The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Personal Statement

"Invalid Entry" 

A five foot four, green-eyed, fair-skinned woman sits down with the intention of revealing herself.

Her reddish, blondish hair seems a little coarse today, an unfortunate side effect of oncoming winter, and it's less glossy than it used to be, the dark honey strands crusted over, dull and flat . She will not reveal her weight to anyone, no matter if it be higher than normal, or lower, because the former tends to embarrass her (she can spell embarrass, but only recently remembered to include an 'n' in environment), and the latter would only open her up to the possibility of moving in the opposite direction, à la Oprah. She worries about all the sunburns she had in her childhood which resulted in strange, watery blisters, not unlike the bladders of tiny waterbeds, which would sting and rupture, increasing her chances for various diseases as she moves ahead in life. She is not a hyphchondriac, not really, though she definitely has a predisposition to it. She used to worry that every bump in her skin was cancer, that every palpitation was the onset of a massive heart attack, but she's starting to realize that this is a waste of time. Now, she sometimes begrudgingly acknowledges her gall bladder, only because it rejects her love of cheese and cream. It's got to go, she knows it, but in the meantime she's losing weight and keeping the lost pounds to herself.

She does not consider herself a vegetarian but she feels bad whenever she eats meat. She envisions the deep, sad eyes of cattle moving toward the slaughterhouse and it takes away the craving for cheeseburgers. She showers twice a day, once upon waking and once before retiring for the day. Sleeping isn't a dirty thing, she knows it, but there is something at once invigorating and sedative in the rush of hot water. She needs the sensation of renewal because she easily succumbs to the hypnotic pull of despair and the water, it fools her, it resets the clock. She cannot swim, has to hold her nose to submerge, but she can bathe like a pro as long as she has a book of poetry and wealth of quiet around her.

She is learning about tolerance these days. She is beginning to understand that people who say negative and stupid things do so out of a deep-rooted sense of self-pity or insecurity. There is no merit in criticism, most of the time, and it tends to come from those who are desperate to be heard just so they can feel comfortable that someone is listening. She used to be just like that, and regrets some of her more clumsy remarks but at least she has come to accept her imperfections which allows her (occasionally) to accept them in others as well. She has trouble being gracious with the louder ones, though. She knows that they're the ones in the most pain, but even so, she hates their voices. They're the ones who hate to hear the nicer things, the ones who find fault in pleasantries because they think their kind of darkness is impressive when it's so tragically common, so completely uninspiring. They'll find out, she thinks, and if they don't it makes no difference to her. Her refusal to take their bait leaves her free from hooks and nets.

She likes commas.

One glass of red wine makes her knees warm and dysfunctional, which she privately adores. It means one bottle will last a long time and that she will sleep soundly when the glass has been drained. She has never smoked or ingested or injected anything into her body which might be known as what 'the cool kids do'. She has never thought it to be cool, even if it might feel that way when doing it. She has seen people die slowly from their addictions, and it never looked cool to her. She knew one who died on the bathroom floor, pants down, head between his legs and another whose mental chemistry weakened from the abuse, so much so that he will never be able to live on his own, or have a job, or live a normal life. She will drink her wine, though. It's supposed to be good for the heart.

Our honey-haired lady has had insane romantic moments and she still smiles cheekily when she lets herself relive them. She is slushy when it comes to matters of love and sex. She has given up much for both and didn't feel the sacrifice in it until all was said and done. She walked away from hundreds of different futures just to kiss a certain boy in a basement, or to tangle limbs with an impossibly tall artist. She still thinks it was worth it, on both counts. It's this kind of philosophy which allows her to worship strings of craftily tethered words, to savour the poetry and the songs. Both the woman and the girl in her appreciate a good sentence.

She would rather spend a thousand rainy Sundays under a warm blanket watching film after film than shop or go to social gatherings. She relishes her hermetic nature because it allows her to lose herself in dog-earred pages and black and white movies. She pays a therapist to help her move outside more, though, because she has heard it's what people refer to as 'normal behaviour'. The struggle between the two worlds has been expensive and frustrating, but she knows she's somewhere in the middle of it all and that one day she'll be fine with that, even if no one else is. Her greatest dream, though, is to be able to do whatever she wishes without feeling the quick, invasive spread of panic in her body when she moves beyond what's comfortable. She knows a more colourful world is beyond the walls she has unconsciously built around her. The freedom to stay or go without repercussion. That's what she yearns for.

She spent a cold February in Ireland, many years ago. She wandered through cemeteries, made acquaintance with the stone crosses of the people who lent themselves to her DNA, and she stole a bush from the front yard of U2's drummer's house. It made no more sense then than it does now. Where she intends to go next, should she ever feel safe enough, calm enough, would be Paris. She is desperate for the Louvre, lavender and chocolate. She wants to see her lover's home, his father's grave and the Champs- Élysées. The Eiffel Tower will only remind her of the story the lover told her about his fifth birthday in its restaurant, the one where the man jumped from above and his body parts thumped and rattled as they fell toward the ground, meat clinging to metal. It makes her think of it differently, now, and she doesn't think it's the most beautiful thing France has to offer. Oddly, though, she is excited about the possibility of walking the beaches of Normandy to look for shrapnel or sand-polished bones. She is aware of the hypocrisy in this.

Our girl is a beaming mother. She no longer can hold back the tears in the face of anything designed to inspire them. No one told her about this side effect of motherhood, but she embraces it. Her girl is her life. She loves the taste of the salt on her man's skin and the softness of his hands. She is beginning to learn the art of focusing, but is surprised at how hard it is to do so. She loves heavy music as much as she loves the creamy, the colour red as much as the colour green and the way a croissant rips when she tugs at it.

She misses phone calls instead of emails, and quality instead of affordability. She is usually up late and thinks rising before eight is uncivilized and she drinks far too much tea. She worries, incessantly, and she hasn't figured out how to stop it. She doesn't think she ever will.

Oh, but how she loves the scent of lilacs, the feel of cashmere, the taste of cucumbers...