I pick up a pink, glittery, ceramic bowl, and am reminded of my ex-boyfriend’s hatred of all things sparkling and feminine. If we were still together, purchasing this bowl would have been an act of rebellion. I assumed I would find some dead woman’s fine china in this shop, but it’s more thrift and less antique in here, and the only bowl I’ve found is this silly pink anarchist.
Somehow, despite its glitter and neon, the bowl is utterly boring in comparison to its shelf neighbor: a lively decorative pillow, with a poorly embroidered cat, and the words “Hello Clarice” stitched at a hysterically unintended slant. The bowl never stood a chance at grabbing anyone’s attention beside this. The pillow makes me exhale through my nose a bit, and I’m probably even smiling a little. It reminds me of the time I needed to air my van out, and a cat made its way inside, taking up residency on my bed.
She had a lazy eye and a bum leg that matched the pillow cat’s appearance. I knew the tabby was a girl because she looked like she had kittens at some point, with her nipples all exposed, and loose skin along her stomach. The lack of adequate stuffing in the pillow gives the embroidered doppelganger the same saggy, rippled look.
I like this pillow, and I liked that cat, but I’ve tailored my life down to just the necessities. The back of my van is primarily a bed, and that bed only fits me. If I let the cat stay in my van where would she sleep? I would have to buy a second bowl for her food, maybe even a third for her water.
It would be chaos.
My old cereal bowl broke when I took it to the gym bathroom for a wash. I’m not usually so clumsy, but my hands were shaking from prolonging my fast and exercising too hard, and the bowl slipped through my fingers, missed the sink, and shattered on the tiled floor before I could catch it. I have a firm rule to not possess anything more than what I need. Though as I wandered the mismatched aisles of the thrift shop, I found myself cursing the fact I haven’t deemed a backup bowl a necessity.
But I’ve worked so hard to streamline my life down. I can’t ruin that all now by returning to indulgences. People don’t realize how little we truly need.
My ex-boyfriend’s house was full of clutter. Clothes everywhere. Empty shampoo bottles he just couldn’t throw away for some reason. Anytime I suggested he clean up, he would call me annoying.
We parted ways when I tried to get him to donate some of his old clothes. He refused to get rid of pieces he never wore. He said they belonged to his brother who had passed away. I told him that just because the shirts belonged to his brother, didn’t mean he needed to keep them forever. They weren’t being used, and he still had photos and memories, but my ex was irrational when it came to his items.
Admittedly though, everyone I know is a hoarder. We really don’t need that many things. Shelter, bed, some clothes, a smartphone… I have made my life so much better by downsizing. I’m the healthiest person I know now. Even physically, we don’t need so much. Everyone overeats all the time. Fasting has become a fundamental part of my streamlining as well. I used to be fat, until I learned to eat less through prolonged fasting. Now I only eat the exact amount my body needs, and I’ve never been fitter.
I drop the bowl on the ground. I didn’t realize my hands were shaking again. I kick the shards under the shelving unit before anyone can notice. The thought of digging around this clutter for another bowl makes my skin crawl, but I find myself staring again at the pillow. I really do like it, but I already have a pillow to sleep on. Adding a decorative one to the bed would be frivolous.
My stomach growls loudly, and it reminds me of when that cat meowed at me, asking for scraps. I only had granola bars, so I shooed her out of my van. I had nothing she could eat, and she was taking up so much space in my bed…
The cat on the pillow stares me, its lazy eye pleading just as the cat in my van had.
Can I allow myself one frivolity?
After the breakup I felt so worthless. Walker always told me I was always too big, too loud, too judgmental, too harsh. I’ve finally been able to shrink myself small enough to no longer be too much, but if I start to indulge myself again, how else will I inflate? Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. Walker still isn’t coming back.
“Hello Clarice…” I mumble to myself, avoiding falling back into my agony. If I allowed the pillow into my home, I’d have a little less room on the bed, but I would feel a sense of entertainment from it, and that technically means it would be serving a purpose… so, maybe I can allow myself this much.
I walk to checkout before I can change my mind, clutching the ill-stuffed Clarice, thinking about the real lazy-eyed cat, the sound of her meow, and her missing teeth. When I kicked her out, did she ask herself if she was too much? Has she been shrinking herself ever since? I hope she hasn’t. She wasn’t the problem. I was the one imposing so much flesh over the bed, that I left no room to share. Perhaps that’s why Walker left? Maybe, the next time I air out the van, she’ll reenter, and, by that time I’ll have become so small that neither of us will ever have to worry about taking up too much space again.
Jacquie Velasco is a writer, director, actor, and dancer in Los Angeles, California. Most recently, she appeared on “The Company You Keep” on Hulu.
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