleased.
Somehow I'm not her. or her or her or her. Rather some amalgam of all of that -- all of that pain, all of those tears, all of that pleasure, all of that reality, thick and unpleasant, dark and smooth.
Hello, Saint Louis. It's a pleasure to meet you.
So there I was, the bookworm, the human dictionary ('cause Encyclopdia Brown was already the human encyclopedia), the smart girl, the girl in glasses. My mother dressed me like herself -- overlarge jeans with elasticized waists, turtlenecks from LL Bean or Lands End, sweaters. I still own sweaters that I used to wear when I was 10 or 12 or 14. Some of them I still wear. I won't tell you which.
At the end of the day, I don't have the energy to pretend. I had my co-workers and bosses entirely fooled at my last job, until the stress cracked me and the "real" Lina came out. HR's assistant director was concerned -- I was wearing too much black (orly?!) as opposed to the pastel-coloured button down shirts and blazers and dress slacks. My bosses wondered what had happened to super-nice, always bubbly, smiling Lina. I explained that working 80-120 hours a week was a bit draining, going on into the 4th month. It flew about as well as a wet paper airplane.
Who am I, who will I be, in this new town with these new people? I'm not the same girl who moved to Bloomington heart broken after her 16th birthday party. I'm not the same girl who moved into Collins LLC and was the quota-filler for her scholarship. Nor the riotous protester with purple hair, speaking and organizing against the government and its race in 2003 to upset Sadam. I'm not the same girl who was left broken /enabled herself to be broken by a guy before flying off to France, nor the same girl who came back. Not the Lina who lived on Cascades, brilliant drugged into oblivion while reading the Federalists and crying over linguistics, touching scenes in Sex in the City and eating Le Mai's brilliant culinary masterpieces and Cody's Mayonnaise Cake. I'm not the thin and pale post-grad working 3 jobs at 80 hours a week to pay medical bills, unable to buy groceries and buying gasoline for the car in 13-dollar increments, counted out in 1-dollar bills in tips from bussing drunken cheese sauce and ranch dip off of tables. I'm not the corporate whore to the publishing industry, nor am I am boheme who spent the summer driving where the road took her, working where she could, sleeping where she pleased.
Somehow I'm not her. or her or her or her. Rather some amalgam of all of that -- all of that pain, all of those tears, all of that pleasure, all of that reality, thick and unpleasant, dark and smooth.
Hello, Saint Louis. It's a pleasure to meet you.
posted by Kari Stevenson @ 7:41 AM
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