roots.

Yesterday, one of the sunniest spring days we have had thus far, I found myself behind the wheel of my poor car, driving through the country with the windows down. I was with my brother, someone who is faraway and close, always. We were talking about circuit training with weights, and how much I love running, on a mission to attain cowboy cut wrangler jeans from Wal-Mart. They were for him, not me. 

We laughed about how things change. He used to wear Abercrombie, and I used to go to school with hot-rollers in my hair. I no longer fix my hair, and he only wears $22.99 Cowboy Cut Wranglers from Wal-Mart. 

I told him how, when out with friends the other evening and being entertained by someone else's jukebox choice, I surprised them by knowing every word to the Shania Twain song carrying us through our conversation. "Man, I feel like a woman"...

I make fun of my friend Mary, on a regular basis, for listening to country music. She grins each time I get in her car and it's on one of those stations because she knows what's coming. 

Though I say it's growing up and changing, and that some things we just grow out of, a good portion of me has tried to forget that part of my life. And judging by the fact that I know all of the words to a Shania Twain song, a country singer that came along much later in my life, that part of my life lasted for a long time. And it began early. As a little girl of five, at possibly one of the most pure and innocent seasons I will ever live through, I wanted to be a country singer. I wanted to stand on the stage in the gaudy western wear and belt out twangy tunes.

And the thing that I am thinking about all of this has little to do with country music and more to do with the parts of our lives we try to forget, reason away, or cover up with a newfound "good taste in music".

Truthfully, from a young age, I felt at home in the city. The tall buildings, the traffic, and the lights were sources of comfort, despite the rural surroundings I was nurtured in. I felt early on that the city was really where I belonged, and that I was supposed to have been born there, really, but some angel somewhere got his sexless wires crossed, and I ended up, accidently, in the sticks. I wasn't bitter, but rather managed to maintain a constant intention to return to the home I had never been. This may have something to do with why I have been trying to shuck from me this country husk that seems to stay planted at my heels, no matter how long it's been since I have entertained myself with a country tune, or filled my plate with cheesy potatoes and fried chicken.  

Reality, though, is something I am a big fan of. And the idea of forgetting something or being ashamed of something that's inevitably and inextricably tied to me makes me more uncomfortable than living with, being at ease with, dare I say, thankful for the country-ness I came from.  Today, I am paying homage to my country roots, and the parts of 'em that are still tangled with whatever new growth I got going on inside.

Yee-Haw.

corners.

I am sitting at a table, pretending I am in the corner. Most people that dine with me, or have coffee with me (or go anywhere publicly with me) know that I covet the corner seat of the corner table in the far corner of the corner. Right now, my coveted corner seat is taken by some man in an herblife shirt who keeps getting up and going outside to talk on the TELEPHONE. He is so completely unaware of the table luxury he has that he isn't even staying on his ass long enough to appreciate it. So what did I do? I sat in the seat right in front of him. Some would say that we are awkwardly close. All he can see is the back of my head. But I am pretending I am in the corner, because, with the exception of those trips he keeps taking back and forth to phone and smoke, I can't see him at all. My hope is that I will make him so uncomfortable that he will have no choice but to move tables. I don't think it's working. 

I was driving the other day down a street I frequent near my little backyard home. There was a man standing at the edge of the sidewalk, holding the leash of his dog, waiting get to the path that resumes on the other side of the street. Since I can't see well, and have lost my glasses once again, I didn't realize until I got a little closer that the man holding the lease couldn't see, and that it was the dog that was leading him. I glanced up the street. There were cars coming toward me. School had just been let out, so the traffic was a bit heavier that usual. He waited. I glanced in my rearview mirror. There were cars approaching behind me. He waited. He was trusting his dog, and listening himself for the sound of vehicles. He waited. More cars approached, but there was a possible break. I continued to watch him even after I passed, through my rearview mirror. It seems dramatic and even a little cheesy, but I think that ultimately, this man's life rested in the being that was in the other side of red leash being gripped by his hand. I was taken aback at the thought. 

Roller skating has been reintroduced to my life. I have started spending Wednesday evenings with quads on my feet, circling a rink, feebly trying to get around the corners without falling on my already running-strained knees. I arrived agitated and annoyed last week, due to a traffic hold up that that made me late and cut into my precious few skating hours. I hurriedly laced up my skates, and anxiously made my way to the floor. I think I mentioned above that my skating is feeble. It's amateur. It's inexperienced. Skating is one of those things you need to keep doing to get good at. I haven't been doing it all these years, so I am rusty. No. I am not rusty. I am just bad. My long spider legs being supported by four wheels that are constantly moving, coupled with my shaky arms attempting balance is basically a doomed scenario. Two seconds after I get on the rink, before I even round the second corner, some expert skating jerk face zooms behind me to the right and cuts in front of me to the left. I am not a small person. I haven't been for, like, twenty years. And since I am tall, I fall from much further up. This is what I tell myself. Because of above mentioned expert skating jerk face, I spend the next ten or so seconds trying to pick myself up off of the wood floor. Now I am just mad. He asks if I am okay and tries to help me up. I help myself up and huff, "I am fine, ass hole. Thanks for f&*king cutting me off." I kind of mumbled the part after the word fine, so I don't think he heard me. 

I was angry. Expert skating jerk face took my control from me. Corner seat guy kept me from the spot that offered me the most control. The man that moved me the most from the previous week, the man whose name I didn't even know, didn't have a choice but to let go of that thing I grip the tightest with my hand. 

Corner seat guy got up and left, so I am typing my last paragraph from his old spot. It's nice here, in the corner.