“Beaauuuutiful. Gorgeous!” I put my hands on my cheeks and push them in, puckering the whole front of my face up for a few seconds. It’s not an improvement.
When Miles announced that he no longer loved me, and that he was leaving me with three little kids to start his new life alone, I did plenty of crying, and I smeared lots and lots of makeup down my face in the process. It’s been a year now, so I was kind of thinking I was over having random breakdowns in the middle of the day, vomiting for no reason at inopportune times, and binge-eating massive amounts of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. But apparently not. Apparently I still have some unresolved issues to work through. Imagine that.
My phone dings again. I remember where I left it now; it’s at the bottom of the stairs in my purse.
I should probably brush my teeth, remove my makeup, and do something with my hair, but what’s the point? The kids are gone, I have no life outside of being their mother, and my sister’s going to hang out with the Bourbon Street Buttheads all weekend, so I don’t have to worry about her dropping by. She doesn’t have time for me anymore. She’s too busy with her new, stupid job.
I scowl just thinking about it. Now I look like an angry zombie. I hiss at my reflection.
I could go shopping, even though it’s getting pretty late, but I really don’t have a whole lot of discretionary income to splurge on myself. I hate that I got teased today, that I almost had a gift certificate from the mall in my hot little hands and five hundred extra bucks to spend. That’s not something that happens to me very often. I’m lucky if I get child support checks on time, and my boss doesn’t believe in bonuses.
A fleeting thought dances across my mind. I could do freelance work. It doesn’t have to be at the warehouse; it could be anywhere. I could go online to one of those freelancer sites and sign up. And I wouldn’t have to actually take any jobs; I could just use it to see what’s out there. I’ve been saying for years I want to do it, but I’ve always been too busy with the kids. Too worried about the risk. A single mom can’t afford to go without a paycheck, something a freelancer has to do sometimes. And freelancing while also working another job means missing out on time with my kids, which is definitely not an option, especially with an ex like Miles who never picks up the slack. My watch says I have over thirty hours left before they’re back. That’s enough time to start the process . . .
My heart goes nuts at the very idea. Too much risk. Forget about it. Just keep your nose to the grindstone, Jenny.
Knowing I’m not in a position to flip my world upside down by starting a new job, I try to imagine how I could jazz things up a bit. I chew my lip as I think about it. I don’t have to change my work life. I could just . . . try to get out more. I could even join one of those online dating sites. Find a mate. Or just go out for coffee with a guy. Start slow. Get dressed up and feel pretty for a change.
I look at myself in the mirror again and laugh. “Yeah, right. Go ahead, Jenny, take a selfie. Put that zombie look up on your website profile and see how many date requests you get.” Damn. The way I look right now, there’s not a single man in all of Louisiana who’d want to have coffee with me. Not even the guys out in the bayou missing half their teeth who catch catfish by letting them swallow their arms whole. Noodling, they call it. I couldn’t even get a date with a noodler, that’s how bad off I am right now.
I stick my tongue out at myself and then turn around to leave the bathroom, flicking the light off as I go. I walk down the stairs and ignore my purse and the phone inside it, making a beeline for my tiny home office to the left of the front door. I’m just going to check and see what’s on the freelancer sites. No big deal. No risk in looking, right? I’m not two steps into the room when I realize my problem. My big, fat mistake.
“Goddammit!” I turn and rush back to my purse, throwing it open, all the while knowing what I’m going to find inside: nothing.
I close my eyes and try to retrace in my mind the steps I took after I left the panic room. Did I take my laptop with me? I remember grabbing my purse, but I don’t remember taking the computer. And I don’t remember putting it in my car, and I don’t remember setting it down here inside the house anywhere. Dammit, dammit, double dammit!
Just in case my rearview memory is wrong, I grab my keys and run outside. The neighbors have seen me looking pretty rough over the past year, so I’m not worried about any of them viewing my latest zombie chic look. Let ’em judge.