fumbled through the doors into the prestige of white flourescent glory. New back massagers, humidifiers, toilet bowl cleaners. Nope. I wanted sheets. Twin long. something to seem polished, maybe a 400 count- egyptian cotton perhaps. The nesting syndrome plagued me. The urge to merge consumed my thoughts. to have toddlers, to buy unneccessary things, to furnish a nest, to make myself an adult, to possess an organized routine life. Yet the sales racks offered little towards my present pursuit of a comfortable sheet set. Large peace signs or blue stripes were the only clearance items. This mecca of consumerism could not meet my soul’s desire. I reckoned that if I could find new bedding that perhaps my mattress would grant sanctum to my strained life. My neck flaired, reminding me of all the assignments due, the stress of working more shifts, and the emotional fatigue of having to promote my facade of righteousness to the world.
I darted my eyes quickly at the 1000 count hotel sheets. I imagined a refined life, one in which my nails were always painted red- not chipping. My eyesbrows manicured, my hair bleached, and my clothes without wrinkle. I imagined being a successful woman on top who needed little if anything from anyone. I imagined wearing fine Italian leather shoes sitting behind a cherry dress with silver and blonde locks slicked back accented by pearls and red lipstick. I am a woman of power. I call the shots. I imagined what I could have been if I pursued my political career.why i had left the political arena with good looking fifty year old men who had my attention to sit among the hemp wearing hippies and cheif on their herb. why I had been expelled from christendom, submersed in the Gay Night scene and the rave parties. Why my last snort of cocaine and Ecstasy had killed me and humbled me to the place where I needed God despite the church abandoning me, my father hating me, and the disdain I felt for the church. I recalled the movies that spliced my sleeping time when I wasnt busy arguing with my employees who often think I am cruel because I schedule them on Friday nights. I considered how work had cut me down. I considered the stupid friers screaming out their constant beeps that a new batch of chicken was ready to be served to the next macho man in my nearly spotless resteraunt.
I don’t want to be a chicken-wing manager.
Then I considered poverty. disease. genocide. injustice. the rage made me wonder why I was present in Bad, bath, and beyond. Why I wanted new sheets… why was i unhappy with myself?I want to listen to Jazz music on the streets of Cuba while smoking cigars and engage with the Literati about the man Jesus Christ and critique institutions. I want to stand up for those who are oppressed. i want to write, paint, live for conversation, break down society’s walls.
The flicker of the flourescent brought me back to the reality of the sheet set clinging to my palm. i put the sheets back on the shelf.
nothing bought could change my heart.
I needed time with God. Prayer.
something that money could not buy.
but fuck. I thought sheets would assure some sanity. or r.e.m. at least.
Perhaps an organized life will follow. Perhaps, I really can practice self care.
Tonight I am going to see where the holes in my schedule will allow me to pratice spirtuality more and self care.
But more importantly I will throw myself down on the rug and cry out to a God to iron my inner-sheets. The rest of my soul, and renew my mind with his/her cotton that is more than 1000 count.
come God. let me be reminded of your peace.