Two years ago, a former colleague slam-dunked a job opening in my inbox, told me to apply, and winked. She quit for the same reasons I needed to, and her gesture was a last-ditch effort to help push me toward an exit while she made her own.
Praise pussy for that woman, for the blessing she bestowed upon me resulted in (spoiler) a new job. And lo! it is good.
I turned 27 years old this morning at 6:49 a.m., and it feels really damn good. So good, in fact, that I hardly scoffed at the torrential downpour that completely soaked my pants on my walk to my office. The cards and daisies that littered my desk made up for it.
If there is one thing our parents raised us to be, it’s honest people. Growing up, we were given the space and the freedom to make our own mistakes with the expectation that no matter the grandeur of our follies, we would clean up our messes with a little grace, and a lot of truth. Liars were not welcome at our kitchen table.
The journey to her couch took six weeks of suffering before I arrived. I claimed one corner and pulled my knees to my chest, effectively shrinking myself to a pathetic dot. I assumed that if the world intended to swallow me, I’d go down easier that way. I held my feet for comfort, then glanced at my savior with total desperation—I wanted her to save me.
Thesaurus.com and I were on good terms, until I plunked “self-love” in its search bar and it retorted with “narcissism” and “vainglory.” Then we broke up.
Post-college graduation, I was lucky enough to snag a full-time job only two months after crossing the stage. Which, given the job market, was a miracle. And while I was happy to avoid the panic prompted by unemployment and too much debt, I was, to be frank, fucking terrified.
I pulled my favorite scarf—a black and brown pashmina—from its hook, and draped it on my crown. With the tips of my fingers, I nervously swirled the soft fabric around my face, carefully weaving each fold beneath my chin and around my shoulders. My mane escaped in protest, but I was thankful for its coverage, if only to hide the unease I’d created for myself.
A handmade lunar calendar hangs plainly in my kitchen. It’s composed of black ink pressed deep into thick cotton paper. Each month spirals into itself like a snail’s shell, displaying daily moon phases, and highlighting new and full moons, and zodiac transitions. I peep it every morning.
I cannot see my toes—my child is hiding them. She’s nestled sweetly in my womb, tucked away from the outside, patiently awaiting her exit. I know it’s a girl—I can feel her. My fingers are stretched across the bulge of my belly; it’s soft, warm, and incredibly large.
I’m close.
At twenty, I modeled nude. My mom called mid-shoot to threaten the photographer, a close friend, with ruthless castration in the event he got fresh. My dad nodded politely at the news as he delicately fingered the invisible shotgun resting in his palms. But joking aside, my experience was wildly exhilarating and wholly empowering; an opportunity to capture a state of being not typically observed and a testament to my monumental self-confidence.
