I’ve been thinking about the things I used to believe were necessary—small luxuries, certain assurances, the way the world was supposed to work. Some of them I gave up willingly. Some I had to let go.
I may yet write an essay about this, but a poem came out first.
What I Don’t Buy Anymore
Manicures, pedicures Plush toilet paper The promises of men. Make-up, hair ties Taxi rides “It’s worth it for the exposure” Paperclips The cleaning services of a squad of compact Central American women Who called me “Princess” and “Ani.” Steak Regular check-ups “If you’re in line, stay in line.” Organic vegetables Tampons “You don’t look that age at all.” Three branches of government Getting Social Security someday Travel to fancy hotels King-sized sheets Cable TV Meritocracy. I don’t buy that things will get better just because they always do. Or that the worst won’t happen just because it hasn’t before. I buy books. Coffee. Chocolate. Food for my friends.
What do you do without?
The Washington Post, Amazon/Prime, Whole Foods, new clothes (I'm shopping my closet), new makeup, the belief that I have decades ahead of me, trust in America, eating in restaurants, visits to the Kennedy Center and National Gallery (these are hard) and anyone else following the official government line.
The best part is wondering why I was carrying that shit.