Branded

I’ve got it bad. I took a Sharpie to the pale blue hoodie and wrote Habibi’s name on the back, adding silver spritzes to the i’s. Retrieved the freshly washed cotton dresses — one grey, one black — and did it again, adding a red heart to the grey one.

Some folks doodle their first names then their beloved’s surname, sending a message to the universe about their desires. I now understand the impulse. When I wear these clothes, I am marked, branded. And this is branding I can understand. Donna Karan? No thanks. Betsy Johnson? Nope. Never been a fan of someone else’s name on my body. Is it free advertising or bragging? Maybe I am bragging. I have a home! And she’s a sailboat! Ta-da!

I forgot my debit card at an ATM recently. The mean voice in my head immediately excoriated me, for hours. But it’s just a card, can be replaced. No matter; that voice just had to tell me how stupid I am, over and over. Finally I untangled one thought: I’m not allowed to make mistakes. And then it dawned on me: who is doing the allowing? I am sixty years old. I have been handling tragedies and triumphs for decades. By myself. Just who has the power to allow anything? I do. I have the power. 

Rowing to the isthmus this morning, I was escorted by a phalanx of pelicans. Cell reception is stronger here from the city across the bay. I’m perched on a sun-bleached log on the shore of the Gulf of California, and the sun is rising. I have the power, finally, to choose the life that suits me. Probably always did.