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| "You wanna go visit the swing set?" My sister asked me in all seriousness.
I grinned at her and stood up, dusting the grass stains off my pants.
I hadn't been on a swing set since, what?
Sixth grade?
Perhaps even earlier?
We walked through the picnic area and into the playground.
...Past the spinarooni's we had raced down in second grade.
...Past the draw bridges we had terrorized in third grade.
...Past the concrete incline we scooter-ed down in fourth grade.
...Past the area we showed off our roller-skating skills in fifth grade.
I could still feel the sunbaked pavement against my chafed palms when I fell down, the way my knees stung, the taste of dirt in my mouth, and the way I bit down on my lip to keep it from trembling. I remember getting back up again and demanding a re-race, the sun was in my eyes even though it was 4 o'clock.
I smiled as we neared the swing set. It was green, just as I had remembered.
I sat in one of them and was surprised at the fact that I had to bend my knees slightly inward to keep them off the ground. I could still remember barely being tall enough to get into the seat of the swing.
And suddenly, I remembered with a snicker my fear of the swing sets. I was always afraid that it would collapse. Isn't that why the grown-ups always reprimanded us for swinging too high?
I began swinging my legs and felt the familiar tickling sensation in my stomach. My sister was talking to me, but the wind captured her words and whisked them away as I gained leverage over her and swang higher.
I kicked off my flip flops, as was tradition, and felt the cool breeze caress my toes.
I don't know how long I sat there, swinging.
I think it was when my thighs began cramping and my hands reeked of the rusty smell of the metal chains did I realize that my sister had stopped swinging. How long had she been sitting there?
I stopped swinging and let my self slow down.
And we shared the sunset, my childhood and I.
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| But me? I really need to lose. Weight, that is. I'm hitting the gym on Monday, no excuses. And this time, I'm gonna do my best to keep that promise to myself.
I was reading earlier and I remembered something that upset me a little. I bookmarked my page in Philippa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl and went upstairs to the attic. Hands on my hips and head slightly cocked to the left, I scanned the bookshelf I had jammed all my old high school textbooks into. The bookshelf was messy, save for one shelf: the novels. I had them organized neatly, in alphabetical order by author. I had taped all the corners of the paper back books, just as I had seen Joy do back in high school, so as to prevent the corners from getting frayed and bent.
The Great Gatsby. The Stranger. Gulliver's Travels. Wuthering Heights. The Invisible Man. The Bell Jar. The Sun Also Rises. Frankenstein. Jane Eyre.
I sat on the dusty floor and stared at the shelf and frowned in thought.
There should have been more.
Where did they go?
Where was my Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Where was my The Once and Future King? Where was my Black Boy?
Then the realization slid down my spine like a cold ice cube.
I left them in my locker senior year.
I never went back for them.
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| I was at MVC the other day when I unearthed yet another pet peeve of mine. I was sitting on a chair with my eyes glued to the clock on the wall, wondering how long it would take for the old lady sitting at the desk to call my number. She was old enough to be someone's grandmother, thin enough to be scrawny, but she had that hard-as-nails attitude. She called everyone "toots" and munched on a bag of potato chips. She reminded me of James McBridge's mother in the autobiography The Color of Water.
But enough about her. It's the person who came in through the doors that got on my nerves: a fat police officer. I'm not talking about, "Hey, I can lose a few pounds" fat. No, I know better than that; I'm at that stage. What I'm talking about is a man with a muffin top, thunder thighs, and a beer belly. I don't understand it; if I was to get up right then and punch the sixteen-year-old girl sitting next to me and run off with her Louis Vuitton handbag, would this fat fuck police officer run after me? Or would he call for backup? Get on the treadmill.
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| Hey, I'm new to Xanga. For now, I'm just reading. Will do some writing though.
All in due time, all in due time.
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