Cecilia Graña-Rosa,
who is 14, impulsive and curious.
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Thirty, Flirt, and Fabulous.
Except… not.
I’m thirty, not at all flirty, and feel farthest from fabulous.
Instead, I feel weary
Filled with anxiety
Bags forming under my eyesI no longer remember my friend’s numbers
They’ve faded away and now all that’s left is the number of the pharmacy that so graciously gives me the sleeping pills for when I run out
I no longer hope for the weekends to arrive, like I did in those high school years long ago
Now I dread them
Friday nights at the bar just wasting my time away with men who are not even worth the $78 I spent on the dress to impress them
I won’t have children
The dreams I had as a little girl of walking down the isle, Papa’s arm entwined with mine are long gone
But I don’t mind
This day, just like every other, just seems so scheduled
Monday:
Wake up. Get ready. Get on the subway. Got to work. Bullshit with the boss at lunch. Work some more. Stay overtime and not get paid for it. Leave work. Go grab a drink at the bar.
Hop on a taxi, go back home. Get some TV dinner. Watch another game show. Go to bed.
Then all over again, every day of the week, until Thursday
When instead of being with the boss at lunch, I’m with the looser I called a boyfriend
Just wishing he could disappear and someone else would take me away
I need an adventure.
I can’t live like this
A routine existence,
Not once stupefied by anything anymore.
I will not conform to a life with only three purposes:
Work, Pay taxes, and Die.
I’ve got a visceral craving for more.
Thirty, Flirt, and Fabulous.
Except… not.
How about we try…
Thirty, Putrid, and Miserable
Yeah… Much more accurate.
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