Sunday night I catch myself watching The Office while nibbling on Skittles and downing the decadent beads of sugar with tepid green tea. I am moving to a new city tomorrow yet here I am doing nothing, just bumming around like some chubby Norse god who lost his will to be.
But you really have to start packing, I remind myself. My new place — a tiny room in the basement of an old house along a quiet, tree-lined street — is ready for occupancy tomorrow. The landlady and I have already agreed on a move-in time. Everything is set, actually, except for my luggage that remains empty.
So I finally get off the bed and face the suitcase. I lay the luggage down, unzip the zipper, and slowly raise the top shell — just like Vince, remember, when he was opening that briefcase to see Marcellus Wallace’s soul? Nevermind.
I start grabbing and rolling the clothes from my closet. I don’t plan on bringing all my garb with me so I ask myself, hmm, which ones would I actually wear? Blazer, check. Cute lacy top, check. A low-cut blouse with red detail on the collar that draws attention to my kapatagan chest? Nah, maybe not.
I get to a really cute outfit, a short white sundress with black stripes and an A-line fit that snugs perfectly around my waist. The dress sparks joy, for sure, but will I wear it? Probably not.
I work in the day and I also work at night. Weekdays, then, are no time for dressing up. I don’t see myself going out on the weekends either. I rarely feel the urge to meet with people; I just prefer staying indoors.
So, um, why did I even buy this dress to begin with? Ah, boys. I was still with C at that time. Too bad we didn’t work but, sigh. At least from him I learned that I can move on from anything, from anyone. Whatever.
But the dress, oh the dress. What do I do with it? I still want to wear it. Should I put it on the next time I go to the cinema alone? What about when I visit the museum in the new city? The next time I dine out on my own, maybe?
Inevitably the thoughts that run through my mind all point to one thing: that I, Jolens, am alone. Rachel Green was alone at 30 but by then she already met Ross. Ted Mosby was alone at 34 too but he had his gang, a group of people who made his otherwise boring life a little more exciting. (I need to get a life, don’t I?)
I feel the fabric of the sundress on my fingers. It’s thick, posing zero risk for visible panty lines. The cloth is ridgy too and the texture feels durable, like the dress is flowy enough to sway with the wind but is not too flimsy to easily blow up at the slightest whisper.
I fold the sundress at the waist and fold it another half. I place it on top of the rolls of shirts and pants snuggled against each other, and I give the dress a light pat before I move on to the next clothing. I may or may not have uttered a prayer.
The featured image is from Kiss. That’s not how my dress actually looks like.