Escape

Some people wear depression well, like jeans and a hoodie. They sink into it, take comfort in it.

But depression doesn’t suit me.

On me it’s a straight jacket, leggings, and platform flip-flops. The most uncomfortable thing I can imagine wearing.

I want it off me as soon as possible.

Even Houdini had a hard time escaping from a straight jacket and he was a professional.

I’ve tried in the past to untie it, one lace at a time.

Wiggle free of sadness while still keeping it intact, allowing it to be set aside where it could be put back on at any time.

I’ve tried asking others to untie it for me. I didn’t know then that it wasn’t their job.

Now I prefer to cut it off.

I tear at it.

Twist, turn and scream.

Use my tears to lubricate the knots.

I fight.

And I win.

Can I get a heart-shaped salad?

There are heart-shaped helium balloons in the checkout line at Kroger.

Pink and red have invaded the center aisle at Meijer, and a Gorilla holding a heart sang “Love Me True” to me as I walked into Target yesterday.

It must be Valentines.

I considered jumping on the “Valentines Day sucks” bandwagon again this year. It’s been a comfortable place for me over the past two bitter years. I sit there, nose in the air scoffing at the fools who buy into the chocolate dipped holiday. Scowl at people holding hands. Whisper under my breath “get a room” to the people kissing on the corner. I perpetuated the idea that love poems don’t exist, and even suggested buying cactus for each other because it seems to me it is the least loving plant in existence. But I donated my bitter pants to the Salvation Army a month an a half ago, and I don’t miss them one bit.

Being in love doesn’t mean I have to love Valentines Day though.

I could join those who argue that Valentines Day is just a cliché, that we shouldn’t need a holiday to remind us to celebrate the people we love. I suppose that’s true. Everyday is a good day for chocolate, flowers and love letters. Especially love letters. Is it really so wrong though to have a holiday reminding us to celebrate love? Isn’t that what all holiday’s are about, reminding us to celebrate?

Thanksgiving is a reminder to give thanks for our blessings.

Christmas is about remembering the birth of Jesus.

Veterans Day, Halloween, Easter, Flag Day, Presidents day, Martin Luther King Jr. day, they are all reminders to celebrate something that we don’t think of everyday. If Valentines Day is a cliché because it is a reminder, then logic would follow that the rest of them are too. I don’t buy that.

I’ve heard the argument that Valentines Day “reinforces gender roles”. It’s crap. No, I don’t need anyone to buy me tulips to put on my kitchen table. I can buy my own box of chocolates, even heart shaped if I want. I can afford to buy my own dinner. And I can make my own play list of really cheesy love songs, even burn them to a CD and write a dedication to myself if I want to:

“To Liz: I love you and I’ll always be here for you. All my heart, Liz”

It’s not quite the same.

The truth is, I love Valentines Day and always have.

It’s cheesy, like Phil Collins singing “Groovy Kind of Love”.

I love cheese.

In seventh grade, cute but dumb gave me a yellow haired troll. I broke up with him the next day. It wasn’t because of the troll.

My senior year, my first real boyfriend brought me six pink roses.

My mom gave me a silver heart necklace, which I still cherish.

I’ve gotten carnations, the ugliest flower in the world.

A tiny heart shaped box of chocolates.

A dozen red roses delivered to work.

Fancy dinners at expensive restaurants.

Shared a sundae at McDonalds because a dollar was all we could scrounge up.

Had “Angel Eyes” dedicated to me on a local radio station.

I loved all of it.

I’m not ashamed.

It’s okay to admit you love it too.

I won’t tell.

The Recession Strikes Pants.

The tax man gave me money today, and I decided that for the first time in two years I was going to buy myself some new pants. Dress pants. Pants that an observer would deem appropriate for the classroom instead of the denim trousers I’ve been wearing three times a week for the past year. They don’t really fit well, but they only need washing once a week and go with everything. They’ve been good for my personal economy. I consider them my recession pants.

The recession has made times tough all around. I read a news article about companies not wanting to raise the prices on food so instead they charge the same price for smaller packages. This has happened in cereal, bread, and ice cream. Apparently, as I learned today, it also applies to pants.

There used to be two stores where I could walk in and buy pants. They weren’t spectacular pants, and always more than I wanted to. But I could try them on, decide if they made my butt look flat and walk out the door with nice new pants. They were never really as long as I’d like, but they worked. Not today.

Today the pants had felt the effects of the recession.

I realize that I’m unusually tall, and most of that height is caused by terribly long legs. In my ideal world, a long length would be thirty-six inches. I’ll settle for a thirty-four, can’t wear heels with them but I don’t do that anymore anyway so that’s fine. But thirty-two inches as a tall?

“This company considers ‘tall’ to be 5’7-5’9’. You’re quite a bit taller than that. How tall are you anyway?” I hate that question. Hate it more from tiny little sprites posing as sales people. I considered stepping on her.

“Almost six feet. In whose world is 5’7 tall? My sister is 5’10 and I wouldn’t call her tall. What happens to women once they grow past 5’9? Are we supposed to find a revolutionary doctor willing to amputate a portion of our legs, in my case just below the knee, so we can buy pants? Or am I supposed to wear Capri pants all year around, since I could buy a pair of your “regular” pants and they’d be a perfect fit?

Two years ago these pants were long enough. I have a pair at home, almost worn through that prove it. Now you’re just like the grocery store; selling less product for the same inflated price. I want all the ice cream I’m paying for and I want all the pants I’m paying for too. Is that so hard?”

Okay, no. I didn’t say it. But I wanted to.

It’s not the tiny persons fault the pants are short. She might have even tried to make me feel better by saying what all short people say when I complain about buying pants:

“Well, pants are always too long for me.”

It doesn’t help. Extra pant can be cut off and hemmed. No one adds pant.

Instead I forced a smile.

"Nevermind. I’m seriously considering the logistics of giving up pants altogether.”