Remedy

It’s Saturday night. I have watched six episodes of a sitcom I shouldn’t love as much as I do, and the most recent episode made me cry in my typical fit of, “I JUST LOVE LOVE.” On my left lies a plate littered with crumbs and remaining slivers of my dignity. Earlier in the evening, I had impulsively baked a pan of cornbread. What began as a single slice fresh out of the oven quickly evolved into four slices lathered in butter, sweetened with honey, and consumed in bed. I drag my finger through the lingering drizzles of honey, pulling the osmosis of salt and sugar to my lips.

My phone vibrates, and I lurch toward it in excitement. I look at my screen and read: “ECU BANK: LOW BALANCE ALERT”. Well fuck you too, iPhone. I wonder, if Webster ever adds photos and phrases to its dictionary, will a picture of me in this moment appear under the colloquialism, “oh, honey”?

In an attempt to boost my morale, I tell myself this isn’t the worst “oh, honey” moment I’ve had. There was…

·      The time I accidentally slammed my fist on the table and sent an entire bowl of rice flying onto the floor in front of my graduate program director

·      The time a student told me, “Your outfit is okay, but it really falls apart when you get to the shoes”

·      The time my friend convinced a man to buy us a round of drinks at the bar, and the man, pointing to my other friend and I, stated: “This is for your Dalmatian friend and the girl with poor eyesight.” Dalmatian friend? My friend was wearing a black and white polka dot shirt. Girl with the poor eyesight? You guessed it.

I start episode seven. The sexual tension in this one is so thick I have to grab the sides of my bed to keep my nerves under control. THE LOOK HE GAVE HER, CAN WE JUST… I pause it. I need to take a break. I stand up slowly; my body still aches from my bike ride home from campus earlier in the week. When I first arrived in Tucson a few weeks ago, my dad gifted me his bike. It was beautiful: dark silver, wide seat, basket hugging the front handlebars.

It got stolen days later (I know what you’re thinking: “oh, honey”). Now, I won’t claim full innocence, but I can promise it was locked up on campus with the recommended U-lock. When I first discovered it was gone, it was nearly 100 degrees outside. I stood sweaty and sad outside the Modern Languages building.

No car and a refusal to spend too much money on a bus pass led me to a used bike store the day after mine was stolen. It was late afternoon, and I had had my first day of classes earlier that morning. Idiotically, I hadn’t really thought through this whole “buying a new bike and riding it home” thing, so I was wearing my formal button up shirt, slacks, three bags, and my lunchbox. Already committed, I ignored these glaring obstacles and opened the door with my head held high.

Bike stores always make me nervous. I feel like the intellectual barrier to entry is super high; bike people know their shit, and they want you to know that they know their shit. Upon entering the store, a salesperson greeted me. He seemed nice enough. I told him that I needed a cheap bike that would get me to and from campus. I was trying to be suave, but I knew I reeked of desperation and uncertainty. He brought me outside to the discounted bikes. Late afternoon in the desert left the streets baking; I could see the outline of heat waves radiating from the pavement. The salesman pulled out a slick road bike. I tentatively put down my things and tried to swing my body over the seat. The frame seemed too big for my body, and I shook trying to keep myself steady. He encouraged me to ride it around the parking lot next to the store. I felt unsure about it, but I managed to place my feet on the pedals and moved toward the parking lot. With this small triumph, I even dared myself to dream that I would look back on this moment as the time I became a true biker.

The salesman called me back. I turned, albeit not totally smoothly, and made my way over to him. Despite my moments of uncertainty, my confidence was on solid ground. Riding back, I heard him say something. “What?”, I called out. He repeated, “You look super awkward on that thing.”

I told him to find me a different bike.

~

8:00 pm. Weeks have passed since my bike was stolen, and I acquired the shittier bike to replace it. My new bike and I have had an on-again-off-again relationship. Sometimes, I can muster up enough drive to ignore the pain the seat ignites in my lower back, and other times, I love myself enough to take the bus. Today is a bus day. I wander over to the station at the east edge of campus. Yellow streetlights pierce the sky every so often, lining the curb of the main lawn. I arrive at the bus stop and sit to wait. Thankfully, I haven’t sat long when I see my bus rounding the corner. I stand and ready my pass, walking slowly toward the curbside sign. A man walks a few feet in front of me, and a woman follows behind me. I am a foot away from the curb when the bus arrives and lets the man in. I am just gearing up my bus pass when I look to see the bus driver shut the door and drive away.

Well, fuck.

I hear the woman behind me start cussing. I take deep breaths and try to find empathy for the bus driver. He didn’t see me!!! I am unknowingly under the guise of an Invisibility Cloak!!! I was banned from the Tucson bus system for apologizing every time I enter the bus because I’m awkward and don’t know how to make eye contact in public!!!

This attempted empathy fails to tame my frustration and exhaustion. “Fuck” comes to mind again. I glance over at the woman behind me. I don't know her, but an acute craving for intimacy suddenly overwhelms me. Softly, I wonder what it would feel like to hug her. The thought dislodges tension in my shoulders, and I become jarringly overcome by this prospect: what if I buried my chin into the gentle underbelly of her shoulder and wrapped my arms around the blades of her back? Would she hold me? And, would that be so wrong?

This thought leaves me looking at her for a moment too long. A year and a half of moving around and being alone in new places has left me vulnerable to imagination. In slight awe, I realize I crave comfort and settledness so profoundly I wish a stranger would hug me. Learned protocol eventually takes over, and of course, I don't reach out. Instead, I inhale and hold my breath until that brink that hurts, exhaling slowly as I walk back to the bus station park bench.

I have thirty minutes until the next bus arrives. I know I could order a ride and be home in ten, but a somewhat irrational mixture of my stubbornness, my resolve, and my pride keeps me waiting on the bench. I take out my phone to text my friend who had earlier bore witness to a series of mishaps and shitty luck that colored my day. I cue her in to my continued misfortune, infusing all-caps drama for humor: “OMG YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED…”. Sent. I smile softly to myself, grateful that I have a friend I feel comfortable sending this sort of text to. It is a minute milestone, but it's mine.

The tension hasn't returned to my shoulders, so I sit with my spine as the highest point of my body. I remember the desert sky isn't a bad one to be stuck under; I raise my head slightly to pepper my view with stars. The temperature has dropped, and without a sweater, the metal of the bench drains warmth from my body. I am cold for the first time since moving here. With time to spare, the present evaporates from my thoughts, and I go two months back.

I am sitting in the same position- spine taught, stomach curled. This moment, though, feels different. I am perched on the edge of my bed. I have just moved to Tucson and have started the confusing, isolating endeavor of graduate school. From the outside, I look frozen, suspended against gravity. On the inside, my body and my mind upend one another. I feel hot and breathe too fast. My heart topples over itself. I’m sure there’s a clinical term for this experience that has followed me, both in newness and in familiarity, throughout my life, but I’ve never pushed myself far enough to name it. It feels like every thought I’ve ever had is breeding two lives in my body. It is the full bracing against the pain of duality. An arresting continuum. It is feeling hot and breathing fast.

I usually, thankfully, render enough control to move. Sitting on my bed, it takes me a while, but I eventually garner a brief moment of clarity. It is a nail that grabs my attention this time; I haven’t been able to pull it out of the wall, and frankly, it’s pissing me off. The quotidian simplicity of this annoyance pauses my body. I kind of laugh to myself, but tears also start to stream down my face. I feel lost. I look around and realize I have no car or subway to take me somewhere else- my usual remedy.

Instead, I have two feet and a front door.

I decide to go for a walk. I leave my bedroom, pulling myself out into the cover of the night sky. My heartbeat still feels out of body, but the pulse has dissipated into a murmur. I can hear my own breath again. Unnecessary thoughts melt away. I become present enough to take in my surroundings. The prickly outlines of cacti don’t look menacing or threatening, but protective instead. Their shadows embolden the dim horizon. I walk in the road as sidewalks are few and far between in Tucson neighborhoods. I’m sure this is the result of some sort of planning mishap or injustice, but walking in the road holds a sort of innocence for me. I walk for a long time.

I end up several blocks from my house; life, of course, remains uncertain, and my feet still carry me forward. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to render happiness where I’m at. About how to stay steady in the hard times, in the miraculous times, in the times when nothing else makes sense. About fighting to stay present and advocate for the good in myself. About cultivating remedy. Remedy for and remedy from and remedy with and remedy as and remedy in.

This time, remedy comes in eyes wide open. There is remedy in I’m happy I’m here. In this life, on this wide-veined road, bearing witness to the havoc of my breathing. In thank god I’m here. In I have nowhere else to be. Remedy in I’m so glad you’re here. In let’s stay forever; in you by my side; in I am happy I am here. Remedy in breathe, Aly, breathe. In picturing tomorrow’s proliferation into daybreak and in the coming and going of things. My remedy. I’m here.

This thought carries a smile to my face. My tears grow old and salt my dimples. Stopped, with two feet edging a thick crack in the pavement, I realize I am holding onto my shoulders. I have a habit of doing this; I elongate my fingers to form cradles on my shoulder bones, pulling them taught as if I am about to pin myself up on a clothesline. I move my hands down my arms and into my front jean pockets. I press against the warmth of the crevice between hip and thigh. I am breathing, slowly and with gumption. I relax my knees and lean back on my heels. Softly, I look up at the night sky.

I place myself amongst the infinite.