I want to be this extra-fertile, empowered female slash superhuman. Not just a superhuman half-assing it but an iconic figure with a Statue of Liberty-aura, a Meryl Streep sex appeal, and a Sandra Day O’Connor type of shrewdness. I want my cackle to be alluring, my brow-raises to veto bills, and my applause to be worth a million euros.
And as I lay in my bed, the words “I want” seem to drift in and out of mental view. Because yesterday, I wanted really great hair and today, I want to change the world.
Last week while sitting at my potter’s wheel, I threw for the first time. My hands are small, sure, but my “clay-coach” tells me that it’s not the size of the ship but the motion of the ocean. I guess the motion of my ocean made me a little seasick that day. All my bowls (if those deformed, gray blobs even count as bowls) remained indistinguishable gray blobs. Onward ho!
A year and a half ago, I found a knitter’s heaven in San Francisco. That day I decided I’d become an advance scarf-maker, a yarn-blower, and so I bought luxurious skeins of yarn and bamboo needles. Then I made quite possibly the most mathematically disturbing scarf ever that started from being 5-inches wide to about 15. Boyfriend, are you deliberately trying to taunt me by avoiding frosty winters in Seattle, thus not having to wear my scarf?
I’m the worst judge of people. Sometimes I thought you were real, and other times I found out you weren’t. And then I let the lies pull me in like wafts of waffle smell and realize that A. waffles are way too carb heavy for me right now and B. I really only like the syrup anyway.
And then the future seems more promising each day I dream and want. Because something about writing this episode of my life at 4 am in the morning already seems pretty darn superhuman of me.
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