a little something

I walked home this morning in the rain. I didn’t tell him I was leaving. I did not make the bed or leave a note, saying, “Let’s do this again soon!!” The guilt that usually overwhelms me around this time has thrown in the towel and committed itself to the bench or the box or the dugout. As I hike the little hills in the cold swaying rain, the garbage men haul in the trash of college kids; it is stacks of empty beer boxes, fast food, and other bad things that I wish I didn’t do.
I have nightmares that my little, thirteen year old sister will grow up to be like me. In my dream, her greasy hair hangs limp in her face, with smeared eye makeup and red pouty lips. She’s inherited my mother’s particular brand of drunkenness, that of repeated questions, half open eyelids, and a higher pitched voice that grates on the eardrum like a cheese shredder. She is smoking a cigarette, after lighting the wrong end and dropping it on the ground twice, and this is when I see her and berate her acting this way, for acting like me. “Julia, what the hell are you doing?!” Maybe this means that I hate myself.
It’s strange that I may hate myself, even when I’m not hated by anyone. People generally like me even though I don’t generally like people. After spending an extended period of time as a waitress, one grows cold to the human race. It’s a great defense mechanism when tipped poorly. People are gratuitous and coarse and ungracious and complaining. Repeat that to yourself ten times a day, and you will never be hurt in love.
However, I’ve encountered glimpses of good in people, and it surprises me every time. Last night, I wore dress that was fit for Oregon Trial. The shade of red was too obvious, and it had little white flowers tumbling all over it. The print would be more appropriate for bathroom wallpaper than a dress. Someone said to me, "You look like the American Girl doll, Kirsten, except without the bonnet." Kirsten was the Swedish immigrant one whose friend dies on a train.
Despite my retro, early 20th century fashion, I received compliments, from both men and women, from friends and strangers. Really, this just proves one thing. People love Laura Ingalls Wilder, dolls, and Swedes, and therefore, people must be essentially decent.