travel plans. And there was quitting the same café job over and over, and there were depressions that came in all kinds of sloppy, shitty, trite shades. Everything in Francesâs life was adding up to something like Zenoâs paradox, which Frances understood enough to know that it had something to do with moving forward but never getting anywhere.
She was ready for a meltdown at thirty, that imaginary line she had drawn between when it was okay to be a fuck-up and when it wasnât. But thirty came and went without any significant cracking, without any significant anything. A plan to move to Montreal fell through like too many groceries in a wet paper bag, and a photo essay about the fancy sneakers Southern Ontario Mennonites wore ended when Frances watched a ten-year-old Elvis impersonator get hoofed in the chest by a horse at the St. Jacobs Farmersâ Market. But that spring Frances joined a queer backyard spandex wrestling league and, for a time, everything seemed stable, life seemed livable.
The panic came at thirty-one, phoning home for her birthday wishes. âItâs like they say about life being like a box of chocolates,â her step-mom had offered, unsolicited, while she waited for Francesâs dad to come in from mowing the lawn. âMaybe your box just didnât come with one of those chocolate map-y things and you have to do little nibbles on every piece to find what you like. Thatâs just your box of chocolates, hon.â Frances had hung up. When her dad phoned back it wasnât with birthday wishes, just instructions on how Frances was to treat her step-mom, as if the woman was some easily-spooked Pomeranian with a long list of dietary restrictions.
The next night, in a weed-tizzy tinctured with too much red wine, Frances slipped away from her birthday party. After a delirious bus ride where she seriously worried about being attacked by a gaggle of sullen kids in black hoodiesâwhere was that gi when she needed it?âshe stormed the Corbet Community Centre and signed up for a beginnerâs art class for adults.
âBecause I just feel like my whole life has just been doodling,â was the reason Frances gave back at her party, purple wine smirks in the corners of her mouth, âand I want to start drawing , you know? Fuck.â
Francesâs co-workers had baked her a vagina cake. It was brought out and Frances huffed at the thirty-one candles that formed the pubic hair over the petally flourishes of pink and red icing, only they were the kind of candles that didnât blow out. Francesâs bush fire just guttered and no one knew what to do.
Frances arrived for her first art class, keen as hell and a smidge higher than she wanted to be, to find a classroom of chattering children. Waiting by the door was a woman with a clipboard and rolls of masking tape on her wrists like jewelry. She wasnât wearing a bra and from a few rooms away Frances could discern the general shape of her breasts and her nipples through the hazy blouse. Up close those things were harder to make out, but still there, still obvious now that Frances knew what to look for.
âIâve fudged the nights,â Frances admitted. âOr I wrote down the wrong room.â
The woman scanned her clipboard, clucking her tongue. She looked younger than she probably was, and had the distinct, curbside couch smell of the more free-wheeling population in town. Frances had often wondered what these people did for work, and here it was. Maybe Frances could inquire about teaching a class at the community centre. Making Bongs From Things Around the House 101. First class: An Apple a Day Keeps More Than the Doctor Away.
âYouâre Dr. Ludlow?â the teacher gasped, apparently thrilled that she had found the name.
Only when Frances was particularly twisted did she pretend a professional career. The night of her party was foggy, her cleanest memory being everyone burning
She was ready for a meltdown at thirty, that imaginary line she had drawn between when it was okay to be a fuck-up and when it wasnât. But thirty came and went without any significant cracking, without any significant anything. A plan to move to Montreal fell through like too many groceries in a wet paper bag, and a photo essay about the fancy sneakers Southern Ontario Mennonites wore ended when Frances watched a ten-year-old Elvis impersonator get hoofed in the chest by a horse at the St. Jacobs Farmersâ Market. But that spring Frances joined a queer backyard spandex wrestling league and, for a time, everything seemed stable, life seemed livable.
The panic came at thirty-one, phoning home for her birthday wishes. âItâs like they say about life being like a box of chocolates,â her step-mom had offered, unsolicited, while she waited for Francesâs dad to come in from mowing the lawn. âMaybe your box just didnât come with one of those chocolate map-y things and you have to do little nibbles on every piece to find what you like. Thatâs just your box of chocolates, hon.â Frances had hung up. When her dad phoned back it wasnât with birthday wishes, just instructions on how Frances was to treat her step-mom, as if the woman was some easily-spooked Pomeranian with a long list of dietary restrictions.
The next night, in a weed-tizzy tinctured with too much red wine, Frances slipped away from her birthday party. After a delirious bus ride where she seriously worried about being attacked by a gaggle of sullen kids in black hoodiesâwhere was that gi when she needed it?âshe stormed the Corbet Community Centre and signed up for a beginnerâs art class for adults.
âBecause I just feel like my whole life has just been doodling,â was the reason Frances gave back at her party, purple wine smirks in the corners of her mouth, âand I want to start drawing , you know? Fuck.â
Francesâs co-workers had baked her a vagina cake. It was brought out and Frances huffed at the thirty-one candles that formed the pubic hair over the petally flourishes of pink and red icing, only they were the kind of candles that didnât blow out. Francesâs bush fire just guttered and no one knew what to do.
Frances arrived for her first art class, keen as hell and a smidge higher than she wanted to be, to find a classroom of chattering children. Waiting by the door was a woman with a clipboard and rolls of masking tape on her wrists like jewelry. She wasnât wearing a bra and from a few rooms away Frances could discern the general shape of her breasts and her nipples through the hazy blouse. Up close those things were harder to make out, but still there, still obvious now that Frances knew what to look for.
âIâve fudged the nights,â Frances admitted. âOr I wrote down the wrong room.â
The woman scanned her clipboard, clucking her tongue. She looked younger than she probably was, and had the distinct, curbside couch smell of the more free-wheeling population in town. Frances had often wondered what these people did for work, and here it was. Maybe Frances could inquire about teaching a class at the community centre. Making Bongs From Things Around the House 101. First class: An Apple a Day Keeps More Than the Doctor Away.
âYouâre Dr. Ludlow?â the teacher gasped, apparently thrilled that she had found the name.
Only when Frances was particularly twisted did she pretend a professional career. The night of her party was foggy, her cleanest memory being everyone burning
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