Sundaze

What is it about a Sunday? It may be the fact that I've been up and about since 4:30 am, or it could be the shots of espresso coursing through my veins, causing who knows what damage, but I really had to write something today.

So here we are. I'm sitting at this desk. Above me is a speaker, Fleet Foxes' Robin Pecknold is serenading me, his howling croon rising and falling over pleasant guitars and keyboards. He gives way to the Beatles, singing of socialism and the glory of a fallen country. What takes up most of my view is a rack of picture books, Dora mingling with vaguely Christian bears, Clifford and Scooby Doo spinning over and around one another.

The customers are a mixed bag. An older woman jokes with me about the weather, concluding with the common 'That's Michigan for you' before walking away. A young woman with a British accent goes from flirty to staring at me with some confusion when I ask if she wants her receipt in the bag, answering the question as if I was asking her opinion on whether cat or dog vomit tastes better.

Ah well. Christ, you know it ain't easy.

Yoga

I must be doing it wrong. I'm in pain today.

That's all. No pithy comments, no attempts to be funny, just genuine aches from being jammed ways that I was not meant to bend.

Lady, you're not 18 anymore

I work two jobs, both in a suburban shopping mall. Malls like this are an ideal place for people watching. Sitting at the back register today, I've seen a troup of mall goths trying to decide if it's worth attempting to steal manga from right under my nose. I've seen at least one man trapped perpetually in the 80s, unfashionable acid-washed jeans and a beautifully tough girlfriend who looks like she gets out in the deer blind with him.

And I've seen my favorite, the mom-teen.

Let me explain. This is not like the television show, where young women who somehow decided that allowing a tv camera to film an extremely stressful portion of their lives was a good idea air their dirty laundry exploitatively. Notice the reversal of the words, as well as the hyphen. These are both indicative of what you're looking for. These are the women (and occasionally men, though this is far less common) who dress like their kids. They parade in a PINK Victoria's Secret hoodie over a matching tee, with jeans that are more bedazzled than their daughters and a complexion that is giving over to leathery.

Am I being harsh? Yes. But I think it comes more from a feeling of pity than anything else. These people, the mom-teens, the mall goths, the sex-section browsers (I didn't mention them by design, as they often are the most uncomfortable people to watch) are all acting this way because, as I see it, they don't really know themselves. They haven't really found a direction and cling to this 'other' instead.

I'm not the most self-aware person. Let's be honest, going back through this blog and my old livejournal (man, that's embarrassing to read) there are more than a few 'woe is me, I'm alone forever' entries. But with changes in a few things (body-chemistry and medicine being part of it) I'm feeling a lot better, and more human. I've found some stuff to believe in.

And the best part? I don't need to wear bedazzled jeans.