It’s all I can do to think about absolutely anything else. All there is is the bong. bong. bong. as the bag reverberates in the hollow of my wanting. I have to text several people a picture to tell them how badly I want it, and how badly I am trying not to buy it.
I start to bargain with the dis-reality of bills and payments and cash flow. I negotiate with myself and my desire for resolution. The world is awash with options for self soothing, but the ones I like have the opposite impact.
The chiropractor says she thinks something must be going on emotionally or spiritually given that I was “out” from my sacrum to the base of my skull. One long succession of subjugated misalignment. You think?
Three people, key people, touchstone people, for me, have resigned from the company over my vacation. Feels like an end of an era. When I was “transitioned” at the start of the year – a euthanized/euphemised way of saying my job went away, but instead of being let go, “they” found me another one in the company, I first thought I had gone from being prom queen dating the homecoming king to being out behind the gym smoking. After a few months in the new organization, however, I think it is more likely that I have gone from the kind, well brought up and socially awkward science club to the back of a pick up with the football team.
I watch as the already close-to-six-foot-tall woman wears three-inch heals to bottom off the itty bitty red dress, towering her executive power over the men and repelling the non-sorority sisters. Her”girls” flock to sit beneath her wings, hoping their allure heightens with proximity to her swan. So depressing. Win on your brain. Women fought hard for that. My anger flares as she plays the old game.
We do not, should not, turn ourselves inside out. Turn our insides off. Vacate the premises. Just because we are women and they are men, and this is business. I am lonely here. Void of meaning.
And so, I want this bag. As if that will fill this emptiness, give purpose to profit.