Gloves and Gatsby

Hello Escritori,

The day before the heavens opened, which was Thursday last, finally ending the heatwave, I saw again, that pesky tarot card of life: a discarded glove. Two, single gloves from different pairs in fact.

At the Fashion Museum there were numerous examples of beautiful gloves but since they were put out deliberately it aroused less curiosity than single, lost gloves found later.

The first glove I saw was grey and textured, obviously a work glove that had the addition of some extra fortune-cookie-ness by having the words ‘Maxi Flexi’ on it in white font. I decided to pay attention to this clarion call to be more flexible. I despise yoga though, so if lost gloves are Valentines from God, I’ll be keeping that flexibility ideological.

Although, okay, yes, I really need to get back into the workout habit.

The second glove was also plastic based, general purpose and an anaemic Smurf Blue.

What’s up with that… Glove, blove… believe? I asked myself.

Ah self-belief. At worst, I sometimes think I’d gratefully marry the first guy who asked me, without chemistry and while keeping my eyes shut. It doesn’t help when you’re craving multifaceted connections and only ever seem to find shallow people. In the last three years since tiptoeing my way to mental health stability, I have been terrified to take risks even with good guys. Each time I think I’ll apply for jobs, study, do anything it’s been because I’ve been trying to make up for the two years and the entire ‘me’ I lost being in recovery. I’m Jay Gatsby. I haven’t had the strength to say: “That was then, this is now” and losing my job did not help me to do so.

I have existed so carefully that I don’t LIVE authentically, except in those areas I just love instinctively, because anything less would be inadequate.

People often say “You had a bad experience, get over it.” You have to absorb it, process it and then neutralise it. There are days when I just LONG to re-engage in life, for other things, experiences and people to enrich me again. Then I hate myself because I think “If you wanted anything enough, you could do it: a great job, a husband who gets you and the bears and loves Allah, a book deal, a healthy, capable body, a mind at peace…”

The fault must be mine, mustn’t it, for not wanting it enough to make it real? For not putting in the effort?

 Life is a finite thing, and I’m so afraid of wasting it, but then again, my main driver is always fear. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have any other emotion in the front seat… How could I even begin?

Sorry guys,

~ Pola ~