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.
Six weeks ago, I was inked.
After dizzying myself with concept-crafting, note-taking, researching artists, perusing portfolios, and coming to terms with having my body permanently marked, I offered myself as a human canvas for my blooming heart.
As a uniquely named child, I lost when it came to one of life’s cheaper thrills; monogrammed heart keychains. Dig as I may through the spinning tower of trinkets, I knew I’d never find a “Vicari” among the sea of abundant “Veronicas” and “Victorias.” I never wished for a re-name, but as a tiny, fashion-forward human, a sister just wanted a sparkly Vicari-heart dangling from her backpack. So I often settled for my first initial etched onto some cheap piece of nothing.
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.
Since my breach of adulthood, I’ve surprised my peers with my lack of ink. Maybe they saw my nose ring as a precursor for something more daring. Perhaps a tattoo was expected because of my, er, free-spirited nature. Maybe because, as an artist, it made sense to have something as creative as my brain displayed on my body. Or perhaps it’s my affinity for the bold. Whatever the reason, it surprised them.
Come Monday, every gym in America will turn Battle Royale as meatheads and hard bodies alike gear up to defend valuable floorspace against the flood of the newly resolved. But February will happen, and most will fall to inertia.
Each December, I compile a list of things to do and accomplish during the upcoming year. Some things are vague and perpetual, some things are oddly specific. Regardless of its contents, its purpose is to encourage new adventures, and spend some quality time galavanting beyond the confines of the comfort zone. Because that’s where growth happens.
I’m lucky to never have felt the sting of death.
My paternal grandparents died when I was too young to comprehend what it meant or felt like to lose someone special. My parents, siblings, and relatives are alive and well, mostly. My friends too. Pets have passed, and while devastatingly so, mourning that loss hardly compares to the deep-rooted sorrow of losing a loved one.
Early this week, I stocked my slow-cooker with roast, carrots, celery, onion, broth, and a slew of herbs in preparation to feast like a queen, for no particular reason other than it was Sunday, and it sounded delicious. The timer buzzed two hours later, I lifted the lid, and an aroma most divine sucker-punched my schnoz. It tasted incredible.
I twist the knob to the left letting hot water pour from the spout. It hits the ceramic and floods the tub, steam rising. Lavender, rose, and eucalyptus notes saturate the air transforming basic bathroom to luxury spa. It’s dark.
SO VICARIOUS 