Clearing a path to my pretend self
It all started to unravel, as things do, when I decided to get organized.
Shelves, I said to myself. I need shelves in the kitchen where I can store the gabillion jars and glass containers cluttering my countertops. Containers of stuff I bought for my pretend life, where I’m a person who cooks quinoa from scratch, whipping up batches of healthy summer salads that I’ll eat al fresco, wearing one of the sundresses that hang in my closet (tags still on) and a floppy hat I have yet to purchase but which is on my list.
The quinoa was purchased back when I was still pretending to be a person who is a vegetarian but just happens to eat fish (and the occasional meatball), um, four — or is it five? — years ago. It’s probably expired at this point, but I keep it for the same reason I keep the black raw jeans I was barely able to squeeze into a decade ago — because one day I’ll get back into them. One day I’ll delve into my pretend life on Pinterest and pull out one of those “easy” summer quinoa salad recipes and I’ll post a photo of it across all social media channels with the hashtag #easypeasybreezy. Cause that’s what I am. #EasyPeasyBreezy.
So I look at the clutter of jars and glass containers on my counter, piled one on top of the other. And I start to hyperventilate a little, thinking how did I fall so far from the tree? My mother, my aunt and my sister all have a place for every single item in their lives. Every single thing they own has a purpose, a label, a tag, a drawer or cubby. Their stuff is stacked neatly in rows or tucked into organizers. There is no extra anything, no clutter, no piles. They buy only what they need for their real lives, not their pretend lives.
I’m a doer, I said to myself. Let’s get on this clutter crisis! After many hours researching all options, I ordered a pair of 4-footlong wall shelves from a Canadian company via Etsy. The custom stained and sized shelves would have a semi-floating appearance, anchored by four brackets that look like industrial pipe. Perfect.
On the day they arrived in January, I excitedly ripped open the cardboard and unwrapped my purchase. The stain was perfect, I noted giddily. And then I pulled out the pipe brackets and stood them upright on the counter. Four phalluses stood erect before me. Yes, you read that right. The photos of the shelves and the brackets had not done them justice, because these were the closest thing to penises I’d ever see hanging from my walls (I assume). The idea is that two brackets would jut out from the wall with one shelf lying over top. And to be fair, straight on they probably look like pipe. But the side view is something else …
Nope. Not gonna happen. I am not going to be the person who hangs penis brackets on her wall to the bewilderment and amusement of every guest who enters my home. Because in my pretend life, I’m a normal person who doesn’t do stuff like that, OK?
In my pretend life, I’m also a person who doesn’t give two figs what other people say or think about me. And that’s true to some extent — a person doesn’t write about her personal life in the newspaper without having something of a thick skin. But I do draw the line at being the girl who hangs genitalia on her walls — of either sex. My walls are a genitalia-free zone.
So why am I telling you about this now? Because after months of trying to decide what to do about these brackets, after shopping the world over (literally) for new wall brackets, I gave in to my true self and decided to give these a go. Maybe they would look less phallic once mounted on the wall.
Well, I did what I’ve done a million times before: broke out the stud finder, the level, charged up the power drill. And I can only assume the stud finder was confused by the four studs standing erect on my counter because its readings were all over the place. Here’s the stud. No, here’s the stud. Nope, it’s over there.
After measuring and scanning a million more times, I finally drilled — into hollow drywall. And then I decided to do what I should have done in the first place: get rid of the quinoa and all the other useless jars of stuff I’ll never use. And buy some putty to fill in those wall holes instead, which I’ll probably get to at some point next year. Because that, my friends, is the real me.