A Television Set or a Nice Steak or a Mirage

Every time I walk into a gas station in any town along any highway in this country, I can feel the weight of my chest. I can feel the underwear I am wearing: how they fit, how they bisect my backside. I can feel the size, color, and softness of my lips. I can feel every muscle involved in my pivoting hips. When I open the cooler door to grab an iced tea, the cold air and the man to my left remind me that I am not wearing a bra and that I exist as a plane with peaking points of interest. My society forces me to be constantly self-conscious. I know what my body looks like. All the time. I am a woman.

The difficult thing about speaking to situations such as gas station elevator eyes is that they are seemingly harmless. There is no physicality to it. Discomfort is nearly silent. Nearly invisible. It is easy for our man’s world to brush it off as women playing a card or being overly sensitive, the way our man’s world brushes off many attempts at women feeling comfortable in their lives.

When a strange man asks me if the carpet matches the drapes or tells me that he bets I give good head, it doesn’t mean much to me on it’s own. It is commonplace. It is a set of words that at most makes me uncomfortable and a bit more pessimistic towards mankind. The real problem with calling a woman ‘baby’ and getting frustrated when she doesn’t react well to hollow compliments is that these verbal and nonverbal advances add to the lexicon of fear that we take with us everywhere we go. To every bar. On every walk to work. Into every form of public transportation. Each instance is catalogued. There is an overarching tone that looms, sometimes very quietly, over our tittied bodies.

My having a vagina puts me in danger and introverts me. Some nights, when I know I am to walk home alone, I wear something a bit less flattering than I’d like to. I change the way I walk, swaying less with my hips. When I am warm and want to walk around in my apartment with little clothing on, I have to close the blinds, whether or not I necessarily find that privacy important. Sometimes I can’t believe I do these things. Sometimes I can’t believe I don’t do these things more often.

Trust that I (and most women I know) would tell all catcallers off in some way or another. But, there are plenty of times when I have to curb my natural, angry reaction to ensure my safety. Will anger turn this pervert into an active predator? Will my standing up for myself color me red like a bullseye target? Because I don’t know the answer to this, I have to err on the side of caution. No matter how superior my mind and moral compass may be to these men’s, my body, inferior, will fail me.  It will submit. I stand up for myself by standing down. Trust that this is very hard on my pride. Trust that the last thing I want is for power to remain unchecked by opposition.

I am the first to admit that I worry too much about exceptional hypotheticals. When I assume a murderer is going to somehow break down all 3 doors of my apartment, trap me in my room, stab my cat, and then kidnap me for a lifetime worth of torture, I am worrying too much.  When I go for a run and for the first half mile think about how much it would hurt and cost to break my teeth in a fall, I am worrying too much. But, when I am riding my bike at night and imagining predators around every corner, I am not being paranoid. There is a reason I have to stay alert. We all do. We the half with sexuality that is treated as a prize or a drug or currency, we the half in a species displaying sexual dimorphism, especially have to. Rape culture is very alive and very well.

So, no, being stared down at a bar doesn’t ruin my life or even my day. Being told I should smile more doesn’t send my thoughts to a dark place where they can’t be retrieved. Hearing shit rappers tell me to suck their dick or shit country singers tell me that they’re gonna feed me whiskey and take me back to their pickup truck doesn’t hurt my feelings. It baffles me and frustrates me and makes me want to move to the middle of nowhere, but it doesn’t hurt me. Subtly and slowly, though, it does change me.

I don’t want to think about my breasts when I walk into a bar. I want them to just be there the way my knuckles are there. But, you know, no, I didn’t mean that. I don’t want them to be there the way my knuckles are there, either. They are cuter than that. They are cute little things! We shouldn’t need to desexualize every part of the body, and we never could. Physical attraction is a really fun part of being an animal.  What we need to do is sexualize people in a more civilized way. Associating the body with sex isn’t inherently bad; it is inherently natural. It’s relationship to provocation, however, gets it into trouble.  I don’t want to be a walking invitation, no matter how I dress or carry myself.

I am not a television set or a nice steak or a mirage, do not look at me like I am. You can think that I am sexy, but you cannot possibly think that I am yours.

Remembering The Day The Music Died

Valentine’s Day has been moved, sweethearts. Now you can mush and gush a whole two weeks earlier! Why? Because nothing is more romantic than a few icons spiraling to their deaths.  A young woman miscarrying the day after she learns of her horn-rimmed husband’s death, now that’s something to make you hold on to your loves for dear, dear life.

February 3rd, 1959 was the day the music died. Thirty-three years later, my mom promised my dad that if my soon-to-be brother were born on that day, they would name him Buddy in memory of Buddy Holly. I think she consciously kept him in utero to avoid her first son being called what many, many, many dogs have answered to. Alas, he came on the 4th and lives quietly as a Cody. As it turns out, Cody became a very popular puppy name soon after his birth. Oh, well.

I have come to piggyback the commemoration of the accident that killed some of my father’s favorite artists. This year, fifty-seven from the date of the crash, I am to start a tradition for myself. I am to holiday. The world is big and our brains are even bigger,  thinking whatever they want, thinking quickly in all directions. It’s overwhelming to imagine the infinite thought processes happening at any given moment.  I find comfort in the collective consciousness of holidays. Of hoping that Santa is coming or that there are things to be grateful for or that love and romance can be celebrated in a sweet, unassuming way. So, tonight I’m going to head out to a jukeboxed bar and play “Peggy Sue” or “Oh Donna”. Or, I'm going to pace around my apartment playing "Everyday" on my kid-sized guitar, skipping the F chords because they're too hard. Or, I'm going to dance in my bedroom to "La Bamba" and reach deep into my shallow knowledge of Spanish for translation. I'll be doing something and it’ll be nice to know that there are people at the crash site and people at the monuments helping keep these love songs alive.

Letters to My Past Selves Pt. 2

Dear Casey the Fifth Grade Sloucher,

Just like they say and in just the way they say it: stand up straight. You grew quickly tall and exceptionally lanky for a young girl. You started to curve your spine to stand level with the other girls in gym, to stand shorter than the boys at recess. There were daisies abound, so you hung your head like a late summer sunflower. A sad sight: a flower’s failure in reaching towards the light, a girl trying to blend in.

Your confidence level determined your posture. You shouldn’t have let it do that, because one day your posture will affect your confidence level. Once, when you’re fresh out of college, a well-meaning drunk kid will tell you that if it weren’t for your posture, he’d think you were super hot. You’ll take the back hand from that compliment. It’ll hurt your feelings. You shouldn’t have let it do that. I bet Future Casey will scoff at us for even keeping it in our mind for this long. For still letting boys at play make us feel like shit. Making us question our backbone. But, you and I, the two of us slouchers, want to look pretty, for ourselves and, naturally, for everyone else. Ugly, huh?

But enough about your opposite sex; eventually most of them will catch up in height and who cares anyway? Your spine, however, will not recover without determination and practice, which you still have yet to commit to. Life starts to buzz and it’s hard to remember to fix your day-to-day body for the benefit of your future body. So, if not for avoiding the terribly superficial existence of a disappointing mirror, straighten up for health’s sake. Leave the strain to your stubborn heart. The lingering ache will strengthen you. Leave the loss of shock absorption to your oversaturated, desensitized mind. The growing inability to shrug off horrifying injustice will strengthen you. The curving of your spine will do nothing but damage your body. Stand up straight and for yourself, Beanie Doreenie.

Love,

Casey the Mega Worrier

Cinnaminiatures EOY

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There is no better place to put your words than inside of your best friends' mouths.

Fast and Forward

One of the saddest places you can find yourself is in the comments section of any given YouTube video. Another is in bed with someone that used to love you much more than they do now. You know these as facts, but there you find yourself, reading and reading into.

It’s not quite masochism. It’s more like having quite little will power. It’s more like being unable to change direction once you’ve got momentum. So, you keep on scrolling down to see just how much blind hate strangers have for each other. And you keep sleeping with someone that would rather sleep alone. And you’re up for hours just thinking about what an idiot you are for doing what you do.

One of the happiest places you can find yourself is at the very top of your favorite roller coaster at Six Flags, the greatest America. Another is on the road in tumbleweed country with a good girl by your side, when you’ve left your mind and entered some sort of silly, cathartic limbo. Fast and forward, pedal to metal, gunning for the sun.

You can’t win them all. You can’t win most of them. You actually can’t win many more than just a few. But, you can watch a video all the way through without checking to see what users concealedcarrie14 or Can't Stump Trump have to say. You can stretch out in bed and sleep like an ‘x’ marking a spot that’s all yours. You can buy a can of Coke for reduced admission price to a kitschy theme park. You can hit the road, hard and for days. High hope is dangerous, but moderate hope, say the height of a Christmas tree, is A-OK. 

What We Do Some Sundays in October

We curse the earth for being so beautiful and so unsympathetic and we curse the people that follow its lead.

We go out for breakfast and promise that it will be the last restaurant meal we eat for a week. A week at least.

We find a television channel colored green and gold and we watch it without knowing what we’re seeing. We watch socially and we drink semi-abusively.

We choke up when Humane Society commercials come on.

We get bit by Asian lady beetles that try to winter in our houses.

We talk about Halloween. We lose ourselves on Amazon.com searching for bald caps or fake swords or whatever. We open new tabs to imagine road trips and spring breaks. Our minds spiral into futures of foreign dialects and gas station showers.

We order a pizza for dinner: mushrooms and black olives. Thanks to our combined thimbleful of self-control, we don’t order breadsticks. We promise, “last meal,” “week at least.”

We sit atop the reservoir and talk about the rich women that live high in the skyline.  We are curious as to whether or not they are terrified by thunderstorms and whether or not their concierges help them load their whole foods into the elevator.

We forget to buy flowers at the farmers market. Again and again.

Planning an orchard visit, we wonder if we are the teeth or the apple or the worm or God.

We remember all of the text messages we forgot to reply to this weekend. We assume it’s too late to reply now.

In keeping with our habit of never giving up ghosts, we talk of this summer’s vacations like they were years ago, like it didn’t rain so much, like we didn’t feel lonely even among our best friends, like everything was perfect.

We laugh sweetly and sincerely at each other. We goof around. We love each other. A whole lot.

We get clean for the week ahead and get into bed without makeup or shirts on. We wear underwear, though. We have our periods. We’re in tolerable amounts of pain.

We dread Mondays. We can’t sleep.

We sleep.

High Lives

There were three cans of High Life at the boat landing off of Willow Road and we planned to make them ours. Jesse scoped them out when he went fishing with his uncle the Saturday before.

Our moms asked us where we were headed and we said, “Brenner’s.”

“Oh, good! Ask his mother if she needs anything,” and “I think that’s a great idea.”

The truth was, of course, that we were headed out to learn how to get drunk on 1.5 High Lifes. High Lives. The truth was that Brenner’s dad had recently died in a car accident and Brenner talked about it a lot. Even when we were at pool parties or at the movies with girls. He didn’t hide it away like I did my brother in prison or Jesse did his parents not having enough money for Chuck Taylors. For Brenner, it was all there, out loud. So, some days we ditched him because it was too much. It stretched our budding sympathy too thin. Sometimes we just wanted to hang out without picturing Mr. Daniels mashed up against his car’s dashboard.

When we got close to the boat landing, we stashed our bikes in the bushes. Jesse kept looking over his shoulder as we walked towards the dock. He had 20/20 vision. No cops, so we crept towards that busted down dock and grabbed those cans like they were dreams come true. Or Kristy’s tits or Lara’s or someone’s.

We ran into a clearing that we knew eventually emptied out into Brookside Park. Jesse, Brenner, and I used to make forts back there when we were younger. There were still remnants of duct tape in the kitchen where we used to spread dandelion heads on birch bark and call it buttered toast. Aluminum cans in tow, we sat down, river rocks vaguely outlining our forest home, which we once imagined to be mansion-big and mansion-fancy.

I opened my can first, which I remember feeling proud of. We synchronized a proper “Cheers!” and Jesse said, “here goes nothin’,” something his five-year-old sister starting saying every time she went outside. Jesse thought it was really annoying and always told her to quit it, but she wasn’t my sister so I didn’t think much of it at all. Thought it was a kid saying kid stuff, big deal.

“Eck.” It tasted like piss or metal.

“Maybe it’s old.”

“Maybe some lake water got in.” I peered into the hole and saw no tell-tale signs of contamination. I guess I assumed contamination would materialize as lime green sludge or something similarly obvious.

“Let’s chug it.” We swallowed as hard as any sewer drain, and fast, too.

“Do you feel anything?” I asked

“I think so.”

“Me too.”

We split the third can sip by sip,  passing it back and forth, our faces twisted up from a taste we’d not yet acquired. When the cans were as empty as cans can be, we crushed them with our sneakers and hid them under the log we used to use as a couch.

Running back to our bikes, we laughed. Hard. Jesse tripped on a root; we were sure we were hammered. We biked around the new cul-de-sac, in and out of driveways that led to early-stage basements or empty lots. My eyes felt warm and I was certain it was harder to steer straight.

“We can’t go home yet, man. They’ll know.” Our parents. The capital They. The Boss.

“We’ll just bike around for a while then. I have gum for our breath.”

So we biked around for a while then. Unless we wanted to circle around the whole town, we had to pass Brenner’s house, so we rode at what we thought was a camouflaging speed. Sure as shit, when we passed Van Buren, Brenner was out mowing his front lawn. His dog, Moose, was barking at the lawnmower. Sure as shit, Brenner saw us as we passed.

“Oh, hey guys!”

“Hey, Brenner.” I called back.

“Whatcha guys doin’?”

Jesse replied with a story about running to the Quick Mart as an errand for his mom. I couldn’t for the young life of me stifle the laugh that was creeping up my throat. Jesse hit me in the chest.

“Well we better get back.”

“Okay,” Brenner responded, scanning our expressions.

I mustered a “See you tomorrow, man.”

“Yeah.” Brenner started the mower and Moose barked loudly enough that we could hear her for blocks and blocks.

The truth was that our blood wasn’t drunk. Only our hopeful minds were. The truth was that if anyone needed a beer or a suburbian opportunity to do something city kids weren’t afraid to do, it was Brenner. If anyone needed to feel like an honest-to-goodness teenager, it was the kid who couldn’t stop thinking of the worms eating his buried family. We knew we should have invited him. There were three cans under that dock, one for each of us, and his dad was dead, for crying out loud.