the boy and the bedsheet

One
time I actually bought a bedsheet that cost me a fucking fortune
because I had a boy coming over and I wanted to impress him. I
pictured this boy spending many nights with me, with that expensive
bedsheet against our skins and the light of the bedside lamp
illuminating our nakedness.

At the end of the month, all I had was
the bedsheet.

My
housemate and dear friend would tell me, over several beers
throughout several weekends, after I would rant about the boy and the
stupid bedsheet, that there was nothing funny or even stupid about
what I had done. Buying the bedsheet was just one of the many things
I do, apparently. Part of the patterns in my life, as she put it.
So I should just stop crying over the expensive linen and be happy
that at least, I have something decent to lie on.

Patterns
in my life??? I was horrified. Just when I thought I was doing things
differently, just when I thought I was over and done with my past
life of beer and boys and more beer and more boys – was I just
going through the same damn cycle that I always have?

The
thing is, I believe in patterns. I believe that yes, we tend to
create patterns for ourselves because it gives a semblance of order
to our lives that our egos understand. I say “ego” because this
is the part that represents us to the “real world” – the part
of us that has a certain kind of upbringing, a certain sociological
experience, a certain kind of training or schooling and therefore, a
certain way of dealing with other people and with “the real world”.
We do this because we’re like this, we say these things because we
think in this way – cause and effect-everything happens for a
reason sort of thing.

We
are also taught in improvisation that in breaking the routine,
something happens wherein the action is driven forward and the story
is taken to its inevitable climax and denouement. In short, if you
break the routine, something happens, instead of an interminable
going around in circles.

So
I guess, in this sense, my poor stupid ego thought it was breaking
its routine when I bought the bedsheet – poor stupid Angeli going
domestic. Maybe this time, I’ll be lucky; maybe this time,
he’ll stay. Buying the bedsheet meant a nice, warm bed. A
nice, warm bed meant a cozy atmosphere. A cozy atmosphere meant a
girl who could keep house. A girl who could keep house meant a girl
that you didn’t just fuck.

I
was hoping to be the girl that you didn’t just fuck. I was
hoping to be the girl that a boy would like to spend – not
the rest of his life with, that would be expecting too much (but
wouldn’t that be grand!) – his afternoons with me over coffee; or
maybe his evenings, telling me about his day at work; or nice Sunday
mornings sleeping late, his wonderful presence radiating through the
entire room, brighter than the most beautiful sunrise.

They
say that if you continue doing what it is you always do, you will
always have what you have always had. Possibly, I have broken my
routine. I no longer have men calling or texting me in the wee hours
of the dawn, demanding to see me. I no longer wake up in strange
beds, wondering how I got there and who on earth is this guy snoring
next to me.

I
have broken my routine, and woken up to a new pattern. What I have
now are several nice, expensive bedsheets and very nice, warm
blankets. A bed that is nice and, although wide, is not too
expansive. I always have coffee or hot chocolate ready on the table,
and an extra pack of cigarettes just in case.

Just
in case the boy comes back. Or just in case someone else comes along
who would like just to spend some time with me.