I have to change the radio station to the adult contemporary station because I can't listen to hip hop at 10:30am. The combination of bass and high-pitched-synthesized notes irrationally irritates; I hit the "tune" button harder than I intend. And then the same with gas pedal at the end of my driveway until I realize the bush on the corner now obstructs all view of the gravel leading to the neighbor's house. Too late to hit the break, I am actually relieved at the empty driveway. If a lead foot and a loud bass made me feel better at sixteen (I'm not sure it did), then I'm going to have to find a different outlet at twenty six. I'm not sure why this surprises me. Or why I'm surprised at the lack of weeds springing up in our concrete driveway. Or how much I still dislike the adult contemporary station - I spent too many hours listening to it in the orthodontist chair having my braces tightened.
What has changed, and what hasn't? How long am I going to be here - do I have to figure this out?
I'm fighting sixteen year old irrationality with adult choices, like going to Big Y and purchasing my own coffee pot. Because if I have to work my way out of this new maze, I'm going to need some coffee. If I am going to transition HOME, I am going to need some coffee. If I want to feel twenty six, and unemployed, and nearly addicted to 90210 re-runs, rather than sixteen and seeking summer employment and nearly addicted to 90210 re-runs, I am going to need some coffee.
"You are not sixteen anymore." It's nearly an out-loud chant before I look around my car. Black steering wheel, not gray. Dark seats, not light. It's not my '82 Toyota Corolla of ten years ago. The coffee I was drinking on my way home last night still sits in the console. Gross, sure, but also reassuring. I find the CD I've had on repeat for the past few months. It's still there. Right where it was yesterday. Right. where. it. was. yesterday. I pop it in. Take a deep breath. And then I'm twenty six again, running to the store to fill a coffee addiction, listening to an arrangement of notes that didn't exist ten years ago. And I remember: I am so many things I wasn't ten years ago.
May 18, 2010
May 3, 2010
In Which Adam Lambert Echos My Thoughts
I showered hours earlier and never bothered to comb or dry my hair, so I look like I am channeling Medusa as I pull up into the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot and turn off my headlights. Three elderly women sit in the window watching as the windshield wipers settle in, and I can follow their gaze to my out-of-state license plate. I stifle a sigh, grab my bag, step out of my car, and wonder what labels they'll assign me in addition to "from away". They all turn as I walk through the door, but I've had practice in ignoring faces I don't want to see.
I know I'm a spectacle with my chipped black nail polish and mismatched outfit, but I spent the day on the couch reading Alvarez and planning a trip to Switzerland because I'm done with work, homework is dwindling, and finals (for the last time) haven't arrived yet. I have time to hope and dream, lay around with wet hair, and reheat my morning coffee all afternoon. Listen to the rain.
The girl behind the counter is busy in the back room. I don't mind waiting. I wonder what these ladies talked about before I arrived. "Connecticut," a reference to my license plate, rolls off their tongues like a foreign noun. I sigh and then worry that they saw my shoulders heave. I promise myself that I will walk out if I hear them use the term "flatlander". And then I promise myself I will stay regardless; I don't want to upset the girl behind the counter.
Up in the corner, familiar faces flash on the television screen as the debate for governor drones behind the old lady chatter. I almost sigh again but catch myself this time. I'm a stranger and an insider at the same time.
An older man walks through the door and up to the counter. When he sees that he will have to wait, he starts to grumble incoherently and loudly. The girl walks over to the counter flustered, upset, silently apologetic. I try to give her a reassuring smile and a kind order to make up for his loud grumbling and current pacing. Back and forth.
I don't bother to put my hood up and walk out the door into the rain. The ladies watch as I climb into my car. "I'm leaving, I'm leaving," I want to tell them. The radio starts with the car engine now that I've stopped listening to that CD on repeat, and Adam Lambert screeches "What do you want from me?!"
I know I'm a spectacle with my chipped black nail polish and mismatched outfit, but I spent the day on the couch reading Alvarez and planning a trip to Switzerland because I'm done with work, homework is dwindling, and finals (for the last time) haven't arrived yet. I have time to hope and dream, lay around with wet hair, and reheat my morning coffee all afternoon. Listen to the rain.
The girl behind the counter is busy in the back room. I don't mind waiting. I wonder what these ladies talked about before I arrived. "Connecticut," a reference to my license plate, rolls off their tongues like a foreign noun. I sigh and then worry that they saw my shoulders heave. I promise myself that I will walk out if I hear them use the term "flatlander". And then I promise myself I will stay regardless; I don't want to upset the girl behind the counter.
Up in the corner, familiar faces flash on the television screen as the debate for governor drones behind the old lady chatter. I almost sigh again but catch myself this time. I'm a stranger and an insider at the same time.
An older man walks through the door and up to the counter. When he sees that he will have to wait, he starts to grumble incoherently and loudly. The girl walks over to the counter flustered, upset, silently apologetic. I try to give her a reassuring smile and a kind order to make up for his loud grumbling and current pacing. Back and forth.
I don't bother to put my hood up and walk out the door into the rain. The ladies watch as I climb into my car. "I'm leaving, I'm leaving," I want to tell them. The radio starts with the car engine now that I've stopped listening to that CD on repeat, and Adam Lambert screeches "What do you want from me?!"
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