I went to Warrenton today to write in an undiscovered coffee shop, undiscovered by me that is. I love the town of Warrenton Virginia, as it is hilly, reminding me of the U.P. and quaint, like where I imagine Ben Franklin would live. Upon walking into Jimmie's Market, a dark, eclectic place with lush dark brown leather armchairs and a hodge-podge of art, the woman behind the counter said,
"What happened to you?"
"Excuse me?" I said.
"What happened to you," she asked again sounding more insistent and slightly alarmed. I began to panic a little thinking my face had manifested some sort of hideous rash I didn't know about.
"You're all red."
Oh. I am always slightly flushed just from being alive.
"It was probably from walking outside."
"Ohh. You're really red."
"Do you have a bathroom?" I asked.
"Two. Take your pick."
Ladies. Or Gents. I went into the ladies as it was open.
In the bathroom mirror I checked to see how ferociously red I was. My cheeks were a perfect rosey hue against my creamy complexion. I thought it looked rather nice, not like the flaming wildabeast the store owner clearly thought I resembled. I rolled my eyes and made use of the loo. I then took out a small hand-held mirror to inspect my nether regions. No I am not a pervert and this is not something I often or ever do, but I recently discovered a small red bump down, ahem... there and my mind has been wreaking all kinds of havoc. Namely that a tick is lodged in my vajay-jay. I saw it on an episode of House once after this girl was dangerously close to death with seizures and the culprit happened to be a tick, tucked down in her lady bits causing some sort of allergy. Ever since I had a real life run-in with ticks in the deep woods of Michigan a few years back, I have been petrified of this very scenario.
I went to the coffee shop with the intention of writing but after getting a Limeade instead of coffee, I couldn't stop myself from webmd-ing obsessively over my tiny bump/could be freckle or mole for all I know, to the point where once I started clicking on the picture portion of my research in webmd I was near hyperventilation and my writing trip was all but destroyed.
I shakily left Jimmie's making a mental note to come back and appreciate it more at a later date, called a local gyno from my car and then drove home to get a bigger mirror and obsess over my bump.
Despite being in the comfort of my home with a larger mirror and a flashlight I was no closer to diagnosing myself. The effort and obsession had grown rather taxing and I felt exhausted from the whole ordeal, deciding to leave it to the professionals and stop assuming I had cancer/was pregnant/riddled with disease.
I went to DC's warehouse and painted some shelves to get my mind off of it. Although my mind got a little more frazzled when I asked DC his level of interest in backpacking Europe and he said 10% or "low to moderate." I asked because I was reading the 1,000 Places to See Before You Die book earlier today and marking the ones I've already seen, which is a handsome few I might add.
Low to moderate, though DC? Low to moderate?! He said maybe if he were still in his 20's. But I am still in my twenties and something about backpacking, sleeping in hostels and maybe some European farmer's field, and then running out of money and having to work in said farmer's field just sounds magical to me. I think it's the struggle. I would do mostly anything, drugs and nefarious deeds aside, for a good story.
So I came back home and per my usual distraught artist self didn't know what to do with myself but flop down in bed. I watched a program on the aerial view of Maine for a little bit, then found Lena Dunham's film, Tiny Furniture and began to watch that. I love Lena Dunham. Just the sight of her improves my mood. Then as soon as she opens her mouth I feel a kindred sisterhood that I'm aware of, but she isn't as she doesn't know me. Her quirky and offbeat wit, combined with her delightful awkwardness makes me feel less abnormal.
I stopped watching, not because I was uninterested, but because all of a sudden I felt compelled to write. Well, and drink the white wine I forgot I had in the fridge. Normally I ignore my compulsions to write when it strikes me at an inopportune moment, instead making a note of what it was I wanted to write about, thinking I will do it later. More often than not, I don't end up writing my ingenious idea later. Not that writing about my vagina is stop-the-presses writing, but I wanted to be writing and so I am.
DC challenged me to do 21 blogs in 21 days, to you know, make it a habit. I read somewhere that if you do something for 1,000 days you master it. So of course, being me, I can't just be happy with a 21 day challenge, now I want 1,000.
So anyway, that's that. I might have a tick in my vagina, I'm drinking wine without having eaten dinner whilst sitting in my flashy orange workout tank-top that did not see a workout and wishing I were as driven and successful as Lena Dunham. That is my day.