Imitation of life

The advice and mantras have been coming from all directions. Let go or be dragged. Measure your hair by cities. (Example: “I think with this haircut, I lost the last of my LA hair.”) No one pays to see a one-balled juggler. Better dead than in the red. The fish rots from the head.

The questions are not so much answerable but fun to send into the world: If you could be doing anything, what would it be? Are history museums for people too stupid to already know this stuff? Why are the public library employees wearing gloves? May I ask you about pan flutes? How am I not myself?

A few more: Was my grandmother amazed that I remembered her birthday because she was amazed at her own recall? Would you fake a death to postpone a lunch date? What’s wrong with my spam filter? Am I the only one who cries when people tie up their dogs outside of malls and leave them for hours? What is stopping you from diving into the reflecting pool of your soul or visiting the quiet room of your mind?

We should also rework a couple: not “How did you meet?” but “How did you stay together?”; not “Half full or empty?” but “Do you need a refill?”; not “How did I end up going to the same school as Vin Di Bona? What’s wrong with me?” but “What’s wrong with Vin Di Bona?”

Turn a few back around on people while you’re at it. When they pry into your diet—”Do you get enough protein?”—ask, “Do you get enough B vitamins? How well do you sleep at night?” Today I got an email, “Brittany, have you had your baby yet?” I had no other choice but to reply, “I am not pregnant, nor do I intend to be.” There was not an appropriate question with which I could respond.

The other day, in my neverending quest to be physically warmer, I pulled on my latest favorite sweatshirt with such zeal that I ended up standing in our entryway with my face pressed into the back of the hood. I’m sure that’s a metaphor for something.