When at last I am alone, all I can think about are these green striped pajama pants that I am wearing. There are strips of lime, pine tree, and mowed lawn following the contours of my knees, thighs, and calves. But the rows are straight and uniform as a line of scouts during inspection. The clean, intermittent stripes of white make it look all the more purposeful.
Then I look at the lines in my hands. I trace my Mount of Apollo, Girdle of Venus, and head line (appropriately dipped into my palm). I get this sick feeling looking at the way they all chain, break, braid, and curve into each other.
I worry about the future and how inadequate I feel in comparison to “the big picture.” Phrases like “On the other hand” send me into a mental frenzy of panic. I start substituting words—saying “rough” when I mean “different” and “pain” when I mean “work.” I start moving. Better get behind the mule, girlie.
I have this urge, the frantic spuriousness, to make my future into these long, straight lines. A to B. Means to End. But it all amounts to wasted, spastic, false-starts. I stall and realize I am wearing my expectations on my pants for chrissake! And the point of no return was last year.