Life at № 42 by E.M. Coutinho
Some nights I wonder. Everything has always had to be so bombastic. I don’t think I’ll ever be cured of that. It’s become a part of me- that rush. A 21 y/o boy who was in Les Miz died yesterday. Fell off a fire escape at his mother’s house. Shocking. I often wonder how I’ve made it to 37 considering all the extravagances and irresponsibilities. Thirty seven seems excessive for me.
This afternoon I looked in the mirror and saw something that somewhat resembled a stomach. Disgusting. I’ve had a 29 inch waist since I was 16 years old. I measured and today I’m at 30.5. I used to be pretty. Not my opinion- it’s just that everyone said so, so I took it to be true. The extra 1.5 inch isn’t pretty.
People are still charming and flirty towards me. Approximately 50% less than 10 years ago. I imagine that’s 50% more than 10 years from now. I detest my awareness of this passing of time, of this passing of my time. The clock isn’t ticking anymore, it’s tuck.
Meanwhile I’m planning a dining room. This whole next week I plan to embrace the art of Japanese fusion vegetarian cuisine.An effort to maintain some degree of physical ‘thin’ dignity. Thinnity?
I’m not bitter, querulous or unkind. I do not hate my legs, I do not hate my hands, I do yearn for lovelier lands. I certainly don’t dread the dawn’s recurrent light; I do not hate to go to bed at night. I adore the simple, earnest folk. I laugh at every gentle joke. I find peace in paint and type- because the world is not tripe.