[stylist] Creative nonfiction- Arranging My Day- general audience

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

In an attempt to liven this list up, here is an essay I wrote.

It is up for consideration in an independent creative nonfiction
anthology, Finding the Path.

Bridgit

Arranging My Day

The alarm sounds through my subcontiousness like a sonar.  I follow it
along, finally opening my eyes once I remove the stones placed on top my
lids.  I lay in the silence, comfortable in the incubation of the heavy
bed spread.
Battling my desire to float back to sleep, the decision is made to be
responsible.  Chilly air envelops my body as I leave warmth behind and
trudge to the shower.
Another day begins; another day shuffling through to-do list and
deadlines.  I suppress the firing pistons pinballing around my brain to
a low hum.  My only retreat is to focus on my daily routine.
The closet door slides in its track.  My hand glides along the row of
shirts and sweaters hung according to sleeve and waist length.  Facing
front and center, each item lines up like soldiers waiting inspection.
The garments used to hang by color like a rainbow of fabric, but I no
longer have the patience to check each item of clothing.  I feel guilty
that I am remiss about color coordinating my closet, but my schedule-my
daily grind-has crowded into every inch of my existence.
Tee-shirts are first-their fronts facing to the left of the wide closet.
Blouses and dress shirts snuggle between the t-shirts and sweaters.
Skirts, capris and pants take up the rear.  The military precision
displayed in the folds of each garment is exhilarating.
Selecting a green, ribbed v-neck sweater, and burrowing to the back of
the closet to retrieve grey slacks, I place the days outfit on the bed,
arranging the items as though they were on display-pants on bottom,
sweater on top.  I place my undergarments on top of my outfit with
trouser socks off to the side.
I smooth a fold in the comforter on the bed, checking to ensure the
strip of textured fabric on either side hangs exactly the same.  I
double check that the pillows are still spaced evenly from one another.
Kneeling on the center of the bed, I arrange the pillows as evenly as
possible.  I contemplate using the measuring tape, but forego this as I
realize I may be straddling the brink of sanity.
Hopping off the bed, the comforter no longer resembles a picture-perfect
surface.  My ministrations to the pillows has corrupted the surface of
the bed.  It takes me another few minutes to achieve the "just right"
balance.  The comforter/bed ratio must be acceptable.  A thought snags
through my brain wiggling like a worm; Am I a bit unbalanced?  The worm
is lost in a dark void as I shrug it out of my thoughts.
I move to the bathroom ready for my post-shower toilette.  Noticing a
smudge on the glass door of the bathroom cabinet, I scrub it away.  With
the cleaning supplies out, I wash the entire cabinet; I've been needing
to clean the bathroom and this brief mop-up will have to do for now.
mingled fragrances greet me as I open the cabinet doors.  I touch each
bottle, tube and jar lining the shelves.  I wrinkle my forehead noticing
a bottle of lotion out of place.  I turn it so it faces the right
direction.
My arm grazes the vanity mirror.  I stare, facing the mirror, into the
TV fuzz that is my vision.  If I could see my reflection, I wonder if I
would like what I see.  Before losing my sight, I did not have a great
relationship with mirrors; eight-years later, I may not see what is
reflected, but I know the image very well.  Thoughts stream like ribbons
from my mind as I shake my head.
Deciding upon Japanese Cherry Blossom, I pull each item out one at a
time-lotion, body butter, body splash.  I begin with my back- legs-
arms- chest- finally my stomach.  The body butter coats my elbows and
feet.  The final layer of splash spritzes my entire body.
Before leaving the bathroom, I straighten the shower curtain so its
bright blue patterned folds reach the same length on each side.  The
matching floor rug is climbing up against the side of the tub like a
turtle attempting freedom, so I line it back up-- two fingers width from
the tub and toilet.
I reassure myself that the towel hamper stands centered below the towel
bar.  The hamper salutes me, prepared for inspection.
Will I pass the inspection of the day?  So much is crowding into my
life-homework, family drama, volunteer efforts, work, my own personal
dreams-I feel choked at times.  I want to find freedom, some green
valley to lay in while staring at passing clouds.  No, I must do this,
and I must do that.  I turn out of the bathroom hoping these thoughts
will remain behind.  I can not lose control.
My stomach rumbles so I proceed to the kitchen.  Passing the brown
Pottery Barn-looking oversized chair, I check it is angled correctly,
and that the end table is spaced evenly with the chair.  The pillows
require some fluffing so I pound them back into submission.  I nestle
them into their respective corners of the chair.
I don't even think about the new sage solar curtains covering the
pbalcony doors.  Dad did not listen to the directions Mom and I gave him
regarding how to hang the drapes.  I cringe knowing the material is
scrunched at the top along the bar.
The puppy, Nessa, scurries over to me as I enter the kitchen.  My thigh
grazes the kitchen table, and I check that it is not touching the wall.
It is.  Ross-the husband has no sense for order, no care for symmetry.
I rearrange the items on the table-bread box, napkin basket, tin of Boy
Scout popcorn-so they do not appear helter-skelter.  The kitchen does
not afford much storage space.  I sigh, opening the cupboard.
My hand trails boxes standing tallest to shortest.  Finding the box of
Kashi granola bars, I grab a bar for breakfast.  Nessa jumps at my heels
hoping for a table scrap.
Like a five-year-old child, I stare at her as I cry, "Oh wow, this
granola bar is awesome!"
Being a dog, she continues to jump.
I skim through my mental list, making sure I have not forgotten an item
I may need today:
.	Netbook
.	Book reader
.	Assignment
.	Phone
.	Lip gloss and gum
.	Miday pick-me-up granola bar
.	Scizzors, pen, 3X5 notecards, slate and stylus, batteries
It is better to be prepared during the day.  Running through the list a
few times, I grab my coat and notice my husband's jackets are not
hanging the right way.  Zippers should face the left, and bulky coats
should be towards the front.  He hasn't learned how to hang a jacket
just like he hasn't learned to fold a towel properly.  Always folded in
half, then half again, then folded in half widthwise, I explain over and
over.
Ignoring the cluster of coats, I hurry to catch my bus.  Grimacing, I
attempt a leap across Lake Michigan at the end of my walkway.
Inevitably, my feet land in the puddle drenching my black heels.  I
grumble obscenities as I walk along the dirt-ridden street of my
complex.  Winter's grime still pollutes the ground.
The world is dirty, particularly this time of year.  Soon, I hope,
spring's showers will clean this black-and-white landscape the way I
will wash my new shoes tonight.
 I hate this dirt; I hate this weather; I hate this lingering,
God-foresaken season.  Everyday the same-wake, wash, dress, hope I
haven't forgotten something important.  My endless list, my order, are
suppose to save me.
I have worshipped at the alter of this religion of organization for
years, but lately, I always have the nagging feeling I have forgotten
something; Some daily task has been left undone.  I have no time to
create; I am too busy arranging my day, too busy living up to others
expectations.
I breathe deeply in an attempt to let it go.  I visualize water pouring
through the channels of my brain washing away the sins of the day.  I
will continue to sacrifice to this god-I am scared of what letting go
will bring.