Day Three. I wanted to write something today, maybe even a short essay, about how it’s so common for creative people to deprive themselves of basic necessities, even when they can afford it. I thought I might write about the fact that I finally bought myself new jeans the other day, for the first time in years. For years I’ve been wearing cheap things from fast fashion stores that cost less than $20 or $30 apiece, that are not so much jeans but “jeans,” forever ripping or tearing at the least opportune moment, the zippers breaking or opening unexpectedly. They were always sagging and slipping down, not all the way, but just enough so as to be unflattering and/or uncomfortable. I found myself forever performing an odd little kick dance as I hitched them up, in elevators, as I walked down the street, when I got off of buses or the Metro or out of cars and chairs. This small kicking dance—right foot, left foot, hitch, hitch, done, like something a leprechaun might do before setting off to start some trouble—was not the sort of thing I normally associated with the elegant adult woman I am forever pretending it is still possible for me to become.
This is profound in its resonances. For years I could not bring myself to say to some new person I'd just met that "I'm a writer." Feeling worthy of that description deserves a celebration of a new pair of jeans and a bowl of raspberries.
This is profound in its resonances. For years I could not bring myself to say to some new person I'd just met that "I'm a writer." Feeling worthy of that description deserves a celebration of a new pair of jeans and a bowl of raspberries.