It’s close to quitting time and the Friday blues come. Bang it out. The to-do list needs to be crossed off. Women are productive but girls dabble.
But every song on Spotify reminds me that I’m no different. I take comfort in averages.
It’s when I rub the bump which keeps its growth in the middle of my forehead. The night before I hit myself and now I’ve become the most wonderful imitation of a unicorn.
I call Mama. She’s at JC Penney.
“Would you like me to buy you some underwear?” she inquires. “It’s one for $11 and the other free.”
“Mom, if you buy me underwear I will tell the next man I sleep with that you buy me underwear,” I respond with sweet resentment.
“For this reason I’ll make sure they’re passion killers. Grandma underwear.”
“Mom, you buying me underwear is kinda like a chastity belt. ”
I tell her that we can write about chastitiy belts; if we get 100 bucks for it that would pay for the underwear.
We laugh again.
“How are you?” she now inquires about me.
Instead of white lie, I utter confidences. Heart is still broken. That I miss a man I perhaps invented. I’m a coward. That I never heard his voice again.
“How can so much stupidity be in one neuron!?” she chastises while sorting through the undie pile miles away.
I laugh but make notes to remind myself of such a wonderful saying, “neuron stupidity.”
So between advice and underwear sizes, I start my own inquries.
The night before I prepared a news report and come to learn about her condition: Anosia. The inability to distinguish aromas.
“Hey, can you smell mint?”
“Yes.”
“What about oranges?”
“Yes.”
“Roses?”
“No.”
So I go down the list. I scribble all the time but perhaps this one is purposeful.
No, she can’t smell leather and can’t give me a clear answer on fish.
“Well, don’t worry about fish. When you visit I’ll take you to Chinatown. You’ll smell fish alright!”
We laugh again.
“Why are you asking me these questions?” she responds while still on the hunt for undies.
“Ah, well, what you have is Anosia but it’s not as serious as it can be.”
“Ah, well, I’m wearing this perfume and I can finally smell it!”
“Good, make sure to smell it. Work that muscle.”
“Ok.”
“Mom, don’t buy me clothes!” the futility mixes with oxygen as it exits my mouth.
“Give me torment! Tell me what not to bring you. I’ll show you the clothes in Google.”
We laugh again. I’m her barbie, a “muñequita de sololoi.”
Love is promised and professed until another day but don’t say what I read the night before: “Anosia could be an indicator of death within the next 5 years.”
jumahchaguan 