Putting on your underwear inside out

Yesterday I put my hosiery on inside out. This morning it was my panties. Tomorrow it will be my bra. The day thereafter is up for negotiation. Apparently, wearing your underwear inside out is a sign of good luck…

But what does good luck mean? Does it mean that I awoke on a Monday morning to a blanket of snow? Does it mean that the heating in my apartment makes it all toasty? Does it mean that I neither slipped nor slid while walking on frozen water? Does it mean that I received his later, two years too late?

Dear Mae
You saved me. You think it was only that one time when I held the gun to my head. But there were other times. Times when you broke through the heavy silence without saying a word. Times when your presence is all that kept me afloat. Depression can be 
unbearable. You. You brought sunlight.
You were also right that night when you said we would not last. The way you said it chilled me more than the actual words. That night haunts me. You knew then. Perhaps I did too but I wanted to be the man you made a life with.
Do you regret us? I don’t, for me. I do, for you. Slowly I see that I healed in our relationship and you were hacked to near death. I don’t know how you survived me. Did you survive?
I’m so very sorry. I didn’t mean to break your heart.

If you lay long enough in the snow your lips turn blue. The snow melts and soaks upwards towards your back and scalp. There are no discernible clouds on a snowy day. The sky is one big grey mass.

If you lay long enough in the snow you don’t feel your lips anymore. The snow wrinkles the skin on your back and buttocks. You begin seeing shapes and distilled rays of light. The sky becomes ever more gentle with soft, fluffy flakes because rain would be too cruel on a day you lose a lover for the second time.

Sunday read

Reading Shonda Rhimes book, The Year of Yes, happened a certain way. It was on the reading list (though admittedly close to the bottom). Then someone I know suggested it to me. Next thing you know I have it in hand. A library copy. Hard copy. White, hard copy. White, hard copy with gold lettering. It is smaller than an A5 and just over 301 pages long. I have other readings to do. Dissertation readings. Course work readings. Articles saved on Facebook reading. Starred items in my inbox readings. I try reading it over breakfast. It doesn’t work. I am too awkward and am still adjusting to my new environment. I pack it in to read on the bus. The bus ride is too short for the book to get my full attention. Another bus ride is too eventful.

I try again because I am not a quitter. I arrive at the bus stop chic as all hell. My black and white polka dot circle skirt does what circle skirt do. It floats. I’ve coupled it with a simple black thin strapped top. I look simple yet elegant. I have a beautiful red bag on my shoulder. The book is in one hand and I have coffee in the other. Sophistication personified.

Until. The wind picks up. Which is fine, but it gently then violently starts to rain and despite sitting at a rather sheltered bus stop the wind whips the rain into my face and I jump up to shield myself at the billboard. Except the wind tunnels under the billboard and picks up my skirt so that I am in an awkward, ungainly pose. Trying to hold down my dress while balancing my coffee in one hand and the book in the other. The wind adds a biting edge to the rain and I’m not wearing the right shoes for all this activity. I am now damp and messy, stripped of sophistication pendant. And there is coffee and rain water on the book’s cover…