It’s weirdly difficult to stay inert here, for a day. I keep looking idly online at places in East Indy, just off the edge of town, and thinking that I could just go 20 miles or so farther today instead of staying here, be 20 miles closer to whatever unknown destination I do not yet have in mind. And I have to keep reminding myself that if I’m trying to keep my leg elevated and a constant ice pack on my kneecap, 20 miles isn’t nothing when the whole point of a rest day is to let my body heal a little.
So I’m currently sitting in a laundromat-slash-tanning salon (…) in the most strip-malliest conglomeration of strip malls I’ve ever seen (and I grew up in Daytona Beach, y’all). Sockless, underwearless, pretty obviously braless, classily clad in gym shorts and a huge grey t-shirt I bought at Wal-Mart for $2 in the name of washing all my clothes with actual detergent, instead of giving them a futile scrub in motel sinks with bar soap. These shorts are smaller than my bike shorts, showcasing a thick strip of pasty white skin on my thighs.
In Wal-Mart I also restocked my tiny supply of travel-sized toiletries (and splurged hardcore on a $.97 bottle of actual body wash, gonna treat myself like a fuckin’ princess today). Wandering through the home decor aisles, I felt a small twinge of something I bit down on immediately. Every time I’ve moved to a strange new city I’ve gone to a Wal-Mart (or something of its ilk), picking up all the essentials to build the skeletal foundations of a new life. Bypassing all the dish racks, the pots and pans, the shower curtains and oven mitts and spatulas, and picking up my two-ounce tubes of soap and shampoo, I feel like the walking definition of transience and rootlessness.
I wonder about all the different things, the personality quirks and the chains of life decisions, that finds me here, alone, on a Thursday afternoon.