1 - Care For What you Wish For

'Miss Mabel's Marvelous Mystery Mecca.' That sounds a little high handed, doesn't it? Really intriguing, though." Toni stretches long and lean, effortlessly gliding into the final repitition of three sun salutations. Arms stretch upward; breath slow, deliberate, even. Reposed. She is a yoga instructor and class host so movement in flow is second nature for her. "I'll be finished in three minutes, then we can head out. Maybe we can grab ice cream afterwards. Ooh, maybe i can find a cool pair of flow pants."

Internally, I cringe, and my hands instinctively fold to protect my ample midsection. Life, choices, environment, economics - whatever the factor, the end result is my current body shape. It's the same as it ever was, despite at least forty-two attempts at dietary / lifestyle tweaks.

I'm not pregnant. I'm fat, and strangely, almost awkwardly so. At least, that's what random strangers over the course of my life have seen fit to communicate to me. Thus begins another go at living my Healthy Best; this particular iteration seems to be weathering better than previous attempts: are the results cumulative?

Of course not. The only thing cumulative in my life is disappointment; entropy continues an irritating march towards its own undoing, yes – anything done is swiftly undone. I strongly feel that mindset anytime interaction outside of my ‘bubble’ is undertaken, particularly when it comes to participating in potentially daunting societal rituals.

Like eating in restaurants: Toni is a size four. In order to maintain my personality patina of the ever sassy, sometimes insightful, eternally dependable, treasured buddy – the word choice deliberate; I am not considered a close friend – I will cloak myself in (what passes in my mind for) witty humor. No judgement, no shame, no regrets in those choices of expression. Hence I, too, am a size four (times four, subtract one and two thirds).

Still. My body is currently mad at processed sugar (again), and lactose based probiotics (pretty much always). So a quick jaunt into a fro-yo shop sounds not only like a little slice of hell, given it has currently started to sleet outside… might as well take time to speak up. I’ve been told by more than a few of my friends that I may, perhaps, be too subtle in my communications. That I should ‘speak my truth’ more often, and it is always appreciated and relished when I do. Trouble is, encouraging such an open channel of discourse, from one not yourself, implies you're being on the other end to Receive said discourse, yes?

Too subtle?

“I think the shop is gonna be fun, and that’s a hard pass on the ice cream experience. Right now, being around all that sugar would be triggering for me, honestly. And the weather just turned nasty.”

Toni’s hoodie is on, now – an adorably snug fitting patchwork offering for those embracing the eternal, BoHo before it was picked up by the masses, ‘Art is Life’ creatives who celebrate through a bon vivance of spontaneously joyous fashion choices. We have similar hoodies on; such uniqueness is, happily, readily available at one of our still surviving local indie shops. “Oh, that hoodie is really cute! Did you get it from Kathmandu? I didn’t know they carried such a big range of sizes.”

Really, bitch? She doesn’t notice the fleeting look of disgust that plays across my face. This is that subtle communication I’ve been accused of; no use in looking for a non-existent apology to an unidentified micro aggression. “It’s either a medium or a large; I loved the color.”

“Really? I wear a small...”

And – cue sass. “I should be sure, man – I have thirteen hoodies from this same shop that I’ve collected over the years. I told YOU about Kathmandu. You and I have talked about the concept of ‘free size’ no less than six times, and how it was refreshing to find a shop that didn’t feel the need to highlight body size differences. I get that enough in every day life from people and their obtuse microaggressions – kind of like what you just did asking me about the size of my hoodie.”

The look on Toni’s face, at a glance, shows remorse. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. Oh, man – I feel so bad now; what am I doing being a healer? Maybe I should sign up for this Mindfulness Seminar that’s happening online through Namaste Studios; it’s a little expensive but I can swing it. Oh, ice cream is gonna help me feel better about this. You wouldn’t mind waiting in the car while I run in and smash a cup or two, would you? I don’t want to upset you any more than I already have...” She’s still talking as she heads to the car.

By the way – she is one of the people I know who are constantly encouraging me to Speak my Truth.

My hoodie is cute, by the way. Fashion (at least my personal expression thereof) has never let me down.

I’m not Crazy.

*Home.* That is the first word that immediately matches the resonance this place has upon first entering. Which comes with its own sense of anticipation, curiosity – and relief, since Toni absolutely insists on dropping me off, so she can run and get her ice cream (“...Even though I know it’s gonna bloat me and I want to find a cute pair of pants for this drum circle i’m going to this weekend. I really shouldn’t; my muscle testing is telling me not to – so, I shouldn’t go. Should I? What should I do?”)

That’s my cue to offer her words of encouragement and soothing (“Gurl, bye! I just landed Home. See you in a bit!”). As she calling out her return time, i’m halfway in the door – and already fully immersed in wonder.

You see, the things that consistently bring me Joy – many of them are collected, to one degree or another, in my house. It isn’t a case of hoarding; everything is meticulously… curated, like my dwelling is its own Museum, House of Wonders, Witch’s Abode and Magical Faerie Hideout rolled into one. The domicile of a shaman leaning (yet mostly drug free) crazy cat lady (with only two cats), i’ve had friends into feng shui tour my house clutching all their pearls – in delight. Kick-knack heaven, it’s been called. A Relicquary. The wilded out Freehold. For me, it’s where I can indulge my need to assuage my not-so-inner Dragon. A Unique cache of nerdy, shiny, valuable (to me) trove of Stuff.

Maybe a bit less Dragon, a bit more… Crow?

It all makes sense to me.

I’m not crazy. Just a Taurus.

So it is with extremely High Praise that I describe this place as ‘Home’. Where else could one find a seven foot tall giraffe lamp? I mean, I never knew I needed a ‘baby emerging from oversized coffee canister’ sculpture. Or an articulated tartigrade figurine. Books, crystal cathedrals, tapestries, tons of beautiful clothes (all ‘free size’, I might add), acupuncture chart posters, a rack of magnets, jewelry…

“See anything that catches your eye?” I look up towards the rear of the shop, as the voice is emerging from the back stockroom (of COURSE they have a beaded curtain) -

Words catch in my throat; the usual offhanded classy quips of “why, you’ll do quite nicely”, or “stand there for a bit; I’m still looking...” are avalanched by the storm of pheromones flooding my system. It throws me for a loop, and for a moment my mental panorama is overwhelmed. A Thousand images; some are carnal, many are not – they all involve him, and feel incredibly visceral. Alien, and disturbing, and hauntingly familiar…

“I… could… work with this.”

What. The. Fuck.

Where did that dork ass response come from?

(Deep within my soul, I know. It was a rhetorical musing)

He laughs. “Well, we are looking for a full-time employee. Miss Mabel is often away on business matters, and it gets a bit overwhelming minding this place solo.” From his pocket he pulls a beat up black notebook – you know, the kind popular teens used to use in the days before cell phones. From the register area, a pen. “Let me grab your info so I can contact you later – and, a couple of quick questions.”

I want to bolt out of there and wait for Toni in the lot around the corner, but the weather is really bad at the moment. “Okay, sure.”

I have never been comfortable with my own emotional surges when they happen; the awkward teenager might have evolved into a socially functional adult to most people’s eyes, but inside my heart is threatening to explode from my ribcage (no matter how romantic a picture that’s supposed to paint, it would most assuredly NOT be pretty). It would be so much easier if I could disappear…

“Why do you want to disappear?” His question jolts me back into reality; I absolutely did not employ my ‘inside voice’ on the outside – this time.

“Why are you inside my head?”

He smiles, crooked and radiant. “Would you rather I be elsewhere?”

Instinctively, I frown, “Is this an interview question?” If you’re listening to my thoughts, then hear this: my hormone surges are none of your damn business. I’m not kidding.

He cocks his head to the left. “Okay. How much are you looking to make? Give me a dream offer.”

Buddy, you are Weird. “Well, I have my own gig doing markets twice a week, so not sure how much time I could really commit to the store here.”

“How about if I could offer you a sign on bonus?” Without waiting for an answer, he begins jotting notes down again.

This is creeping me out a bit, and – my mind goes to what I could do with a sign-on bonus, depending on what I asked for. Bills paid, maybe my car fixed. More ingredients to make product. A bit of a money cushion so I wouldn’t stress so much would be lovely; living as an underground artist is both freeing and restricting, simultaneously. How much would that be? Twenty grand? It would be a tremendous help, and also a dick move; this is obviously a sole proprietorship. While most people wouldn’t think twice about asking the moon, I’ve been in their shoes. Hell, I’m there now…

*Swish*

I didn’t hear him head to the back, but I heard him return. He puts the notebook on the counter, and hands me what appears to be a cashier’s check – for twenty grand. “Here you go. If that works for you, I can run back and grab paperwork.”

It takes intestinal fortitude to look him in the (malachite? Azurite? I love that stone combo, bit i’ve never seen that color in someone’s) eyes. “I can’t take this. You’re a two person shop and an advance like this would break the bank.”

“It Could. And it won’t. And I’m sorry if I’m in your head, but i’m not really sorry at all. This shop is kinda… Unique. And I could use a hand. Really. I can afford it. I can afford – You.”

Sigh. “Okay, man. I can help out.” I look around the shop, already taking tally of priceless (to me) items and tchotchkes to covet. “Careful what you wish for, though.”

“Oh, I Do! Be right back!” Off he goes to retrieve paperwork.

Hmm. Left the house to window shop with a friend, ended up employed by a beautiful, possibly neuro-divergent, probably telepathic, hunk of a boss.

This definitely sounds like a day in the life.

I can’t help but peek at what he wrote in the book, after my name and info. It’s sitting right here; a quick look won’t hurt.

What I see is – out of context, synchronous, startling - and explains his last response.

*...Care for What You Wish For...*

I think… today… is a Beginning.

I Hope.