An old couple came into the Y to renew a membership that had been put on medical hold. She had a walker, squat and wide, and he was hunched and wiry. They smiled wrinkles into their wrinkles. He was very concerned that we have a family restroom. We do.
"I have to help her change," he said.
Elsewhere, without a family restroom, he had to go into the women's to help her change. When the women kicked him out, she had to go into the men's with him.
"I was becoming bisexual," she said, and he laughed.
5.02.2010
4.28.2010
THE Dress, I guess
Dress shopping, I’d heard horror stories of it taking months. People travel to different cities, hit up boutiques, mass chains, and the Internet. The Internet! Full of pages and pages of models in white dresses and the thought – I won’t look good in any of these. Only models get married.
But I try any way. It’s no pressure, really. I mean, it’s not like the dress is something people even really take note of.... people being 200 of your closest friends, acquaintances, family friends and their plus ones who are all looking at you. Not to mention that you are going to be professionally photographed for the first time since basketball senior year of high school.
I’ll go ahead and skip lengthy descriptions of tulle heaven in plastic wrap – white, beads! a mannequin with her sweet-heart strapless down around her hips, a customer in scrubs with tattoos on her arms, and shoes and veils. Purity is gaudy, I guess.
And I’m in the dressing room with a slip, a poof slip, and a low-backed corset top. Sales-lady Heather is going to help me with the dress, but she’s let me fend for myself with the under garments (and I’d call them something more crass than under garments, but the way they hold up and lace down and pack in is truly medieval). The corset thing’s a problem: it has a dozen eyelet hooks running up the back. There is no way to both wrench the thing shut around my torso and match and hook all those suckers unless I put it on backwards. So I do this, and the little bra part cups my scapula, and I’d swing it around but it’s a corset... thing, and it has ribbing and grip tape and apparently brides are supposed to look as conical as possible.
I like the first dress I try; my mom keeps asking me if I can breathe ok. I can breathe... ok. It takes both her and SL Heather to zip it all the way up. It reminds me more of an Easter dress I’d wear as a little girl—come to think of it, I got baptized in a similar outfit—than a wedding dress. But can we talk for a second about how wedding dresses tend to be glaringly ugly? They either look like tablecloths or curtains or doilies or lingerie or cupcakes. Women who wouldn’t so much embroider the pockets of blue jeans insist on having their busts covered in rhinestones for the big day. Weird. Brides, I think, have an unusual love for their breasts (push-up sweetheart tops galore) and for flowers and bows and not men... I guess.
But I like the first one ok. My dad walks in the store while I have it on. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he likes it ok too. He approves of the feather headpiece I’m wearing that my mom doesn’t care for (and he hasn’t even seen the Sex and the City movie). We practice walking around the store—me on his arm. Mom thinks we might not fit down the isle; it’s a cupcake dress.
So we buy it, and the whole thing wasn’t so bad. (Well, my parents buy it. I’m so grown up?) The dress actually has pockets... for snacks or rubbers I guess. And the manicured man behind the register says it looked elegant even though I think he means baptismal or like a toga married (ha, marriage! everybody’s doing it) an air pump.
But I try any way. It’s no pressure, really. I mean, it’s not like the dress is something people even really take note of.... people being 200 of your closest friends, acquaintances, family friends and their plus ones who are all looking at you. Not to mention that you are going to be professionally photographed for the first time since basketball senior year of high school.
I’ll go ahead and skip lengthy descriptions of tulle heaven in plastic wrap – white, beads! a mannequin with her sweet-heart strapless down around her hips, a customer in scrubs with tattoos on her arms, and shoes and veils. Purity is gaudy, I guess.
And I’m in the dressing room with a slip, a poof slip, and a low-backed corset top. Sales-lady Heather is going to help me with the dress, but she’s let me fend for myself with the under garments (and I’d call them something more crass than under garments, but the way they hold up and lace down and pack in is truly medieval). The corset thing’s a problem: it has a dozen eyelet hooks running up the back. There is no way to both wrench the thing shut around my torso and match and hook all those suckers unless I put it on backwards. So I do this, and the little bra part cups my scapula, and I’d swing it around but it’s a corset... thing, and it has ribbing and grip tape and apparently brides are supposed to look as conical as possible.
I like the first dress I try; my mom keeps asking me if I can breathe ok. I can breathe... ok. It takes both her and SL Heather to zip it all the way up. It reminds me more of an Easter dress I’d wear as a little girl—come to think of it, I got baptized in a similar outfit—than a wedding dress. But can we talk for a second about how wedding dresses tend to be glaringly ugly? They either look like tablecloths or curtains or doilies or lingerie or cupcakes. Women who wouldn’t so much embroider the pockets of blue jeans insist on having their busts covered in rhinestones for the big day. Weird. Brides, I think, have an unusual love for their breasts (push-up sweetheart tops galore) and for flowers and bows and not men... I guess.
But I like the first one ok. My dad walks in the store while I have it on. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he likes it ok too. He approves of the feather headpiece I’m wearing that my mom doesn’t care for (and he hasn’t even seen the Sex and the City movie). We practice walking around the store—me on his arm. Mom thinks we might not fit down the isle; it’s a cupcake dress.
So we buy it, and the whole thing wasn’t so bad. (Well, my parents buy it. I’m so grown up?) The dress actually has pockets... for snacks or rubbers I guess. And the manicured man behind the register says it looked elegant even though I think he means baptismal or like a toga married (ha, marriage! everybody’s doing it) an air pump.
4.15.2010
The First Day of Summer
3:05. Break is over, but I won’t go back inside.
3:06. I’m late to everything – sometimes unseemly late.
Grass and short stories. The sun makes it warm out here, tranquilizing, for the first time this year.
A lady came to the front door yesterday. She wore a long white skirt and squatted on her chunky heels to talk to me. I was sitting on the front landing, reading, sunning myself. She handed me “Watch Tower” magazine. There was a photo of a blonde woman on the cover. She was holding her temples. It read, “Do you have enough time?” the crouching woman, cropped auburn hair, pointed out the article to me, but she said it looked like I had enough time.
3:07. I’m squeezing the minutes.
Cherry blossoms. Quail sometimes burst out of the tall grass (burnt whiskers) next to me. The range of hills opposite still has patches of snow. And if they ask, check the clocks, I’ll probably say something like, “But have you seen how nice it is outside?” And if I were a better person, I’d say, “I quit.”
3:06. I’m late to everything – sometimes unseemly late.
Grass and short stories. The sun makes it warm out here, tranquilizing, for the first time this year.
A lady came to the front door yesterday. She wore a long white skirt and squatted on her chunky heels to talk to me. I was sitting on the front landing, reading, sunning myself. She handed me “Watch Tower” magazine. There was a photo of a blonde woman on the cover. She was holding her temples. It read, “Do you have enough time?” the crouching woman, cropped auburn hair, pointed out the article to me, but she said it looked like I had enough time.
3:07. I’m squeezing the minutes.
Cherry blossoms. Quail sometimes burst out of the tall grass (burnt whiskers) next to me. The range of hills opposite still has patches of snow. And if they ask, check the clocks, I’ll probably say something like, “But have you seen how nice it is outside?” And if I were a better person, I’d say, “I quit.”
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