transcribing snapshots

 It is winter where I am and the wind can knock you off those too expensive stiletto heels that you saw Jennifer Aniston wearing and just had to have. It was crazy to buy them, standing flat footed you are already almost five feet eight inches tall, but everyone keeps whispering about how beautiful tall women are, so you pretend you don’t notice the way you tower over everyone like a professional basketball player in Chinatown. The heels make your legs look longer, anyhow.

It’s frightfully cold out, and while everyone is decorating Christmas trees and making plans to be with family, you are stuck inside a poorly insulated studio apartment staring at a wall of post-it notes. The ability to remain so organized is enviable, but after re-reading the same chapter five times in a row, it becomes more difficult to believe that any of what you have written so far could be considered “good.” Yet, you remind yourself that if Stephanie Meyer could churn out the crap that was the Twilight Saga and people praised her, it stands to reason you could do something decent. Then again, Stephanie Meyer has a degree in English, and you work at a bookstore for a wink above minimum wage.

It cannot be easy, one would venture to guess, to watch your close friends fall in love and get married without thinking you could do it better. So it stands to reason that no matter how much you like those friends, somewhere inside, you like yourself more. Maybe that’s why it feels like you are always drawing the short straw. Maybe your straw isn’t really the short one at all; it’s just not as pretty or smart as the straws you really wanted. Maybe you drew a bendy straw and you have to straighten it out and stretch the crinkled part out a bit to feel like a winner. Maybe this game of drawing straws takes effort. Then again, you are the one that decided to be an artist. It could be you cut your own straw before the game even started.

Its winter where I am and you have no idea what you’re doing. There is no plan; you cannot even decipher which angle to play. You are wide-eyed, confused with not a single definite thought in that pretty little head. You drink coffee in the morning, you carry a laptop with you everywhere. You eat dinner at night, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. You drink too much wine sometimes and say things that are very true. You talk about how none of you know what to do next. Yet somehow, when it’s a “we”, and it’s not “you” and it’s not “them,” it feels okay to not have a clue. Being unmarried doesn’t mean being alone. Being single doesn’t have to be lonely.

It’s frightfully cold out, and the temperature is dropping. Your worries and concerns will never keep you warm. The next move is to simply keep moving. And maybe spend your money on scarves, not stilettos.