“Why are you short staffed?” I asked. 

He responded so quickly the words practically exploded out of his mouth. “Because people are lazy and don’t want to work!” 

I tilted my head, a bit surprised by his outburst. He laughed self deprecatingly. “Well you know, haha, I mean it’s just hard to find people willing to take a job…” he trailed off.

I was sitting across the desk from a man who claimed he was interviewing EVERY person who had applied for the job which we were discussing. 

Yet although I had officially applied on the appropriate website for this position, I hadn’t received a call from him for this interview. He only scheduled it when someone on his staff informally introduced us and mentioned that I had applied.  Then that same staff person strongly suggested he meet with me.

Twenty four hours later, I found myself sitting across from him. 

​“Well you must have done something to provoke him…,” her voice trailed off.
​
“Yeah,’ I replied, “I did something alright…I existed…”

I walked away shaking my head.

I was so frustrated. I was telling someone about a recent experience in which a man approached me in the grocery store, and paid me a compliment about my smile. I said thank you, and turned back to my shopping.

I thought that was the end of it.

Then he asked for my number. I politely replied that I don’t give it out, but thanked him again for his kind words a moment ago.

And that’s when things took a weirdly dangerous turn.

​I’m conscious of a craving - primal, visceral, raw, and real. It’s visual and tactile and goes well beyond any type of desire I’ve ever had before.

I’m hungry for it.
Didn’t even realize it until recently, when I noticed I couldn’t get enough of it.

Not chocolate.
Not sex (although that’s wonderfully primal too).
Not for luxury items or things…

It’s for…

COLORS
Not just any colors.
VIBRANCY

Along with the craving comes the incredible, enormous feeling of being 100% ALIVE.

I’m not even sure I am describing it correctly.

“I’m sorry. But can I make a reservation?”

I’m sitting on a train to Boston. The seats are wide and comfortable. For the most part, things are quiet, other than the occasional murmur of a conversation. 

A few stations ago, a group of young women got on the train. They were trying to sit near each other. I cleared the seat next to me for one of them, and went back to reading my book.

“I’m sorry to bother you but…”

It was her friend’s voice across the aisle that broke into my concentration. None of them were loud, but it was the “I’m sorry” that kept me re-reading the same paragraph.

In the space of a less than two minute conversation, the girl had said it SIX times. 

It’s Friday, November 8, 2024. I’m sitting at a coffee shop. In a town I love. After stopping by to check on my wonderful hair stylist. A gay man who is scared about what the election results mean for him and his husband. 

Earlier today I texted some of my transgender friends. They had to pull their child out of school for a day because she was so scared. They are checking their passports to make sure they are in order. Not because they want to leave the country. But because they are afraid they won’t be able to get a passport in the future. Or at least one that correctly identifies them. 

My favorite librarian is worried about his disabled sister’s benefits as the day care center has already made her feel like her care is in jeopardy. He is working two jobs as it is, to make sure his family is cared for properly. 

It’s barely been 48 hours since the election results were announced and I know of no one in my close friend group who is NOT experiencing shock, horror, fear, anger, disappointment, sadness, or a myriad of other negative emotions.