The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Necessities

It's been a stressful week. What with the meteoric hope I had when M.'s friend C. dropped by to give me some job leads, to the plummeting sensation in the stomach when I realized that they're longshots at best, my nerves have been trifled with. I've been planning, thinking, but so far nothing has fallen into place. I am worried. I am physically exhausted from that worry. My chest hurts. I want a drink.

I am looking good, though. My friend C. called me last night to tell me that she'd forgot to mention that she'd noticed that my 'belly' is virtually gone (I thanked her, but to be honest, I'm still very much with belly. It's just a bit flatter). Today, I put on a thong, despite their wadded discomfort, and I studied my reflection in the mirror propped against the wall. I allowed myself to be vain, because I haven't had a lot of positive mirror time in my life, and I felt like I deserved to idolize myself a bit. Black bra, black thong. I imagined myself to be a dangerous sexpot. They're the best kind, aren't they?

I mentioned this to M. once I'd dressed myself and abandoned my scandalous doppleganger in the mirror. He said something about how I am once again the girl he fell in love with. I think he meant it as a compliment. I took it to mean he has found me repulsive since the middle of my pregnancy. It's how my brain works.

I am bitter, mostly because I haven't had any good news in ages. When was the last time I felt a rush of pleasure, excluding sexual? When was my last bit of good news? I'm due, I think. I'm totally due. I need a phone call with an offer on the end, a letter addressed to me which has glad tidings enclosed, an email saying that I've been chosen for something I'd forgotten I'd wanted. I need ten hours sleep. I need a hot bath with a book and a glass of red wine in a stemmed glass on the side. I need M. to get in with me, facing me, washing my legs with a peach-coloured cloth. Why peach-coloured? I know it's the one that is currently available in the bathroom at the moment. I need a long, guilt-free backrub, a smooth, warm-handed push and tickle. I need gentle tugs on the ends of my hair. That almost always makes me cross-eyed with bliss.

Maybe it's just me, but I don't think I ask for much. I complain a great deal, but I don't request anything. I keep myself busy with the bare minimum so that no one could ever accuse me of being demanding. I do this, and I know that there are some who would still characterize me as such. I think I might have been with R., but in a different way. I asked him for nothing but I would go ballistic when he spoiled himself. Same difference, I guess.

What do I want? I have a knack for thinking I'm easily pleased, but I'm beginning to wonder if that's true. Starting small, I'd say we could start with getting rid of January static. My hair has been airborne for weeks and it's annoying. I condition, I spray, but it flies. Fly, fly, fly. I would also like to have no more holey socks in my drawer. It seems I am always grabbing a pair with a fray about to give way and it's bothersome. This goes for underwear, too. I want new doors on all the upstairs rooms, white ones, doors that match. Right now they are all different and it throws me off. I want a plumber to return our call about the leaking pipe in our bathroom, and I want the cost of the repair to be covered by insurance. I want new sheets on the bed and firm, plump pillow that stays cool when I lay my head on it.

A job. One I like, one which pays. I want to learn something from it, as much as I want to contribute to it. I need it soon. I'm coasting now, and I have never been one for coasting. I want a refrigerator stocked with my favourite foods, at all times. I am not hard to please in this department, either. Fresh fruit (mainly avocado, tomatoes, strawberries, blueberries and raspberries), fresh vegetables (spinach, broccoli, cucumbers, carrots), chicken, turkey, eggs, milk (chocolate milk), pickles, bread, margarine, jam, juices etc. I don't want to revert back to my horrible eating habits. I'm happy with simple foods these days and my body is reacting positively to the changes. Haven't had heartburn in weeks. This is noteworthy. I want a bottle of wine available at all times because it's good for the heart, and for the disposition. I want chocolate in bed and M's legs wrapped around mine as I lick the melted bits from my fingers.

I want to work up the nerve to travel. I want to be able to afford it.

A weekly girl's night with a bunch of women who like books, coffee and discussion. Friendship is valuable. I want the laughter, the disclosure of harmless secrets and the understanding that only girlfriends can bring.

For M. to write me a poem, like he used to back when he was trying to woo me. I have two that he wrote, and occasionally I read them and let myself remember the perfection of being desired. Oh, he still does now but it's a different kind of desire altogether. Now it's more perfunctory, whereas it used to be all-consuming. I used to write poetry for him too, but if he misses it he doesn't say.

I want a proposal backed by a simple, platinum or silver diamond ring, preferably an antique cut. I don't want more than one diamond, though. One would represent something special, I think. I have no need for a jewellery box full of things which have no meaning.

A poem to be published. It would be a validation, and I wouldn't expect money. It would be for the thrill of it, to feel a measure of satisfaction in something I'd done on my own.

A small, intimate wedding held somewhere unique, like a step back in time. I envision an old manor or hotel, something with history, something I can add my own story to. I don't want the bridesmaids and the receiving line. I don't want the long, Catholic ceremony. I want it to be about love, the kind in poetry, the kind in old black and white movies. I want the food to be great and for my dress to be creamy ivory. I want it to be in the fall, with lit candles and the smell of burning wood. A red and orange sort of evening.

I want endless hugs, hourly kisses, warm fingers locked with my own. I want my little one's smiling face, her arm looped through mine, her adoration to bloom into respect.

My dreams are smaller than they used to be, but they feel like they'd be more than enough.

A job first, please. Let's start there.