Flying

For some reason, it seems like things from your past come back in waves. Something you might not think about on most days will surface in conversation over the course of several days, then melt into obscurity again. So it is with the circus. I don't talk about the circus. Most people I know don't know about the circus. But it pops up occasionally to remind me that I will never be like these other people, and they will always look at me as an oddity. There is no escape.

I joined a trapeze troupe when I was 21. I figured what they hey, I'll only be 21 once, and I'm old enough that there's nothing my parents can do to stop me. It was going to be fun. It was. But not all the time. When I was freezing because I was living in a trailer with no insulation, it wasn't fun. When people asked for my address and phone number and I said I didn't have one, it wasn't fun. When I was alone with no family and no friends on Thanksgiving, it wasn't fun.

The trampoline was fun.
Watching old trapeze home videos was fun.
Flying was fun.

It seems like the more things change, the more they stay the same.

It's freezing right now, which isn't fun.
I wish I had a fireplace to sit in front of, with a nice glass of wine to keep me company.
No one asks for my address and phone number anymore.
I'll be alone on Thanksgiving again.

I bought some champagne to celebrate, though. There is something oddly comforting about being alone on the holidays. There are no expecations, no silly conversation about stuff that you are obligated to talk about when someone says "so what's new?" because the real answer is nothing, but they never accept that. SOMETHING has to be different, and they suddenly turn into detectives to find out what it is.

You don't have to get dressed up. But I always do. Mostly because I can. I get to wear whatever I want and will never be over or under dressed if it's just me. I set my own dress code.

I can eat whatever I want. I don't have to eat that disgusting cranberry sauce that still has rings on it from when it slid out of the can. I don't have to eat green bean casserole. Or stuffing. Or any other godawful concoction that someone has decided would make their feast complete.

I can eat Cheetos with my champagne while I lounge on the couch in my grey velvet evening gown that I made and only wore once. I can watch artsy foreign films and not have anyone say, let's watch football. Or I can watch football and belch and yell like an idiot. I can eat chocolate covered strawberries and not worry about anyone thinking I'm a pig when I eat them all. I can take a two hour bath. I can sleep till 2.

It's the bright side to a depressing situation. Still not as much fun as flying.