Envy

There is a man in Beijing who lives in an egg.

Dai Haifei grew tired of the soaring rents and used his architectural background and (let's be honest) incredible ingenuity to construct a home out of little more than bamboo and grass seed. A solar panel built into the roof powers a small lamp that stands next to his single bed.


I can't stop thinking about his decision to lead a simpler life. 


Often (especially during the holiday season when stores and homes and catalogs are decked out in their opulent finest) I find myself swept away in fantasy and my home-already beautiful-begins to look shabby. I focus on small things like how my throw pillows seem dated and am in turmoil over how I should really have winter drapes. Pottery Barn succeeds in convincing me that my earrings should be kept in a sterling silver monogrammed jewelry box (on a Mahogany dresser) and that my coffee table should be of reclaimed wood and decorated with only a birch candle (and, perhaps, a glass globe filled with sweet green moss and simple white twinkle lights).


In the meantime, many many miles away, there is a man who locks his bike up at night next to his egg. He must experience a Zen similar to the one I tend to find while camping. There, I relax and life is far more easy. We can sweep the tent out and don jeans and sneakers. Dinner over a campfire is delicious and hikes leave my body feeling wonderfully achy. 


I am often embarrassed at my penchant for the fancy. I love fine hotels, spas and meals. I love good clothes and nights out in the city. Sadly though, too much of these indulgences seem to have a dark effect on my confidence. Perhaps I am weak, but I will admit that I begin to compare my lifestyle to everyone else. Who is wearing nicer shoes? Who has the best table in the restaurant? It's like a high school she-is-prettier-than-me jealousy all over again and I lose myself in a tornado whirl of internal chatter. 


Because, surely, the woman with the nicer shoes must be happier. The man and woman staying in the hotel penthouse suite must have a better marriage. The couple with children in matching cable knits and wide wale cords must know the secret to parenting.


Every once in a while, and most often during the holiday season, this skewed thinking haunts my happily-married-mother-of-two thoughts.


And then I become inspired by people who say, simply, fuck it. 
I found a loophole. 
I'm gonna live in an egg.


You don't need winter drapes there, and, anyway Pottery Barn catalogs don't ship to aviary addresses.

A Special Victim

She flew into his web years earlier.

Decades, really.

And lay, caught. Trembling.

She had mistaken his web for something else

Something that looked the same, but,

Wasn’t.

He descended:

Long arms and clever eyes,

And wrapped her from head to foot.

He saved her to savor.

(For it was only breakfast and

he would someday be hungry

for dinner)

Time passed. 

The web grew moldy and old

But never lost its strength.

He liquefied her

Sucked bits and pieces of her

(an elbow here, a toe there)

To satisfy his hunger through the years.

She lay helpless, caught up in bandages

A special victim.

Eventually all that remained of her was a shell

Like a cicada or a papery snakeskin.

 

Brains quivering in the stomach of the predator

Her heart beating in his hands.

The Ostrich

A few days ago, at the Gym, I was watching two older women catch up after a swim.

They stood on the roughly carpeted floor of the locker room in dripping old-lady bathing suits. I was captured by one woman in particular, the one with her back to me. Soft grey hair hung to her shoulders and gathered in heavy wet curls around her neck. Long, still-strong legs bowed in and then out again; bunches of inner-knee-extra-skin cellulite touching at a smoosh point mid-leg. The chafe looked comforting and not uncomfortable (Like the reassuring pressure of an old pillow. A frayed blanket). Her heels were knobs of thick callous and her bunions seemed to balance her, bird like, an old quirky ostrich. The suit, navy with tiny white dots, was big on her in a way that only years of wear can create. Its over-modest skirt hung unevenly at her mid-thigh. Upper arms like bread dough (white, glistening, yeasty) shook and quaked as she made her point. I imagined her eyes rimmed chlorine red shining as a wide and grinning mouth smiled at her friend.

I watched this snapshot unfold as I diapered my daughter and powdered her chubby little thighs. I was sneaking glances at myself in the mirror to see if I looked like a fraud. Work-out me hasn't been around in a while. I was too busy being pregnant and then not pregnant and then exhausted to even think about hitting the gym. I watched these old women-gleeful in their conversation-laughing at the latest secret they shared. I watched them and realized that they were standing, in the middle of the room, for all to see, in their bathing suits. They were not wearing towels.

They didn't care.
No one was looking.
No one was evaluating or critiquing or judging.

And I was jealous.

And then, then, I put the envy aside and adopted instead a sort of an awe. A respect. A realization that these two older women didn't care because there was nothing to care about. Who knows what their bodies had been through. Who knows if they had borne children or walked to work or lay in repose. They could have battled cancer. They could have hiked the Appalachian. Their hands could have held a dying parent or chopped routine garlic.

There was beauty.
There was strength.
There was utter indifference, in that moment, to those around them.

And I was thankful that I got to see.