Like fruits and vegetables, I want to take the pieces of my life, put them in a big mesh bag, and rinse them off. Which of the questions I ask myself are dusty assumptions? We used to call them “old tapes”. Like little bits of magnetized metal can stretch and play, sounding different when compression algorithms take the souls out of the notes. Expectations of ridicule leak out of my ears, a hemorrhagic fever of failure. Each morning I greet a trickle or a torrent and with practice, can talk myself up to sanguine. While doubting the veracity of compliments received, I believe with a child’s naiveté the degrading lies. Wincing and accepting a condescending narrative, because it fits better. I think it protects me from the storm, but it adheres to my skin leaving me perpetually bowed against an invisible wind. Sit up, a chirpy voice inside my head exclaims. Thighs growing closer together each year as I age embarrass me. The Memoji that I use on Facebook has “lines” on its face – full disclosure – my avatar is better looking than her originator. Who is that pasty-faced wrinkly out of shape Mrs. Potato Head? A construct of early voices of derision, a legacy from a taciturn set of relatives. Most days I can unbutton the Trench Coat of Doom. Wish I could burn it, but for now, setting it aside will have to do.
Published by Ms. C. G. Tripp
Catherine G. Tripp, Writer/Investor a lifelong mix. Left brain and right brain battle for dominance. I wrote the marketing materials for my mortgage brokerage, had a personal finance column at Examiner.com, wrote essays, short stories and poems published in school papers and magazines then literary journals. If my writings were a color, they would be yellow, bright as sunlight, highlighting the salient portions, not obscuring the past but deconstructing air brushed stories, finding humor and courage in the unloved corners. View more posts