A little rough around the edges, inside a little hollow

I’m 46 years old and I still get tracked inside a store like a shoplifter.

I was very pissed off about this when I was a teenager, being profiled for my look, which admittedly was not super friendly back then. Sometimes I stole just to spite the assholes for looking at me, to beat them at their game of gotcha. Not always. Much of the time I took shit that I needed or really wanted and for which there was no money. Gloves, hats, food, makeup, etc. I graduated after a while to group of semi-professionals, one girl taught me the ropes of stealing clothes from department stores and introduced me to some people who took things off of delivery trucks, which were fenced. Everyone involved in helping pull things off got a cut, even if all you were doing was distracting the stock worker for a few minutes. Ah, the days before security cameras everywhere, when the worst that could happen was a juvenile record, which you could get sealed if need be.

I stopped that shit the day I turned 18, knowing how the system works.

I look like trouble, I know. I always have. And even though I’m a middle-aged, suburban mom with a full-time job, a paid off car and a (stagnant) retirement account, when I go into a drugstore, suddenly the lady behind the counter has some really important re-shelving she has to attend to in whatever aisle I am in. All of the aisles I am in, coincidentally. I try not to take it personally. I mean, I know how I look, and motorcycle boots, leggings and a skull sweatshirt don’t exactly scream Carol Brady, so I let them go ahead and attempt to avoid staring at me. I have nothing to hide; I pay for all my shit. It was just the start of one of those days where I really felt all day like I don’t fit in – to my life, to anywhere, to anything, and there’s nobody around who gives a crap about my whining, which is fine. There are much bigger problems in the world, I know. Keep it in perspective.

No cutesy family pictures of Easter for me. We don’t celebrate Easter, at least not in the religious way. But my kid is way into the bunny deal, so we color and hide eggs every year. I set an alarm at 4:30 a.m. to get up and hide the fucking things, and then didn’t have to pretend extreme lethargy when the kid woke me about three hours later, saying he “saw something round in the hallway on the floor, and get up, Mom!” I had a very practiced surprised-but-bored face that I put on, which was easy because I was beat. Doubt we will get much more mileage out of the bunny, but if he’s into it next year, the kid is getting all plastic eggs, which I am hiding before bed the night before.

I did manage to convince him that he loved deviled eggs, which he has heretofore refused to even try, and he ate three halves, even one of the ones sprinkled with a tiny bit of cayenne since I was out of paprika. So that’s a win.

But all day long, the pictures and stories of people and their loving families, and I couldn’t even identify in any way. No family sharing laughs and making memories, though my Mom did insist I come over this morning after I took Bones to his Dad’s, to watch some woman speaking on public television about aging – there’s an hour I’ll never get back. My own version of a spring celebration was a couple of weeks ago (Ostara). Even growing up, we didn’t celebrate Easter conventionally, as my Dad’s half of the family was Greek orthodox and their Easter is never the same day as everyone else’s. My parents never took us to anything like an egg hunt, and certainly not to church. So it all feels a little disjointed.

The whole day just hasn’t sat right. I’m restless. I had terrible fucking computer/phone problems for several hours, which made me want to stab someone with a meat fork. I ate too little, and then too much, and went for a long walk twice as I’m trying hard to rehabilitate my leg quickly so I can get back to running. I also lifted weights, hard and fast, to get some of the acid out of me, and shuffled things around in the apartment with general malaise and discontent. Sometimes it seems all I do is dishes, laundry, and bag up the trash, in an endless loop, like some crappy internet gif I can’t break out of, all stringy hair and yoga pants and grim expression.

It’s spring break for Bones this week. He’s with his Dad until Weds night when I pick him up, supposedly all packed and ready to go on a short road trip Thursday and Friday. Which I feel like doing about as much as I feel like hitting myself in the face with a hot iron, but maybe I’ll get in the mood once we get going.

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