She wore a bright-colored, glass bracelet, peeking out from under her black suit jacket. Matching suit pants. Wavy, long hair cascading over her shoulders. On some days, pulled into a simple pony tail.
She pulled out leather chairs in the Hill conference room and sat down with authority. But also sank into quietly into coalition meeting chairs without disturbing the loud rounds of hellos and announcements of personal ego. Her emails distributed out-of-office notifications with phrases like "six weeks" and "Guantananamo Bay"- but she spoke mostly of rafting trips and sun on California beaches. She smiled more often than not.
I cut my hair the summer before in favor of a shorter, older, more professional look. I wore naked wrists and naked earlobes.
More often than not, I still do, but two falls ago, I let my hair grow longer.
I want pant suits with perfect pressed lines hanging in my closet. I want the confidence to slip into one at a moment's notice and stand up quiet, loud, proud, with ease for what I believe. I have the belief, I have the knowledge, listen.
Most of the time, I want to wear jeans. I want to carry my camera everywhere and actually snap the shot. Stop. Move to the left. Bend down, stand on my toes, weave through the crowd, feel the eyes of the crowd, but take the photo anyway. I want to take the photo and not notice the eyes. Everyday.
Write. Everyday. Write with a pen in a moleskin, notebook, journal. With the tumblr, twitter, gmail distractions closed and tucked away. Write with honesty at the core. Live with honesty at the core. Everyday.
Travel. As a lifestyle. Not a vacation. Not work. Buy tickets, pack the bag, and leave. Walk new streets, eat the food, say hello to new faces. In these moments, I am an extrovert. Sleep in tents, on trains, hostel bunk beds, airport lounges. Bring a pen. Bring the camera. Go, go, go.
Listen to music. Live. Stay up too late on a weeknight, lose my voice on a Saturday night, sing along, dance. Be inspired. To feel it. To express it. To share it. All of it. Listen to those songs on repeat, download the latest album, remember the old favorites. Fill the days, the hours, the minutes with melodies, harmonies, lyrics.
Drink more water, eat more protein, think about yoga on Saturday afternoons, pop a few vitamins, use more hand lotion, let the rest of it go.
Let most of it go.
I'll find my own bright-colored bracelet and slip it on under the cuff of my black pressed suit.
Showing posts with label high heels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label high heels. Show all posts
February 5, 2012
May 11, 2011
Dismantled Suit, Iron-Worn Pants & Buttons Loose, I Am Here
The summer interns arrive in droves. They wear crisp suits, fresh faces, and bright eyes. Razor burn along the jaw line and a forgotten dab of shaving cream behind the ear. Toe nails painted with summer colors and tucked under flipflop straps. We tuck our winter toes under the seats; has the season changed already? Our weathered faces point down or out, practiced at processing the sights their bright eyes soak up.
I had bright-eyes, too. Three summers ago, before and before and before... when I could walk to work each morning under the gaze of the Capitol building and watch summer thunderclouds wrap themselves around her dome in the evening. I wore those crisp suits until they melted my skin and wilted in the summer heat. I learned to stand in the entryway of Senate Office Buildings long enough for the sweat to evaporate and the goosebumps to form before replacing the suit jacket. Three summers ago, when I spent mornings standing in line outside the committee room, afternoons with a press-pass in hand, and evenings on conference calls dissecting proposed amendments.
I've rolled my eyes at politicians. You know this, you've seen me. But I've also stood in a church pew holding back an "amen" at grassroots campaigning and in the back of the state legislative library in our almost his-and-her suits, flipping through volumes of this and that and this... searching for nothing and coming up so close. I've sat on the couch in that office across the hall of flags. And with my legs crossed in the third row of the of the committee room.
Three summers ago, I threw my arms around her in the marble-walled bathroom four doors down from the mark-up. We celebrated the passage and our late-night work sessions outside the third stall until those-who-did-this-for-a-
Three summers ago, before and before and before...
Before I learned that which means nothing to me can rise to mean everything and then settle into nothing again.
I am here again. Miles from the Capitol building, but I am here again. Dismantled suit, iron-worn pants and buttons loose, I am here again. Tired eyes, but I am here again.
All that's glamorous has fallen away.* The marble-faced buildings and the echo of my heels down their never-ending halls, the dark, wood panels of the committee room and spiral staircases, the balcony rocking chairs. The playful smiles and my eye rolls. The I know, I know, I know...
I work through tangled, misguided legislation passed in capitol buildings I've never entered by politicians who's faces I've never known. Slip my feet in and out of flats under my desk and leave them hovering over the green carpet. We adjust the air-conditioning and belly laugh until tears fall from our tired eyes.
I am here again and I am here for the first time and I am here for everything that's not glamorous. I am here for everything that's important.
*With exception, of course. Patience, Emily. Patience.
November 29, 2010
My Friend Are Talented: Part III
I don't know if there is a greater joy than seeing the people I love pursuing interests that they love. I am a huge advocate of the I Love This & I Am Going To Put My Energy And Exuberance Into This Purely Because I Love It mentality. I love to share what they are doing because they are ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS at what they love. Amazing how that works out, right? =)
My friend, Elizabeth, is no exception. This gal rocks at so much and she always looks fabulous doing it. I'm serious; she looks great even in work-out clothing on the treadmill. And in a suit stepping out of a courtroom. I don't think I realized how hard it is to look stylish in a suit until I had to wear one on a regular basis. It's hard. She makes it look easy.
And she's helping us make it look easy also. (Or at least making it easier to try, in my case. Hooded sweatshirts and jeans still come easiest to me... Baby steps, right?) She is handing out fantastic, fabulous, oh-I-get-it-now tips at The Sequined Blazer. I'm really excited about this site, because she and the lovely Anna are offering great, down-to-earth advice on how to manage the workweek wardrobe without losing any of your personal style. A-ma-zing.
My friend, Elizabeth, is no exception. This gal rocks at so much and she always looks fabulous doing it. I'm serious; she looks great even in work-out clothing on the treadmill. And in a suit stepping out of a courtroom. I don't think I realized how hard it is to look stylish in a suit until I had to wear one on a regular basis. It's hard. She makes it look easy.
And she's helping us make it look easy also. (Or at least making it easier to try, in my case. Hooded sweatshirts and jeans still come easiest to me... Baby steps, right?) She is handing out fantastic, fabulous, oh-I-get-it-now tips at The Sequined Blazer. I'm really excited about this site, because she and the lovely Anna are offering great, down-to-earth advice on how to manage the workweek wardrobe without losing any of your personal style. A-ma-zing.
Check 'em out over at The Sequined Blazer!
August 29, 2010
Maybe This Is It?
The last time I was here, the cardboard cut-outs of Hillary Clinton were 50% off. Tourists stopped to take photographs with a two dimensional Obama or McCain. Memory re-orders the shops. I deem them misplaced but almost rejoice that they are all still here. I know the best place to buy lunch, which line moves the fastest, how to find tiny altoids (downstairs at the convenience store tucked around the corner from the escalator). The Starbucks line still falls out the door and accidentally mingles with the Hertz rental car line. I remember how empty this space feels at 10pm. It always seemed like we were the only ones in the city who needed a late-night coffee to make it the 3 blocks home. We probably were.
I had forgotten the friendly nature of people here. How much more they smile. How much more I smile. I recognize faces, although mine goes unnoticed. My heart breaks a little when that face is homeless. Still sitting and staring and chanting. I almost walk two blocks in search of my favorite - he was a kind head nod and small smile every day that summer. I don't want to walk by the old office and old "apartment", so I tell myself he is fine and almost believe it. I still see faces of people who aren't here. Who were never here with me. People I have not thought of in months. I'm surprised that this hasn't faded with time, and I wonder if it ever will. Will this city always remind me of you? I had forgotten how often someone asks me for directions: "I don't know *shrug* I'm sorry!" I apologize that an ipod on doesn't mean resident, and they apologize for breaking my stride. We meet in the middle of the sloppy apologetic puddle and move forward. Kindness.
This time around my thoughts form stories, laying words like bricks, but I'm not sure there is a foundation. This time I decide not to walk through the Senate office buildings and head straight for the Museum of the American Indian. I stop and breath in the Capitol building. Inhale and exhale peacefulness. My eye searches for photographs and captures viewfinder shots differently than two years ago, when I played tourist with my camera and resident with my heart. I sit in the shadow of the museum and watch the waterfalls cascade. I'm gentle on myself for not remembering the symbolism of the architecture and landscaping. Note the importance I assign this knowledge. I pick up a brochure on my way out and promise to take the tour next time. Next time. Feel daunted and assured.
At the end of the day I'm in Union Station, sitting in a gray suit with a pen in one hand and a Starbucks in the other. If I am trying to reconcile parts of me - professional and personal - then maybe this is it?
I had forgotten the friendly nature of people here. How much more they smile. How much more I smile. I recognize faces, although mine goes unnoticed. My heart breaks a little when that face is homeless. Still sitting and staring and chanting. I almost walk two blocks in search of my favorite - he was a kind head nod and small smile every day that summer. I don't want to walk by the old office and old "apartment", so I tell myself he is fine and almost believe it. I still see faces of people who aren't here. Who were never here with me. People I have not thought of in months. I'm surprised that this hasn't faded with time, and I wonder if it ever will. Will this city always remind me of you? I had forgotten how often someone asks me for directions: "I don't know *shrug* I'm sorry!" I apologize that an ipod on doesn't mean resident, and they apologize for breaking my stride. We meet in the middle of the sloppy apologetic puddle and move forward. Kindness.
This time around my thoughts form stories, laying words like bricks, but I'm not sure there is a foundation. This time I decide not to walk through the Senate office buildings and head straight for the Museum of the American Indian. I stop and breath in the Capitol building. Inhale and exhale peacefulness. My eye searches for photographs and captures viewfinder shots differently than two years ago, when I played tourist with my camera and resident with my heart. I sit in the shadow of the museum and watch the waterfalls cascade. I'm gentle on myself for not remembering the symbolism of the architecture and landscaping. Note the importance I assign this knowledge. I pick up a brochure on my way out and promise to take the tour next time. Next time. Feel daunted and assured.
At the end of the day I'm in Union Station, sitting in a gray suit with a pen in one hand and a Starbucks in the other. If I am trying to reconcile parts of me - professional and personal - then maybe this is it?
August 26, 2010
Constructed Lives
We pass over the East River on a bridge different than MetroNorth's. Roll through Brooklyn in the fog. The buildings peak but the gray swallows the skyline. The same gray as my suit. I convince myself that I have not disappeared and wonder why this internal conversation sounds familiar. When else did I have to convince myself that I have not yet disappeared? What was I doing then?
As we pull into Penn Station I'm stringing words together but sitting on my hands. Afraid I will write myself out of my life. A constructed life, I remind myself. It waxes and wanes, but you're okay, I coax myself. My hands still pressed against the fake leather seat. Willing myself not to get off the train and run into the warm New York rain. Feel it rush down my face. Scrunch my nose at the smell of wet sidewalks and the stench of misplaced garbage. I turn up my ipod, take a deep breath, and text a friend - my fingers need something to do. Dismiss the thought that this must be what a quit smoker feels like after kicking the addiction. Dismiss the thought that NYC has become an unhealthy addiction. Call it back because maybe that will keep me in my seat.
A woman with fast blackberry fingers sits down next to me. I grab my coffee as we lurch out of Penn Station. Try to figure out if I started holding my breath before or after we left the station. Scramble for my pen and paper. Declare myself in bold ink A WRITER to the pages of my moleskin. "Once In A Lifetime" crawls into my headphones, and I can't help but wonder what this moment means for my life. We cross what I assume to be the mouth of the Hudson, and suddenly this train ride can't be long enough.
As we pull into Penn Station I'm stringing words together but sitting on my hands. Afraid I will write myself out of my life. A constructed life, I remind myself. It waxes and wanes, but you're okay, I coax myself. My hands still pressed against the fake leather seat. Willing myself not to get off the train and run into the warm New York rain. Feel it rush down my face. Scrunch my nose at the smell of wet sidewalks and the stench of misplaced garbage. I turn up my ipod, take a deep breath, and text a friend - my fingers need something to do. Dismiss the thought that this must be what a quit smoker feels like after kicking the addiction. Dismiss the thought that NYC has become an unhealthy addiction. Call it back because maybe that will keep me in my seat.
A woman with fast blackberry fingers sits down next to me. I grab my coffee as we lurch out of Penn Station. Try to figure out if I started holding my breath before or after we left the station. Scramble for my pen and paper. Declare myself in bold ink A WRITER to the pages of my moleskin. "Once In A Lifetime" crawls into my headphones, and I can't help but wonder what this moment means for my life. We cross what I assume to be the mouth of the Hudson, and suddenly this train ride can't be long enough.
"You may ask yourself: well... how did I get here? [...]
You may ask yourself
Am I right?... Am I wrong? [...]
Am I right?... Am I wrong? [...]
You may ask yourself: well... how did I get here?"
[Once In A Lifetime, Talking Heads]
November 14, 2009
State House
[originally written 2008]
2-12-08
Warm, yellow, light wraps its arms around me. Almost gently whispering, encouraging, a distant dream that I crawl towards on scraped hands and knees. Warm, yellow, light raises me to my feet, an arm around my shoulders, it provides support, absorbs my chills and uncertainty. It bounces off the marble floors, as if it pours straight down from the high rise dome. Softly encouraging a path not clearly marked, pointing out how far I have come already. In the warmth and embrace of its arms, I can set aside the doubt and appreciate the grace of this house, the pages bound in maroon, the decades of framed photographs, and picture the rocking chairs on the balcony. Surely wide-eyed, and infatuated with the architecture, the people, the issues, even the coffee in the Styrofoam cup he hands me. Reluctant to depart, but encouraged and uplifted. A loosely connected goal dancing in the distant future. For a moment, I could almost reach out to it, in the warmth of the yellow light.
4-9-08
I find the steps myself this time. The clank of my heels almost familiar, but the Appropriations sign hangs above my head, and I have to spiral up one more flight. A sea of faces, I scan for familiar ones, but I find none, so I take a seat in between. In between the House and the Senate.
This time I don't notice the light of the third floor, until we travel down a floor or two, stopping in the doorway of a darker hallway. A familiar face, and it takes me a little while to place why. A familiar con law issue, and it takes me a minute to remember why. A familiar admin term, and I know why. We pass through the doorway. Upstairs, I now have a friendly face to sit with, a reassurance that I understand more than I think I do, and a place in a conversation about a Bill I had never heard of. Sitting between two attorneys, I am not an attorney. Do I want to sit here as an attorney?
When they depart, I am left to watch my own thoughts run a treadmill race. Division into legislators and onlookers. I am somewhere in between. Lost in a sea of their pilot language, I try to translate with involuntarily squinted eyes. I know the importance of understanding the language, understanding the process, even if I never plan to stand in their place. I do not want to stand where they stand. Do I want to stand beside them - not on the floor, but in theory – helping to shape the conversation?
We leave for lunch, and I willingly sink into the familiar, concaved, red couch and look around. A coffee machine that that leaks water, books filled with rainbow highlights, and a hanger that probably once had a home in the car. Familiarity became an understatement as soon as we passed through the doorway. I wait for a comment about the lack of protein in my lunch, but he lets it pass. We let our conversation wander. To others it may seem like our own pilot language, but this one comes naturally for me, no need to translate. With two people it seems impossible to sit in between, but even when an additional friendly face arrives, I'm not worried about the in between.
At the end of the day, I'm not sure where I belong, but not I'm entirely lost either. At least I can find my way to the stairs.
2-12-08
Warm, yellow, light wraps its arms around me. Almost gently whispering, encouraging, a distant dream that I crawl towards on scraped hands and knees. Warm, yellow, light raises me to my feet, an arm around my shoulders, it provides support, absorbs my chills and uncertainty. It bounces off the marble floors, as if it pours straight down from the high rise dome. Softly encouraging a path not clearly marked, pointing out how far I have come already. In the warmth and embrace of its arms, I can set aside the doubt and appreciate the grace of this house, the pages bound in maroon, the decades of framed photographs, and picture the rocking chairs on the balcony. Surely wide-eyed, and infatuated with the architecture, the people, the issues, even the coffee in the Styrofoam cup he hands me. Reluctant to depart, but encouraged and uplifted. A loosely connected goal dancing in the distant future. For a moment, I could almost reach out to it, in the warmth of the yellow light.
4-9-08
I find the steps myself this time. The clank of my heels almost familiar, but the Appropriations sign hangs above my head, and I have to spiral up one more flight. A sea of faces, I scan for familiar ones, but I find none, so I take a seat in between. In between the House and the Senate.
This time I don't notice the light of the third floor, until we travel down a floor or two, stopping in the doorway of a darker hallway. A familiar face, and it takes me a little while to place why. A familiar con law issue, and it takes me a minute to remember why. A familiar admin term, and I know why. We pass through the doorway. Upstairs, I now have a friendly face to sit with, a reassurance that I understand more than I think I do, and a place in a conversation about a Bill I had never heard of. Sitting between two attorneys, I am not an attorney. Do I want to sit here as an attorney?
When they depart, I am left to watch my own thoughts run a treadmill race. Division into legislators and onlookers. I am somewhere in between. Lost in a sea of their pilot language, I try to translate with involuntarily squinted eyes. I know the importance of understanding the language, understanding the process, even if I never plan to stand in their place. I do not want to stand where they stand. Do I want to stand beside them - not on the floor, but in theory – helping to shape the conversation?
We leave for lunch, and I willingly sink into the familiar, concaved, red couch and look around. A coffee machine that that leaks water, books filled with rainbow highlights, and a hanger that probably once had a home in the car. Familiarity became an understatement as soon as we passed through the doorway. I wait for a comment about the lack of protein in my lunch, but he lets it pass. We let our conversation wander. To others it may seem like our own pilot language, but this one comes naturally for me, no need to translate. With two people it seems impossible to sit in between, but even when an additional friendly face arrives, I'm not worried about the in between.
At the end of the day, I'm not sure where I belong, but not I'm entirely lost either. At least I can find my way to the stairs.
November 11, 2009
Suits
In my closet, I have a row of suits. Black, navy, gray. Dark and light. Tailored to show tiny curves, with sleeves that hit below the thumb joint, and pant legs to just above the high heel. Heel height no more than 2 inches, with a slight point for elongation, but not enough to make a fashion statement. Comfortable and confident in a suit, I automatically feel capable and successful.
In my closet, I have a shelf of hooded sweatshirts and beside them a pile of jeans. Pullover, zipper, plain, and letter imprints. Some sizes too large with room enough for another person and sleeves well over the finger tips. Jeans of different washes, many worn in the knees, pockets ready to fray, but always the clothing item of choice. Below them sneakers I never bother to untie or consider replacing with heeled trends. Comfortable and confident in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, I automatically feel lovable and safe.
I have spent weeks in suits. I have spent weeks in jeans and hooded sweatshirts. I have come to love my bipolar wardrobe. This year, the suits emerge once every few weeks, usually for a trip to the Capitol's judicial center. Jeans and hooded sweatshirts emerge on weekends and the occasional weekday, usually for meeting-less days spent researching, or before class due dates. The other days I spend blankly staring into my closet, looking for a business casual wardrobe I do not own yet, wishing I could grab a suit from my right side or hooded sweatshirt from the left. Missing that comfortable confidence.
In my closet, I have a shelf of hooded sweatshirts and beside them a pile of jeans. Pullover, zipper, plain, and letter imprints. Some sizes too large with room enough for another person and sleeves well over the finger tips. Jeans of different washes, many worn in the knees, pockets ready to fray, but always the clothing item of choice. Below them sneakers I never bother to untie or consider replacing with heeled trends. Comfortable and confident in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, I automatically feel lovable and safe.
I have spent weeks in suits. I have spent weeks in jeans and hooded sweatshirts. I have come to love my bipolar wardrobe. This year, the suits emerge once every few weeks, usually for a trip to the Capitol's judicial center. Jeans and hooded sweatshirts emerge on weekends and the occasional weekday, usually for meeting-less days spent researching, or before class due dates. The other days I spend blankly staring into my closet, looking for a business casual wardrobe I do not own yet, wishing I could grab a suit from my right side or hooded sweatshirt from the left. Missing that comfortable confidence.
November 4, 2009
These April Days
[originally written 4/09]
Powerpoprock in a hip, bright, warm venue. Ginger ale in hand, surrounded by twentysomethings on the crowded dance floor. "Have you met..." and "Who are you here with?" Sans ring on the left hand, increasingly friendly, small talk over loud music, "Are you from here?" until he abruptly walks away. Apparently, an hour drive from one small city to another overwhelms any possible interest. Merely amused, I laugh out loud, a chuckle carried away on guitar strings and belting lyrics. Friends on stage and another in the audience, I'm not here to meet my mr. right. Or my mr. right now.
*****
Crisp, cool, night air with a promise of spring, and the sound of the crashing waves up against the city walls, even if only in my head, prompt an involuntary smile. I return a phone call as I walk through the well-lit parking garage, and the smile disappears. Break-up despair, I can hear it in his voice immediately. I can only respond with that sinking feeling of knowing any words I utter can never make it better. I listen. I can only listen.
******
A wall of white dresses, dressing rooms built for two, and seating to accommodate an entourage of familial females bound by bloodlines and heart-lines. A bride with a flush and a smile, expectantly overwhelmed, she twirls and scowls. Perhaps finding her perfect dress will not come as easily as finding her perfect man.
******
Mincing garlic without the warning that my fingers would radiate the smell of garlic for days to come, despite numerous washings. I can offer no authority on the progress of the cooking chicken, but I can stir the two cans of diced tomatoes and chop the basil. We are feeding four a balanced meal, a delicious meal, a meal from scratch. A meal without the fear of salmonella.
********
With perfectly pressed seams, this suit makes its first re-appearance since last summer. Tailored to fit my petite portions, it adds years to my youthful appearance. The click-clack of my heels echoes louder than I remember, and a momentary inspection reveals metal poking through the heels. I wore through my heels last summer. This jeans, sweatshirt, sneaker lover wore through her high heels last summer, most likely walking through the halls of Rayburn. Now, walking through the halls of the district court house, clickclack, early for a meeting, clickclack, I run into a classmate. Court administrative week, we are both surprised to see each other. I am swept in and out of a chaotic meeting-type, waiting in the hall for the next time slot, hoping for less chaos, when a friend clickclacks down the hall towards me. Surprised and relieved to see her, she offers a stress alleviating hug, chats for a bit, calls me a champ, and resumes her meeting. Hours later, with unintentional creases now apparent in my suit pants, as I clickclack out of the courthouse, I run into another classmate I have not seen since last semester. Court administrative week - what are we all doing at the court house? Dressed in suits, on official business, I see as many classmates in the courthouse as I do in the round hallways of our school building. A transition out, certainly.
******
Still overwhelmed with assignments, due dates, rainbow highlighters and a pile of books. Early evening turns into late night, early morning comes too soon. A swat at an alarm clock, a sleepy 5:30am phone call to the broken-hearted, and a fast shower pries my exhausted body from sleep into the land of the awake. Or semi-awake. An 8:45am Conflicts of Law class means semi-awake at best. Another day of clickclacking through the courthouse in a suit, means an honest attempt at fully-awake. Fully awake and exhausted.
*****
"This must be for you." He hands me my banana-chocolate milkshake with a smile. I nearly melt with gratitude. Clickclacking out of the colorfully decorated whimsical haven, I know how out of place I look in my conservative navy suit, but I could care less. I am too busy inhaling my perfect chocolate banana milkshake.
****
A 1:30am phone call from the new mother, because she is breast feeding and thought I might be up. I don't have the heart to tell her that I collapsed into bed hours ago, immediately following the chocolate banana milkshake. I mostly listen, incapable of forming a coherent thought, and try to picture my friend from high school now at home with her three week old daughter.
***
Twenty-something: a time period of change and transition. If I had to pick a specific cluster of days to represent my twentysomething life, it would be these April days.
Powerpoprock in a hip, bright, warm venue. Ginger ale in hand, surrounded by twentysomethings on the crowded dance floor. "Have you met..." and "Who are you here with?" Sans ring on the left hand, increasingly friendly, small talk over loud music, "Are you from here?" until he abruptly walks away. Apparently, an hour drive from one small city to another overwhelms any possible interest. Merely amused, I laugh out loud, a chuckle carried away on guitar strings and belting lyrics. Friends on stage and another in the audience, I'm not here to meet my mr. right. Or my mr. right now.
*****
Crisp, cool, night air with a promise of spring, and the sound of the crashing waves up against the city walls, even if only in my head, prompt an involuntary smile. I return a phone call as I walk through the well-lit parking garage, and the smile disappears. Break-up despair, I can hear it in his voice immediately. I can only respond with that sinking feeling of knowing any words I utter can never make it better. I listen. I can only listen.
******
A wall of white dresses, dressing rooms built for two, and seating to accommodate an entourage of familial females bound by bloodlines and heart-lines. A bride with a flush and a smile, expectantly overwhelmed, she twirls and scowls. Perhaps finding her perfect dress will not come as easily as finding her perfect man.
******
Mincing garlic without the warning that my fingers would radiate the smell of garlic for days to come, despite numerous washings. I can offer no authority on the progress of the cooking chicken, but I can stir the two cans of diced tomatoes and chop the basil. We are feeding four a balanced meal, a delicious meal, a meal from scratch. A meal without the fear of salmonella.
********
With perfectly pressed seams, this suit makes its first re-appearance since last summer. Tailored to fit my petite portions, it adds years to my youthful appearance. The click-clack of my heels echoes louder than I remember, and a momentary inspection reveals metal poking through the heels. I wore through my heels last summer. This jeans, sweatshirt, sneaker lover wore through her high heels last summer, most likely walking through the halls of Rayburn. Now, walking through the halls of the district court house, clickclack, early for a meeting, clickclack, I run into a classmate. Court administrative week, we are both surprised to see each other. I am swept in and out of a chaotic meeting-type, waiting in the hall for the next time slot, hoping for less chaos, when a friend clickclacks down the hall towards me. Surprised and relieved to see her, she offers a stress alleviating hug, chats for a bit, calls me a champ, and resumes her meeting. Hours later, with unintentional creases now apparent in my suit pants, as I clickclack out of the courthouse, I run into another classmate I have not seen since last semester. Court administrative week - what are we all doing at the court house? Dressed in suits, on official business, I see as many classmates in the courthouse as I do in the round hallways of our school building. A transition out, certainly.
******
Still overwhelmed with assignments, due dates, rainbow highlighters and a pile of books. Early evening turns into late night, early morning comes too soon. A swat at an alarm clock, a sleepy 5:30am phone call to the broken-hearted, and a fast shower pries my exhausted body from sleep into the land of the awake. Or semi-awake. An 8:45am Conflicts of Law class means semi-awake at best. Another day of clickclacking through the courthouse in a suit, means an honest attempt at fully-awake. Fully awake and exhausted.
*****
"This must be for you." He hands me my banana-chocolate milkshake with a smile. I nearly melt with gratitude. Clickclacking out of the colorfully decorated whimsical haven, I know how out of place I look in my conservative navy suit, but I could care less. I am too busy inhaling my perfect chocolate banana milkshake.
****
A 1:30am phone call from the new mother, because she is breast feeding and thought I might be up. I don't have the heart to tell her that I collapsed into bed hours ago, immediately following the chocolate banana milkshake. I mostly listen, incapable of forming a coherent thought, and try to picture my friend from high school now at home with her three week old daughter.
***
Twenty-something: a time period of change and transition. If I had to pick a specific cluster of days to represent my twentysomething life, it would be these April days.
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