why is it so difficult to remember who we are sometimes? and once we remember, why is it even harder to simply be who we are? i was actually angry that my manager made me take all of last friday off of work. you see, i am (pathetically) a slave to an hourly wage, and thebigbadbosslady wanted me to "um, yeah, go ahead and come in on saturday" for 4 hours. since i am not allowed overtime, that meant i had to deduct the hours somewhere and she told me to take all of friday, instead of just the 4 hours that would be accounted for on saturday's time sheet. and i was angry that they were shorting me 4 hours pay. angry until i realized that i could sleep in. angry until i realized that i could take a ballet class that was not populated with 98% middle-aged housewives.
so i slept in and took class and saw a movie (stranger than fiction: i would definitely recommend it to a friend) and brought my favorite-ever camera (my old 1976 canon-still-works-like-a-charm-ae1) along for the day. and by four thirty, i finally felt like *me* agian. i was grounded and alive and felt the ocean air on my face and the muscles in my feet work as i walked the sidewalks photographing (with real film) walls and alleys and the barely functional anymore carwash and sad people and happy people and everything that paralleled my emotion at that very instant. *that* is who i am. not *this* person who is willing to pawn her psyche for a half day's pay.
and i made a promise to myself to bottle that feeling, or knowledge of who i am, but this crazy world has its way of throwing us (quite literally) flat on our faces, just when we think "surely, now its going to start getting better." it seems that barbeque air from a tailgate combined with screaming and cursing at the USC/CAL gave me a touch of a bronchial condition. after work, i stopped into the local pharmacy to buy something to curb my cough. i came out of the store and saw my bus stopped at the corner. i had exactly one traffic light change to cross the street and get to the bus stop. so i ran. and i tripped. and i fell, no i skidded, on my hands and knees along the pavement. without hesitation, i stood up and ran again. i crossed the street before the bus and thus made my wounded way to the stop with just enough time to catch the bus. i am 31 years old and i have two skinned knees and a nasty cough, but at least i caught the bus.
so i slept in and took class and saw a movie (stranger than fiction: i would definitely recommend it to a friend) and brought my favorite-ever camera (my old 1976 canon-still-works-like-a-charm-ae1) along for the day. and by four thirty, i finally felt like *me* agian. i was grounded and alive and felt the ocean air on my face and the muscles in my feet work as i walked the sidewalks photographing (with real film) walls and alleys and the barely functional anymore carwash and sad people and happy people and everything that paralleled my emotion at that very instant. *that* is who i am. not *this* person who is willing to pawn her psyche for a half day's pay.
and i made a promise to myself to bottle that feeling, or knowledge of who i am, but this crazy world has its way of throwing us (quite literally) flat on our faces, just when we think "surely, now its going to start getting better." it seems that barbeque air from a tailgate combined with screaming and cursing at the USC/CAL gave me a touch of a bronchial condition. after work, i stopped into the local pharmacy to buy something to curb my cough. i came out of the store and saw my bus stopped at the corner. i had exactly one traffic light change to cross the street and get to the bus stop. so i ran. and i tripped. and i fell, no i skidded, on my hands and knees along the pavement. without hesitation, i stood up and ran again. i crossed the street before the bus and thus made my wounded way to the stop with just enough time to catch the bus. i am 31 years old and i have two skinned knees and a nasty cough, but at least i caught the bus.
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Erm, ahem, Happy Valentine's Day!