This morning, I walked out of my apartment completely brimming with hope for what the day before me held.
And before I even made it to my car… a bird shit on my head.
“I’m 26!” I cried (in the middle of the office) to my coworker, George. “And I never had my own show on the Disney Channel.”
George just stared at me… not blinking.
“Yeah…” he said matter of factly as his unblinking eyes shriveled up into dry little raisins and plopped out of his head, “because you’re not an actress.”
I was 13 the first time a boy ever propositioned me with “hand-holding.”
It was the summer before my 8th grade year and a bunch of us were watching The Village in theaters. (You know, back when M. Night could still use his name in movie trailers without an entire audience erupting into groans.)
I guess the boy didn’t really “ask” so much as say if I wanted to hold hands… it’d be cool with him.
To which I replied, “Oh. Okay.”
And then continued to sit there with my hands in my lap.
“Let me start off by saying, I consider myself a feminist, but…”
I could immediately feel my eyes start rolling in the back of my head.
“I just can’t get into female authors. I think it’s because I can’t relate to their stories,” said my colleague… a very well-respected teacher of literature.
It was an uncomfortably warm August morning (almost a year ago to the day).
It was my last free Sunday before going back to school… and I woke up with a headache, last night’s gum still in my mouth, and a pocketful of stolen thumb tacks.
I live on a busy street.
Actually, I live on a small street that connects to a busy street.
And occasionally, I have to make scary, unprotected left turns on to said busy street in order to get to the places where I need to go. (a la Dr. Seuss)