One Bad Morning Or Appearances
In an entire life in which I’ve been made to feel that I have little to no control over how people see me as a person, how they see my physical self bothers me much less. That voice is still there. Today is a good day, it doesn't bother me at all.
I get out of bed and walk into my closet to get ready.I shift deeper into the bed as this thought crosses my mind. My heartbeat pounds in my chest as my mind warms up for the day with a highlight reel of some of my fresher anxieties. The swirling nexus of stress is disrupted when my alarm goes off for the fourth time this morning and I swipe it to dismiss without opening my eyes. My muscles already feel like lead today, but I stumble out of bed, several loud cracks issuing from my legs as my feet touch the shaggy carpet. Typically the tight curls feel nice, but today they feel scratchy, almost painful. I sway as I try not to be overwhelmed already. I have plenty of time, so I don't worry too much over what I do first.
My clothes are neatly folded on the racks, sorted by type, waiting for me to pick out another outfit. My clothes are in a pile because I didn't fold them after doing my laundry two days ago. Somewhere between shambling across the black carpet of my bedroom and the hardwood floor of my closet I open my eyes to the fresh sting of the sunlight from a nearby window. The blinds are drawn up from when I actually wanted light in the room. I set my phone down and check the time, five minutes before I have to leave.
I take out the weather app and decide what to wear. I really like the new navy and white beanie I bought and it’s pretty cold out, so I’ll probably wear that. I grab at the pile of clothes until I come away with clothes that might shield me from the hostile atmosphere outside and roughly match. I take a moment to consider if they actually do match and spot a stain on the inside of the shirt that never washed out. I ultimately decide that everyone who I’m going to see today has seen me in worse. The past few days have been cold, so I take my black winter jacket. It’s a bit big and I feel like it hides me. Even on my good days I'm wearing darker colors in the hope that I'll blend into the background. I might ruin a good day by wondering why this is.
Once I’ve gotten my jacket on without issue, I pick up my favorite scarf and beanie to put on as I walk out of my bedroom. I’ve taken too long dawdling in my closet. The darkened white walls of the tiny room stretch forward. If I didn’t fall into a stupor I wouldn’t have to force my tired body to rush. I sloppily put on deodorant, a white streak
appearing on the inside of my shirt as I stretch my arm to apply it without grinding the metal plate on my collarbone against the skin of my shoulder.
The jacket will hide it, I think, pulling the winter coat tighter around me. The white streak on the inside of my black shirt stands out and people will probably think less of me if they see it, but somehow that thought doesn’t worry me as much.
“You ready for class?” My roommate knocks on my door as he passes in an ironed shirt, the clean miasma of his cologne washes over my open door. I rush over to my table and tear the charger out of my laptop, sliding it into my messenger bag. I rip one sock on, then the other. I have a ton more laundry to do so this pair of socks doesn’t quite match, but they’re almost a match in color, good enough.
On a good day, I could- But it doesn't matter, because today I'm rolling with what I've got.
“Uh yeah, pretty much.” I’m pounding down the stairs with leaden legs before my bag is fully around my neck, the leather strap resting on my good shoulder of course. I stuff my feet into my shoes as my roommate flings the door open. I’m in the car only a second after him. The anxious thoughts swirl around the back of my brain, like someone dumped pop rocks and cola into an angry beehive and shook it up. Each moment I talk at him I can feel the tide coming in, my worries seem smaller and smaller. Each moment I talk to him I can feel myself working out how most of what I’m worried about doesn’t matter at all right now, and the day is bright, full of opportunity or disaster depending on me. Each moment I talk with him is a little easier as I spend a fleeting moment with a real friend, just the two of us honestly and openly communicating, sharing, and distressing before the day ahead.
Thomas Mallach is a fiction and nonfiction writer currently enrolled in the Creative Writing program at SUNY Oswego.
