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.

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