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

Wed Mar 23 21:52:38 UTC 2011

Hi Bridgit,
Congratulations on having your piece in the running for this anthology! 
I must admit, it made me ffeel like a real slob. *grin* Do you really do 
all of that straightening or is this a bit fanciful?
Donna

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On 3/23/2011 3:35 PM, Bridgit Pollpeter wrote:
> 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.
>
>
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