Fufillment

I am standing in the unadorned husk of my new room.  The freshly painted walls still smell faintly.  The unfinished floors look naked and innocent beneath my feet.  The unfiltered sunshine cascades through the new windows.  It is perfect.

Soon, the floors will be finished.  The rug will laid down and the drapes will adorn the three windows.  The rattan blinds will shade the bathroom and the shelves in the closet will be stocked.

For now, the room is is light and therefore luxurious.  Space.  It comes at such a premium.  Stretch out your arms... how much is that costing you?

I grew up in a sleepy southern town.  Our sidewalks, though crooked and bricked, were wide.  Our playgrounds yawned before us.  The local college campuses seemed to meander through the town.

I live now in a house roughly half the size of my mother's.  My husband uses the coat closet in the hall to shelter his things.

How much do I need?  What do I need?  Why do I need it?

Was it a deprived childhood?  Did I run barefooted?  Were my things kept in shoeboxes?  Why do I feel the need to expand?

I bought mirrored vanities for the bathroom.  Mirrored.  Yes.  How very Tallulah Bankhead of me.  the wallpaper is latticed in silver.  The sconces are mirrored with crystal drops.  I have a dressing table.  When did I feel the need to fill my life, my space with such things?  Why?

I was fifteen.  The aspirin had probably not yet burned through the lining of my stomach but the tintinabulation was unrelenting.    I didnt yearn to be famous.  I wasn't flummoxed by society or pressured by peers.  I lay on my mother's bedroom floor and watched the digital clock flash minute by minute.   The ringing in my ears was incessant and I began to worry that my mother would step on my cold body in the morning.  I tapped her awake.  I have swallowed a bottle of aspirin, I told her.

Maybe then.  Perhaps I began to need to fulfill some dreams then.  Lying in the ICU, conjuring up good lies to tell my friends about the bruises from the IV... yes.  I started to want.

It started with a boyfriend.  Then pretty skin.  A great bikini.  A good college.  A respectable job.  An engagement ring.  A handsome husband.  Healthy children.

Can I stop?  Will I ever be fulfilled?

Lately, I fill the void with food.  Rosemary bread spread with butter.  Cambazola.  Almonds, toasted and salted.  Chocolate covered pretzels.  Candied ginger.

And sensuous delights.  Champagne.  Silk pajamas.  Wolford pantyhose.  Chanel #5.

Of course, of course, the truth is.... I am lonely without Gran.  The silk pajamas are cold, the champagne gives me a headache, pantyhose are just pantyhose , Cambazola makes me fat and chocolate covered pretzels make me break out.

As I was lonely at fifteen, missing my father, at 39 I miss Gran.

Yet, now, on the cusp of 40, I know I am not alone.  Missing Gran sucks.  Gone though is the angst that stemmed from thinking that I was going through "this" all alone.  39 is OK.  39 is solid.  I can do this.  I can do 39.