“Give me artificial, give me superficial, give me a commercial life that can’t be bought.” (Operation Ivy)

A spider sat waiting for me in my shower this morning.
Black
And fat
And maybe even a little bit hairy.
A spider sat waiting for me in the corner of the shower,
Encouraging me to write.

But what would I say?

That I am human?
With moving parts?
And a mother?
And imperfections that make me real?
And an overwhelming sense of disappointment gripping my heart?

Maybe….

Or maybe I would say,
That I am in no position to dictate what is attractive
And what is unattractive
Any more than the multi-billionaires controlling the universe
Are in a position
To tell me how to look.
What to wear.
What to like.
And that my natural functions
Are wrong.
That somehow,
A gigantic genetic mistake was made.
Fifty percent of the population were born
Inherently
Wrong.

Would I say that I am not a shallow person?
Never have been?
That each and every part of me has been carefully thought out.
That one of the good things my mother instilled in me
Was the idea of questioning.
Everything.
Sometimes she contradicted herself, though.
And it was that character flaw that I actively decided
I would not pass onto my own children.
I would never say one thing.
And then do another.
I wouldn’t make them learn from my own mistakes.
Learn from my own pain.
I wouldn’t pass onto them a disgust for their bodies.

Anybody else think this is kind of ironic?

The girl who writes that we aren’t so different after all…
The girl who doesn’t think mere acceptance is enough…
The girl who wants to change the way that people view sexuality
And attractiveness
And sexual desire
To include EVERYONE
Is now sitting here.

Anybody else think this is kind of ironic?

That the boy who brought that passion out in this girl
Is also the boy whose desire
And view of sexuality
Is the narrowest of all.

Well, I think it’s kind of ironic.

The shower spider didn’t move around much while I washed.
While I gently rinsed a most sensitive area
Made more sensitive
With disdain and quiet folding.
Quiet conformity.
That turned into self disgust.
The shower spider only crawled slightly downward.
Closer and closer to me.
Bringing a comfort that I don’t expect the rest of you to understand.
Urging me to write, write, write.
Get it all out.

But what would I say?

Maybe I’m just supposed to say that it’s hot.
And Michael’s crabbiness peaks in the heat.
That I’ve just forgotten about that side of him
Because it’s been so long since it’s been hot.
Maybe I’m just supposed to mention that despite Michael’s hatefulness
I still love the smell of a sweaty baby head.

Maybe shower spider just wanted me to talk about the weekend’s birthday party.
About the four girls who showed.
About the one girl who is giving my daughter shitty attitude ideas.
About the one girl who I remember to be quite, quite whiny
But who was actually sweet on Saturday
Prompting me to believe that it is really that girl’s mother
Who brings out the brattiness.

Maybe I should just write about having two girls born in the same month.
How just as one birthday ends
Another begins.
And this year
I was in a particular hurry because I changed the big day
And made it one week early.
Maybe I’m just supposed to write about the lack of relief I feel
Sitting here
Realizing that I have almost two weeks now
More time than I thought I had yesterday.
How realizing that only makes my stomach clench tighter
And my disappointment grip harder
On my heart.

What would I say? What would I say?

That I know I overthink things.
That I know that nothing is ever simple with me.
But that if I didn’t overthink.
That if I never saw the complicated, complex, deep rooted causes
I would never have been much help.

So I can’t help but see those in myself, too.

I’m curbing rage.
Anger
Probably
At what I can’t change.
I have some choice words
But am holding them in
Tight, tight, tight.
That I just checked out my post from Saturday
And felt like puking.
Because it couldn’t have been more fucking obvious.
Because I forgot about the one last little test
Little cry out
Little sign
That things were not okay.
And it was missed.
Again.
And I feel like screaming.
How can someone needing so much selflessness
Be so fucking selfish?

This is an odd twist of fate.
It really is.
And I am still trying,
Despite my better knowledge,
To turn it around.
Still trying to search for a different truth
That isn’t there.

I went back to the bathroom to talk to the shower spider.
Ask it what I’m supposed to write about.
Because all it told me while I washed and rinsed and repeated
Was to write, write, write.
So I went back.
But it wasn’t there.
It’s message was already delivered.

I will say this before I go.
For good.

I am excited about the new stroller I ordered for Michael from Sears.
It’s good for children up to fifty pounds.
And Michael will be in a stroller far longer than either of his sisters were.
I’m excited because I think I’ll use it a lot this summer.
Trips to the park.
Trips to the beach.
Trips to air conditioned stores when the heat is too much
And the lure of buying something is too great.
A stroller that works
And works well
Will come in quite handy.
Yes,
I am excited about that new stroller
Which arrives on Friday.
I’m excited
Even if I will be walking alone.

“Screen in your living room, a window for your tomb. If you can’t compare to the world sitting there, repress your insecurities, watch and escape.” (Operation Ivy)