the front door

I sit on the couch vaguely wishing I had a tumultuous episode to write about. This is what motivates most Vice writers. Isn’t it. Perhaps a decade long weed dependency, perhaps  a mental funk that digresses into a 2 year depression. That’s pretty interesting.

Or just maybe my life – my life which is quite fine and exactly where I want it – is interesting in a quotidian way. I wonder...

I curate my day beginning with clothes. My clothes represent how I’m feeling. A pencil skirt with ankle boots, some kind of blouse top thing I ran up on the sewing machine. Hair tied back, colourful craft earrings. That says: “Righto day, let’s be having you”. I will strut the corridors at work pretending that government administration is my career choice. I will engage in conversation with whosoever has the courage to make eye contact with me in the kitchen as I make a cup of tea. My tattoos flourish below my short sleeves, a signifier that I am not as dull as the grey bureaucratic environment wants me to be. This is a good day.

A not so good day would look like black slim tapered trousers, flat sandals, a dark coloured loose fitting top, hair down. This says: “please don’t talk to me because I find you very annoying. All of you”. The regulars at the bus stop. The team of misfits and wastrels (of which I am both) that I work with. The frumpy middle aged women endlessly washing up plastic containers in the kitchen at work after some overly elaborate luncheon. Eat a fucking sandwich.

It is Sunday and I sit on the couch in misshapen navy sweat pants, aqua singlet, and a blue cardigan that was difficult to choose from my drawer of cardigans. As if the one I choose has sartorial significance to the not one person I will see today. I contemplate doing the laundry. It (the laundry) involves opening the front door, walking down the stairs to the washing machine in the garage. It is 1:10pm and I've been considering the laundry since yesterday. It is time.