Indecisive Peach

I own a few shirts of my father. Some were hand-me-downs, some were intentionally kept and tossed my way, and some were stolen.

One of my favorite shirts is one that I never can remember him actually wearing. I can’t know quite remember how I came by it – maybe I found in the back of the closet as a rummaged around in early high school, maybe my Mom pawned it off on me to clear space. Either way, as I pounced and slipped it on, hopping around giddily in front of my Dad, he just scrunched his face and said, “Oh, that one.” 

It’s like gauze, soft with age, striped in pastels, and has a collar and a pocket. Everything a girl, in my mind, needs. It’s perfect for hot summer days, enough to wear with a tank top, but enough to afford me a flowing shield against the contours of my body.  I have dozens of pictures of myself wearing it through the years.

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I showed this to J and waited for him to laugh.

“I don’t get it,” he said slowly.

I slowly read it out, waiting for him to catch it.

“I still…don’t understand. Is this a song?”

“It’s Prince.”

“Oh.”

“When Doves Cry?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

I give my best imitation. He shrugs.

I look blankly at him, “What I want to know…”

“Yes?”

“Is how the hell did you survive the 90′s without hearing that song?”

I get on the phone with my aunt this afternoon where she tells me that she finally showed her boyfriend my site for the first time.

“Shoot, I’ve haven’t done anything with that in a week or so,” I mumble.

“Ja, da war nicht viel los,” she said dryly.

It’s true; there hasn’t been a lot going on here. I’ve seen the light at the end of the grad school tunnel, but it’s that light that I’m shielding my eyes from instead of typing. I’ve been spending the last two weeks working on this beast of a reflective portfolio, dissecting what it all Means, and how you Feel, and how you can Connect between Theory and Reality. And I’m Getting Tired Of The Importance Of It All. So, the thought of coming here to give out more slices of my life in my life would have probably drowned me mentally.

In addition, I’ve had an influx of hormones the last week, reaching a crescendo late Friday night and petering out on Sunday morning. I felt as if I were stumbling around in a thick fog, head rearing backward, clutching my heart with one hand, waving my other arm into damp air and accumulating liquid in my lungs which made every breath rattle.

This, translated into reality, meant that I sit listlessly on the couch staring at the television. But if we ever actually did get preciptiation here, I’d be first in line for such a dramatic enacting of that imagery.

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