So you somehow have to contemplate juice cleanses while cutting out harmful carbs and exercising because your doctor is concerned ( you try not to recall that your doctor treated you like an immortal before your last birthday). But that's ok. This is the new normal. You wake up and it's too exhausting trying to be pretty, trying to be sultry. You start walking like you feel, which is often an 80 old man grumpily jog -walking home because, ew humans. It's ok that you look like a male octogenarian. You never had much sex appeal anyway.
Maybe she was telling me not to worry so much. Everything would be ok. Maybe I needed to learn a little more Arabic and she needed a little more Hebrew so that we could really talk. I smiled and said "Shukran.
Normally, I'd have resented that kind of wholesome, healthy, glowy perfection. But I couldn't. Her entrance had a very "North Witch" effect on me. She was stunning in a lulling way. Beautiful inside and out. Instead of resenting her, I trusted her. She was professional, greeting me like an adult, instead of in a condescending manner like so many healthcare professionals were prone to do.
She doesn't need to work up the courage to get a blue dyed bob she just goes and does it. Not electric blue, she’s not rock and roll enough, she’s more indie rock. So it’s a faded blue, like an ombre grey blue. Either that or dusty rose tinted hair. Because she’s vintage. A little 60’s Twiggy, a little roaring 20’s, a little vintage steampunk, a little rococo.
I was under some sort of delusion wherein I was convinced that the if I should have the urge to pee I could overcome with “Mind over Matter.” Think dry thoughts. Think dry thoughts. Think walking across the Saharah. Think parched lips. Think fast days and dust balls. Inevitably, the act of trying to concentrate on “dry things” only caused my brain to swerve and imagine fresh water falls and running taps. A crushing sensation came upon my bladder swiftly, an irrepressible force.
I wish I had the power to create my own portrait, to convey both what I feel inside and what I want the world to see. They don’t come through. The truth is hard to face and that’s why I hate the camera lens. That’s why I don’t judge the selfie taker. There is a power in framing your own image, in showing the world what you want it to to see.
There have been harder moments in your life, where you’ve tried to force revelation, hammering through the impossible.