The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Take the cake.

I could take a nap if I wanted to. The wee one took herself up to her room immediately after I picked her up from school and is snoring quite loudly across the hall. How much do I love that my child will put herself down for a nap? This much (extends arms, dramatically). M. is down at the boat, painting it, affixing life lines and what have you, and he left the laptop at home, so I won't have to worry about him calling via Skype or Messenger.

We did that, yesterday, and it took about a half hour for me to figure things out on my end. I am not a technical person, really, and the fact that M. and I met through a chatroom and private emails continues to astound me.

I suppose that's what got him excited yesterday. The green pixel script, the 'lol' at the end of my hastily typed sentences. He remembered, he said, what that felt like, to hear that little computer generated beep and know that I'd just sent a line or two. Our lives were so different back then, with him finishing up the end of his marriage, and me just beginning to dismantle the life on my end. No children between us, only our respective disappointments and subsequent depression, and the discovery that life can start all over again, when you least expect it to. When I told him that I'd considered flashing him when we finally got the cameras working, he asked why I didn't. I told him that I hadn't wanted to offend him, and he looked incredulous. Why would that offend him?, he asked. There was no use in explaining it. He'd think I was crazy and I'd still think he wouldn't have appreciated it. This morning, though, I stood in a black bra and underwear and caught him standing by the doorway, admiring me. He said I could walk down a beach like that and I'd look good, to which I snorted and said 'like that will ever happen.' I liked that, though. I like that he thinks I look good. I don't feel like I've heard that enough, yet.

The anxiousness of this morning is still here, probably won't let go until tomorrow, as is the usual routine. I will admit to feeling a little bit of self-loathing on the drive toward the business college, tired of always feeling so chained to myself. If you have experienced this, you probably know what I'm talking about. It's such a desperate, angry feeling, like you can't figure out why you try at anything at all, and when it's gone you hate yourself for being so weak, for letting it best you. After all this time, you'd think I'd have some control over it. I am much better than I used to be, though. My fear is, however, that I'll move backward. It's always the same fear.

There's a bit of snobbishness in me, I have discovered. While sitting on the computer doing my assessment exams, I stole a look around the room and took in the other students. I became very aware that there was no one in the room who looked polished in the way that a professional person would. I didn't see any kind of person I might strike up a friendship with, and I wondered what that meant. Most were slovenly, a great many were overweight, and oddly enough, the men seemed...unauthoritative? Like the guy next to me, the 'IT guy', as he referred to himself. He spoke about himself a lot, had that slick salesman kind of speak and the smell of nicotine kept wafting in my direction. Frankly, I hate that kind of guy, have no time for them, often feeling dirty just for being anywhere near them. To my left were two women who were comparing deadbeat ex-husband stories, and I was depressed just listening to them. They spoke in a way which lead me to conclude that they weren't very educated, but then, they were there, trying to improve themselves, so I had to give them credit for that. What surprised me was how seriously they took themselves, trading war stories with such enthusiasm that you almost believed they were a confident as they sounded. Everywhere I looked were sadsacks, people with horrid clothing, excessive body weight, lack of personal hygiene, and I wondered if I was in the right place after all. Am I one of these people?, I wondered. I knew it was horrible of me to wonder about, but really, it's a fear of mine, to be that kind of person.

What I am referring to are the bingo players, the heavy drinkers, the slickster-bo-bicksters. Essentially, the people who look and sound lower class. Now, it's wrong of me to judge people on their looks, sure, but sometimes the cover really does tell you what's in the book, you know? I have no idea what class I'd fit into, but I know that this wasn't it, so a part of me wanted to run away and I had to work really hard to suppress the urge. At one point, a young woman with incredibly heavy eyeliner came over to offer me a piece of cake (someone's birthday), and as I was in a time crunch, trying to finish the exam by the deadline, I smiled and said 'no, thank you'. She looked at me like I was crazy, and I quickly returned to my work. Truth is, I don't want any of that if I go to that school. I want to do the work and get out. I don't want cake and I don't want conversation. I want to get the skills I need to get on with life, that's all. That's what I was thinking, as I typed away and averted eye contact with all the cake eaters.

But, not all of this was me. This was the anxiety talking. I get incredibly defensive and introverted when I'm feeling the adrenaline, and offering me cake in such a mood is like asking if I'd like a punch in the face.

When I went in to meet with the director, a very lovely woman with a heavy Slavic accent, I inadvertently let it spill that I was worried about how well regarded the school was. I blame it on the anxiety. It makes me all too honest. She smiled and told me her story, how she'd come here years ago, moved up the ladder in the retail sector and one day found herself jobless. She did exactly what I've been doing, worked with an employment counsellor, started taking the same business courses, and is now the head honcho at the college. I could tell that she knew what I was thinking, and her face was extremely warm and reassuring. She then went on to say that more than half of the people she has enrolled have their university educations, but none of their degrees could get them a job. They don't have any practical skills, she said easily. She then told me not to worry, that what I'm doing is the smartest thing, the thing she'd do if she had to do it all over again. I then admitted that I would really prefer a creative career, but there aren't many which will pay the mortgage. No, she smiled and shook her head lightly, I've actually heard a quote by a writer, can't remember his name, that if you're going to be a writer, you need to have a day job.

Sounds about right.

Basically, I got on my high horse because I feel like I am better than the people I saw there, eating cake with their mouths open, smelling of smoke breaks in the parking lot. I know it's wrong of me. I mean, what have I accomplished that makes me any better than anyone else? Sure, I know which fork to use first in a restaurant with cloth napkins and I can speak a bit of French and the man I share my life with is fairly educated and world-travelled, but none of that means much, does it? When you can't pay the phone bill, does it matter if you like Kraft slices or Camembert?

The thing is, I've always had very specific interests, and they tend to separate me from the pack. Because of that feeling of being an ill-fit, I adapted to it in such a way that allowed me to think I was in a better category. My way of coping. Now, I am going to be back there again, surrounded by people I have little in common with, and they'll be judging me, surely, because I intend to focus only on the work, and that's okay. Maybe I do think a little highly of myself at times, but that's not going to change. I am what I am. I like Camembert.

So, I'm apprehensive about things and I'm probably projecting because I'm worried. I'm anxious and humourless and I have no patience for smokers who eat cake with their mouths open while discussing bingo. I'm sure they're all good people, and I'm just behaving badly because I have an image of myself that I'm not living up to.

What I see for myself is this: a home on a sunny hill, surrounded by trees, and me, in front of an open window, writing away, while a cup of tea cools next to me. I see sunshine, I smell flowers and I feel free. I want dinner on a stone patio with red wine and green salads. I want to hear waves in the distance, to know that I can sit outside and breathe in deeply without fear of inhaling the city or the fervour of those who won't abandon the rat race. I see books and I hear music and I feel calm. I want to be the potter, the writer, the painter, the singer, the reader, the talker, the lover, the wife, the mother and the friend. Right now, because that version of me is so far in the distance, I am sick with fear that I'll never get there. That destination, that person in that place, is the me I feel I am. This person now, the one who needs to work in order to pay for the half-life I'm living, is a bitter pill who lacks compassion for anyone but herself.

What's meant to be, will be. Until then, let them eat cake?