.Sunday, June 13, 2004
As a good consumer on her weekend from work, I spent the afternoon on a shopping jaunt with my mother. We went into a Disney store to pick up half-off clothing for my little brother.
As I waited in line to pay for an armful of glow-in-the-dark Buzz Lightyear t-shirts, I became acutely aware of the chaos around me.
Far ahead of me, two clerks resignedly calculated to themselves that lunch was not forthcoming for the next three hours. In front of me, two frazzled, long-faced parents clutched two kitchsy Mickey and Minnie in Hawaii stuffed dolls as they murmured what a happy child their offspring was -- nowhere to be seen. Just to the right of me, a woman stared straight ahead as the girl over her shoulder bawled and screamed for the Princess Aurora doll just out of her reach. A moment later, the woman flung all the fluttery Aladdin pajamas from her stroller onto a nearby rack and rollered her stroller and her brood, out. A trio of teenagers sauntered through the throng, exclaiming how this was their favourite store.
How I prayed, to whatever gods there are.
As I tried to catch the eye of my mother, who was browsing listlessly, I realized how the place made me feel almost physically ill. I was surrounded, everywhere, by people mindlessly consuming and consuming. Three thousand dollar art prints. Plastic beeping toy cellphones. Whirly things that clacked, spun, and lit up. My eyes washed over the sea of plastic and polyester. Nothing here was original, beautiful, or meaningful, to anyone here or anywhere, and nor would it ever be. It was a complete, utter waste of humanity, supremely represented in this one small space.
Here they were. And here was I.
I explained all of this to my mother as we left the store. At the word "ill", she asked whether it was the noise, the air, or the space, only able to interpret my disgust as something solely physical. In my frustrated second attempt, she interrupted me to comment that she needed to attend to the ladies' room and asked me to take her coat and bags for her.
I, suddenly overcome with a new wave of fatigue, took them.
.Saturday, June 12, 2004
My acquaintance -- the one who insisted I give Chicago another try after a first disappointed viewing -- and I have a dispute. I think sultry, vivacious Catherine is the bonafide sexpot of the flick. He counters with scrawny, squinty-eyed Renée.
Rouged knees, or skinny legs? I turn to the masses, should they stop by ...
A pleasure of life is to let go in an apparently deserted hallway several hot, noxious, lingering farts, from between two tightly pressed together buttocks ...
A pleasure, so simply quashed by a single person -- usually your professional superior or whom you find deathly attractive, or both -- popping up from behind a door and coming in your direction.
As the fog hits them, they flinch, see you frozen like a deer in the headlights, know the windy culprit; they try to hold their breath while looking nonjudgemental. Throwing them a nod of horrified acknowledgement, you spin around on your heel and walk so fast your legs cramp, because you foolishly think you can outrun humiliation.
Let's not even talk elevators ...
I have a 7-kilometre, or half an hour, commute every weekday to work, from the Leslie stop to the Queen subway station. Sometimes the entertainment is there -- like the man reprimanding his friend about his ignorance of corn foods ("You've NEVER had a corndog? Corn beef? What about cornbread? Corn muffin?" "Well, I've had a corn muffin ... the time you gave me one ...").
But mostly I have to create my own entertainment.
Today, I was inspired by a recent article in a local paper, which discussed advances in cycling fashion. It spoke about shirts, trousers, shoes, and even garments regarding more sensitive lower areas of the human anatomy, but not a single mention about protective headgear.
(I wrote an extravagantly worded and what I thought to be wry letter to the editor, but it was not published.)
With this in mind, I counted cyclists, and noted whether they wore helmets or not. Their fashion choices were not taken into account, although I will comment that by and far many were all rather poorly dressed.
Within half an hour, counting just those on the north side of Queen St. East, I managed to tally 36 cyclists. Here's the breakdown:
As I walked thoughtfully home, I concluded that (1) people were idiots, (2) but their brains were clearly deficient anyway and didn't need preservation, and (3) natural selection was still churning away as strong as ever.
.Thursday, June 10, 2004
I've lost my umbrella. That, along with the impending rain, has put a heavy dampener on my day. Although it is definitely not beyond replacement, it was of estimable quality and I very much liked it.
.Tuesday, June 08, 2004
My cinematic flick of the moment is Chicago. I fell out of the rush when it was hot -- almost determinedly -- but a Floridian friend's appreciation led to a second run. I hum now, everywhere, John C. Reilly's pathetic rendition of "Mister Cellophane." I was in fact planning to call this blog "Miss Cellophane", but it lost out to the more pretentious and punny "Gloriana." I suppose the former, with its sniffy, fearless "Miss", pushed the label of independent-yet-feminine woman just a tad too far for my reach.
I know. Some people would love to have my "problem." But hey, if I can't be indulged here, where else can I go ...
I'm on the shorter end of 5'6". I teeter on the possibility of 5'5". I weigh, on average, 110 lb. As a result, I'm quite slender, and just about skinny. I can touch my index finger to my thumb around my wrist, and I can fit into a girls' size 16 pant. I worry.
I have scarcely any hip. My breasts, they look fine when I'm naked, like a slightly heavier version of the Venus de Milo's -- perhaps that's my dilemma, that I know my female nudity from classical art. Larger bosoms, the ones that show shape through clothing, look to me swollen and heavy, when bare. But, at least they show. Me, my upper torso, I have a, shall we say, modest curve -- an embarrassing one now that I care about such things.
I want a womanly figure, soft hips, breasts, a rounded silhouette ... how do you make love to bones and angles?
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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