You know those movies like Freaky Friday, Hot Chick, Switch, Prelude to a Kiss, Big and 13 Going on 30, where someone gets zapped into another person's body and life?
I feel like that's happened to me.
I am surrounded by evidence that a colorful person once lived here, someone who liked to decorate, treasure hunt at yard sales and shop. Someone who liked shoes a little too much for her budget.
Someone who liked to do crafts, to play music, to sing and dance, bake cookies and take long, hot bubble baths.
Some brainy overachiever who thought it was a good idea to go to graduate school and earn a master's degree in English. Someone who held academia in high regard, who thought teaching writing a worthy aspiration.
Someone who once held dreams of a happy family and a happy home.
I look at my collections, antique compacts, perfume bottles and costume jewelry, and wonder why on earth I have them. Why all these shoes, when there are only a few pairs I wear anyway?
Shopping is a cheerless chore done only out of necessity. Why do the stores offer so damn much crap to overwhelm our lives? It all turns into trash anyway and things even the thrift stores won't even take as donations.
Singing takes too much energy and so does playing guitar.
Writing teachers are the dogs of the university.
Cookies make you fat.
None of these clothes looks good on me, and most of these shoes make my feet hurt.
My family is centrifugal, dispersing outward with tremendous force, and there is no center. My home is echoing with pointlessness. No one sees it but me, and I don't care.
The person I am now is exhausted and can't remember anything.