On the way to work this morning, a tall blond man locked his blue eyes with mine and asked, loudly, Are you going to wake up tomorrow young-er, with all the money you’ve made? Boy was I angry.
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I was angry all the way to work. He must’ve thought I live in one of the four new condo buildings on the block, but I live in a tiny two-bedroom with slanted floors and a roof that leaks in four places. My bathroom’s so small you can sit on the toilet and throw up in the sink simultaneously. Not that I’ve done this. I’m just saying.
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What did he know, I thought. By this time I was at work, a pharmaceutical advertising agency. Boy was I angry. Pharmaceutical companies have to make money somehow. Their drugs keep me from spending days locked in my office crying like I used to. I’m just saying. They keep me from having babies.
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Because I don’t want babies right now I’m one of five blonde women without power in a boardroom. We’re listening to three men with power discuss endometrial ablation. Sketches of a uterus made of water. Of uterus as shield. As bull, as lily. The Great Wall.
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The Hoover Dam.
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Because I don’t want to be locked in my office crying like I used to I receive daily updates called “Vaginitis Hotsheets.” It’s not like I dreamt of doing this, but I used to spend money to make myself happy so I didn’t have any. Because I didn’t have any I needed to make myself happy.
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How many of us end up where we actually want to go? A bathroom where you can sit on the toilet and throw up simultaneously. It’s not like I dreamt of doing this. Are we going to wake up tomorrow young-er, with all the money we’ve made? I’m just saying. What does he know.