It’s as though I woke up in someone else’s life.
Yesterday I had a hotel concierge arrange alterations to a gown I bought last minute for a party I flew two provinces to attend.
I keep looking at that sentence. Then I remember that the cat box is going to need cleaning as soon as I get home, there’s a wicked draught through the backdoor that we need to thwart before we end up losing toes to frostbite – and Wednesday morning I will be driving down a dark frozen highway to spend the day in an unfinished storage area in the back of a stripmall in Martensville, where people will line up to yell in my general direction about things I can’t control.
I’m straddling a strange divide these days, feeling a bit foreign in my own skin. It’s not uncomfortable, but it has left me tender and a little disoriented. I’m too old for Kafka metaphors – it’s a bit embarrassing, like watching middle-aged women throw their giant granny panties at Tom Jones.
For now, I’m just going to enjoy the paradox – I’m going to write in a coffee shop on Robson Street, let doormen carry my bags and maybe even browse at Tiffany’s. ‘Cause sometimes a touch of glamour is exactly what a girl needs.