So Monday, I put on my alien-skin chest-suppressing sports bra, black shirt, black leggings, black socks, and ugly, ugly white Nikes, kissed Nate off to work, and took my dog for a run. My ponytail was bouncy and blonde. I pulled my sweaty keys out of my bra and drove to PCC, where — remembering to bring my own bag — I spent $93 on organic onions, Greek yogurt, and gorgonzola cheese, among other things. I fielded a cell call in the grocery aisle about the futon I’d put on craigslist and threw in some Fair Trade local chocolate. Then, I went to Lowes. I trotted all around in my leggings and tacky shoes, and bought a mirror, weatherizing supplies, and one solitary board. It was a 2X4 and I know that. But it was only one — obviously I wasn’t doing any serious carpentry. I fit the board in my car by rolling down the window and resting the end on my shotgun mirror. Then I went to the bank. Later, I sold my old futon and frame to a kid on craigslist for a small profit. He bought it as his bed despite the fact that a) I drove home in my ad that it was a better couch than bed because each individual board of the frame articulates itself clearly to the spine, and b) after measuring it he determined it would not fit in the room while the door opened and closed. Good luck, kid. I also made some soup.
I mention all of this not because it is interesting. It’s not. But you guys, it’s my life, or at least one Monday of it. I am one of those women who goes to Lowes in her jogging outfit. Does this just come with being in one’s thirties? Is it a necessary Seattle stereotype that has to be absorbed to be diffused? I don’t have the preschooler or the husband or the Honda CRV to go with the image. I am just me, with time I supposedly get to spend writing aaahrt. But where does Monday morning find me? Lowes in black stretch pants holding a solitary board.