according to the calendar on my desk, not many days to do any of it in.
I decided to ignore the silence of my unanswered text to Bette and tried to shift my focus to the article I was currently tackling. “Mid-Year Makeover: How to Shake Things Up and Make the Most of the Next Six Months.”
I arched an eyebrow, as I did every time I caught a glimpse of the uninspired title.
Who came up with these things?
I couldn’t help but wonder, as no one with any ounce of imagination would dream up such a lackluster title. It was blah and a bit cliché, in my opinion, for a women’s magazine; but it was one more article to pay the bills.
One more article that would put my name out there.
One more article to add to my portfolio.
Who knows, I thought optimistically as my fingers found their rhythm on the keyboard, maybe I’ll learn something interesting.
After all, who couldn’t use advice on how to reinvent the rest of their year?
Or, really, the rest of their lives?
I certainly could.
Maybe this trip would help me do that.
I could feel a full-on pout coming.
Sure, maybe it was unreasonable to expect nylon boots to last more than a decade without looking like crap; but when you’re living the high life on a freelance writer’s budget, you tend to hope for miracles everywhere you can find them. And this was one place that I was hoping to find miracles. After all, I needed some boots to wear in Hampton. The weather was starting to turn a little bit crisp, since summer seemed to be outward bound, and I was sorely lacking good fall shoes aside from my ten-year-old Doc Marten Mary Janes. I raised an eyebrow.
Sensing a theme here. It seemed that many items in my closet were actually old enough to be at the upper echelons of elementary school. Maybe not something to brag about. Especially not to Bette, who already thought I was a perfect candidate for Extreme Cheapskates. I was beginning to worry that I might come home one night to be accosted outside my apartment by a TLC film crew dead set on capturing a reel of my very mundane, very budgeted life as a writer, which involved trying to squeeze blood out of every penny I could find.
But I digress.
I stood at my closet in sad—and getting increasingly sadder—contemplation of the contents within. If I was going to start packing for a month away, I needed to face reality and figure out what was actually wearable in there. At first glance, it looked pretty good, but a more thorough investigation revealed a copious number of tops, dresses, and skirts that I wasn’t comfortable with anymore.
Not in my current state, anyway. With my naturally slight build, I’d never had a weight problem; but even my once-slim frame had been greatly reduced by small anxieties that had built up over time and become almost overwhelming. I found relief only when I channeled them all into one focus: food and my ability to control it. True, the weight loss had been unintentional, even subtle at first. But now it was undeniable. Startling, if I was being perfectly honest. My clothes hung limply on me, my light brown hair—the curls once so bouncy—was thin and dry, my once full cheeks left hollow. The only things that seemed not to have changed were my eyes. Those, at least, were still a shade of almost aqua blue that constantly caught people’s attention. This, I thought, seeing my reflection in the mirror mounted on my closet door, this is why I try to hide. This is why… I shook my head against the encroaching feelings of defeat, of anger at myself, of frustration at my own weaknesses. Now was not the time for this. Now was the time to get out of my own way, to pack my bags and try to find a new future.
I shifted my focus back to the numerous articles of clothing hanging so neatly in my closet and shook my head again. This was really getting me nowhere. What I needed—besides a total life makeover—was a wardrobe overhaul, a bigger budget, and some time with my sister. For some reason, staring into my closet was making me miss her like mad. I took a peek at my watch.
Half past noon.
Hmmmm. Probably not the ideal time to call her, since it was likely that she was elbow deep in lunchtime with the kids. After sandwich crumbs and applesauce smears were wiped up, she would have to get them down for naps, and then she’d have a little time to talk. I squinted up at the ceiling, mentally calculating. That put me at about an hour from now.
One. Whole. Hour.
Unfortunately for me, the prospect of an hour seemed almost endless, and I needed to talk to someone.
I reached into the back pocket of my jeans for my phone and scrolled through to the speed dial button for my mother. Hopefully she would answer.
After an almost interminable few seconds of having to listen to it ring on the other end of the line, she finally picked up, sounding out of breath but perky.
Definitely a good sign, I thought, instantly feeling my mood lift a little.
“Hi, Mama,” I said.
“Oh, hi, Dellie, baby. How are you?” she asked.
“Fine.” I shrugged, even though I knew she couldn’t actually see it. “Just trying to figure out what to take. Not getting anywhere,” I sighed.
“No? Even with all of that stuff in your closet?” she marveled. I could just picture her, mouth agape, blue eyes wide with incredulity. As my mother and former cohabiter of anyplace I’d called home for most of my life, she had reason to be so amazed. She’d seen the size of my wardrobe while I was living with her and my dad before I was so unhappily wed, and she had helped me move from said house of mirth into my current apartment. Which most likely meant she also assumed that I still wore all of it.
Or, at least, most of it.
In all reality, though, I was wearing a steady rotation of about ten outfits, thrown on without thought beyond the fact that they were functional. My jeans were old enough to babysit for my shoes, and my one bra was almost old enough for pre-school.
If it wasn’t so sad, it might have been funny.
“Most of the stuff in my closet is destined for the consignment shop,” I said, wrinkling my nose.
“Why? You’ve got so many cute clothes.” Quite a reasonable observation. And very true, indeed. They were cute, and I really liked most of them. But most of the pieces felt like they belonged on someone else, with a different life. Someone who went out with friends and had spur-of-the-moment lunch dates. Someone who didn’t look just as hollowed out as she felt on the inside most of the time. Someone I missed.
I sighed, hoping she hadn’t heard it.
“Are you okay, honey? Are you sleeping okay?” she asked, concern creeping into her voice. “Are you eating okay?”
I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. No matter that I was now in my thirties or that we saw one another on a pretty regular basis, she was definitely still my mama. And I had to admit, there was a certain degree of comfort in that knowledge.
“Yes,
