Good morning, good day. It is almost July. Addendum: it was July when I wrote this.
I and she and we are sad and empty then full again then empty once more. I snap and I chat and I snap rooftop hip selfies and chomp on chocolate “chewies” with salty pretzels like a girls favorite and best snack. As if like a cliff bar or a normal basic “treat.” Yum. Cheat as she says. As they all say. Cheat days! Glorious cheat days!
This toxic city and world crowded with perpetual serial dieters and robots of the chatter around them. Fat and skinny and sad Americans on their cycle of indulgence and simultaneous lack thereof.
“A green juice for me please,” orders the business woman.
“Kale and beet purée with a hunt of almond,” dictates the body builder. “No sugar this month!”
“Almond milk and Splenda,” utters the heavy girl at the coffee counter. God forbid she poison the vibe with lactose or sugar. She mustn't.
The world of days and months of human-induced willful self deprivation we live in spins on its round axis every day. This odd place of the smallest rewards only followed after the harshest punishments.
“Five miles this am, i deserve this apple!” sounds from water cooler conversation.
“No carbs in a week, maybe just one slice of bread.” noises at the deli counter.
The girl giving away samples in the supermarket assures me I am allowed to taste the ice cream she doles. “You're tiny! Don't feel guilty!” Oh.
The regular-sized CEO man at his steak lunch. “I shouldn't be eating this I know.” “It's ok,” mutters the girl in her skinny size 2 shiny pants and stiletto heels. “Everything in moderation is just fine!” The girl whose presence is relocated on the leather couch in the beige office in midtown counsels the Big CEO Man across the table as she forks her kale salad with light dressing and water on his steak and red wine. The irony of the oxymoron of the common situation shines above her and makes her smirk.
“One fry can't hurt.”
“Enjoy them!” The small girl shrinks the CEO man.
The world of joy of thick sandwiches and birthday cake, candles dug deep in creamy vanilla frosting, the innocence of decades past. 80s and 90s, scooters and pasta, 2000s and chicken with sides of nutrition facts, Atkins and fatkins, 2010s of YouTube, puréed greens and cilantro infused chile peppered yogurt. Cupping and sipping and drinking and resisting. Whats the scoop on the goop on that boyishly thin actress. What progress we have made! She laughs. Progress… right. The hyper awareness of the calories of the day of the month is too present.
It is almost July and the sun is out. It burns the skin from her sleepy face once again and drinks the toxins from her toxicified body. The sun shines on her face like the best friend in the sky, the shades-up reminder of smiles and laughs and sandy feet. The sun radiates her being and her hips and her foggy mind and here she is again. Running and Sunning and plunging once more. Balancing and toppling over for a moment but still better yet. The locker is there still. The man with the cross in the lap lane next door. The lounges and pools and thoughts persist.
She is happy and sunny and better off still, but the thin surface remains. Ita shell hasn't yet hardened, still easy to crack. The bandaid is loose on the resistant thin surface, one end persistently curling up about to fall off. The yogurt-covered band-aid's adhesive is weak like oil on water.
But back to the sun-laden roof she dryly and happily trots. She and her chocolate band-aid-covered sharpened edges on this beautiful bright, cloudy gray day.