Things have a bad habit of stopping and/or running out. And I have a bad habit of initiating private; self-induced panic attacks when the given hour of termination approaches.
When I was a wee lass back in California; circa 1996; my parents presented me with a hideous pair of white sneakers chunkier than Rocky Dennis’s face. The soles enveloped stripper-pink lights that beamed upon contact with the ground. I was thrilled! Afraid to abuse whatever seemingly magical mechanism enabled such a vibrantly female flash of fluorescence; I tucked them away in my closet; right next to my new Malibu Barbie; saving them for the right day. One year later they sat untouched in the same spot near Malibu; whose perky plastic corpse lay motionless after being burned and mutilated beyond recognition. I never once took a step in my Rocky Dennis strip club shoes. And by the time I rediscovered them with full intention of strapping them on and lighting up 84 Sabra Avenue with my harsh; awkward waddle; the batteries were dead.
I cried; cradling my now uselessly heavy sneakers in the fetal position; for a good 3 and a half minutes.
14 years later I am still plagued with the attenuating inability to accept the perishable nature of most things I’m surrounded by. My phone battery. The gas in my car. The number of hours left on a vacation. The number of minutes left before the one you covet returns to where they think they belong. The french fries on my plate. The toilet paper by my knee. The years I have left with my mother.
It’s a beautifully sunny day in this bustling sauna of a city. I am blissfully happy to be exactly where I am; and deeply terrified it will all be over too soon.
