Writing About Nothing(?)

I wriggled into my grey opaque tights this morning – my perhaps ill-chosen attire for a long day of one shift at the office and a second waiting tables tonight. I thought about fashion, vaguely as I often do each morning, thinking about how to put together a “look” and how I want to feel and what I want to “say.” These thoughts were quickly pushed away as I realized I had yet to put on makeup or have my first cup of coffee.

Applying black eyeliner to the tops of my eyes only (to make them look more open), I checked of my mental list of things to get done today: pay some of my credit card bill, email friends, get a haircut, figure out how to fit professional and comfy attire for five days into a backpack. I’m going to Milwaukee and Chicago next week for PhD visits to meet professors I could work with, should I decide to attend in the fall.

I think I like the outfit I’ve chosen today: dark green skirt with a finish that vaguely reminds me of either a couch or Maria Von Trapp’s curtain dresses, cerulean blue (my favorite color) silk top, t-shirt cut, a blinged out gold/blue chunky necklace, previously mentioned grey tights, and small gold earrings. Maybe I’ll take it. Finishing my simple makeup regime with a little moisturizer, I head downstairs to get coffee, made by my partner, and guilt him into making me some eggs. I often find he’ll make me just about anything with the right balance of joking and pointed fake-sadness.

I browse Craigslist for a new apartment. We’re both sick of the amount of work this house takes. It may be gorgeous but hauling wood, making fires, paying for propane, struggling up the driveway have all taken its toll. It is agreed that downsizing is in order – a mixture of what we want and what is required for moving back into a city-zone. Other thoughts: at least two bedrooms, under one grand, no carpet, and some flexibility around pets. I think if I just drive him over to the shelter I’ll get to come home with a cat.

I eat my omelette quickly, but not quite fast enough for P to use my plate, which he needles me about, gently. I really like that he wants to minimize consumption, even down to how many plates we use. Layering on my puffy vest, my coat and my scarf, I take my little plastic Ziploc container of soup, Timbuktu bag, and keys outside. I head to P’s car, thinking my gloves are in there. It’s frigid outside and I have to take each step gingerly so I don’t fall on the ice. My gloves are not in his car. I repeat the slow walk back to the house, to find some to wear.

***

The Art of the Everyday – March 6: Six Volumes of Nothing, inspired by Karl Ove Knausgaard’s exploration of the nuances of the mundane: “His headlong approach, devoid of artifice, makes for plenty of bad prose, but it also gives a reader the irresistible sensation of reading a life as it’s lived – reality, in real time.” More here.

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