Friday, August 11, 2006

The Stripper-Pole Shimmy

Stumbling through the darkness last night on my way to the bathroom, I hit my head on the pole in my underground apartment. Then I started crying, sobbing, in fact. And not just for my frontal lobe, but for my life: I have a stripper pole in my apartment. That is the nature of how and where I live.

For three years, I have made my home in the damp expanse under the garage of an elderly couple. Despite my mother's silent wish for me to marry, I live alone. There is no state of the union here. There is only a state of singularity.

The pairings in my apartment are few. I have one sink where the plates air-dry next to the toilet, one fire alarm missing a double-A battery, and half a bed donated by my Uncle's black lab, who gave me her futon when she upgraded to a twin. One metal support beam juts through my small, open space, and the two times friends have dared to visit me here, the first thing they did after offering the obligatory compliments was wrap their legs around the black pole and shimmy.

This morning I found myself doing the stripper-pole shimmy to the synthesizer music at the beginning of Morning Edition, and I knew it was time to move. The sound of cars rolling in overhead at night has made me a little crazy; I need to find a new place, a new kind of health.

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