Page 65 of Man Hands
I’m soconfused.
I blamemymom.
No, for real. When I called him I’d just survived my weekly visit with her. My mom is a consummate up-grader. She’s been married four times and is looking for number five. She reads self-help books for fun. And she can’t be bothered with cooking, so it’s all take out and instant just-add-water dishes for her. I think she’s also why I cook so much. When you’re raised on TV dinners and chipped-beef on toast because it’s all your mom can throw together before heading out on another date, there’s something really comforting about a home-cookedmeal.
Whatever. Idigress.
She means well, she does. Which is why she came over to give me a pep talk. She walked in, kissed my cheek, and immediately started unpacking the grocery bags from cleaning out her cupboards. Now I have a stack of instant gravy mix, Kraft macaroni and cheese, and Chicken NoodleO’s. Not even the contestants onChoppedcould come up with something ediblefromthat.
And while she unpacked and rearranged my cupboards, which I will rearrange back, she shared with me this nugget of mom wisdom: I’m too emotional. “Maybe that’s why you couldn’t hold Steve’s interest. You’re so glum all the time. No man wants to be tied to a woman whose aura is gray. You need to be leopard-spotted. Or at least a color. Trybeingpink!”
After that, I sort of zoned out, but damn it if her words didn’t seep into my brain alittle.
When I spoke to Tom on the phone, I was trying very hard tobepink.
I fuckinghatepink.
But sure!Life is good! It’s totally fine that you’re in Quebec filming a swanky show! I’m happy here, unemployed, in my kitchen, rolling balls. I have a master’s in English language and literature and I’m currently watching Turner Classic Movies in black and white because I amdepressed.
I guess pink just isn’t mycolor.
Whenever I talk to Tom, though, I really do feel more colorful. I want to stay like that. I don’t want to be a drain. I don’t want to be an effort. So I talk in exclamation points! It’s awkward and it hurts my mouth. And also myheart.
Shake it off, Brynn. It’s for the best. (My mom also mentioned the power ofself-talk.)
AndIcan.
Iwill.
I mean,I!Will!
But first, I’m going to polish off this bacon, and then actually take a shower. I have my interview at the art school this afternoon. The head of the department sounded panicked when she called, so maybe things are looking upforme.
For once, it’s someone elsepanicking.
* * *
It takesabout ten minutes to drive downtown from my place. The last time I was downtown was with Tom that awkward night at Tai One On and the paparazzi. It was also the night when we stealthily escaped across Reed’s Lake. Maybe that was the moment I started falling for him. In the middle of the lake, surrounded by the quiet lapping of the water against the boat, watching Tom paddle bystarlight.
And now I’m horny. Again.Still.
Focus,Brynn!
Maybe the self-talk is getting a little much. I’d much rather write a list. As I walk toward the glass building that houses the art college, I start to compose one inmyhead.
1) Getthisjob.
And that’s as far as I get, because I open the front doors and step into a college building that’s different from anything I’ve ever seen. I say that without an ounce of hyperbole, because to access the college offices, you first have to walk through an installation of a vagina. Literally. I’m walking through a vagina, and it’s all warm and soft fabric, and there’s a breeze blowing. I giggle a little because this is a really big vagina. The installation ends not with a wider exploration of the uterus, but at a normal-lookingfrontdesk.
Something tells me I’m going to likeithere.
I’m whisked upstairs by the receptionist to meet with the head of curriculum development. Her name is Hazel and I want her to be my grandmother. She’s petite, with fluffy white hair. She has reading glasses and wears a cardigan over a flowery dress. This is not a person you would expect to work at a place where the front door is a giant vagina. Except I notice a discreet tattoo peeking out from under the cuff of her cardigan. You just never know aboutpeople.
She smells of patchouli and Iloveher.
The interview goes like this. “Brynn. It’s nice to meet you. You have ten years of teaching experience? Why did theyfireyou?”
No beating around the bush here. “I got divorced from the dean’s son. They claimedbudgetcuts.”
