1
Linden
I can already tell today is going to be one for the books.
Specifically, the horror-novel type.
I’ve been awake for fifteen minutes and I’ve already stubbed my toe on the corner of my couch and knocked over a potted fern, leaving a trail of dry dirt because I haven’t watered it in over a week. I guess wet dirt would be worse, so I have a glass half-full moment of contemplation before telling that sentiment to step off and shove it. Oh, and my hairband breaks and flies across the room like a slingshot.
It’s the sort of Monday where I leave my apartment while it’s still dark out and I already know it will be dark when I come home. That means I will only see winter’s daylight through the windows of the newsroom if I have a moment to look up from my computer at some point during the work day. If news is breaking and I’m scrambling toward a deadline, I may not even see the daytime sky through the plate glass windows of our eighteenth-floor office.
It’s almost just as well. Seeing the sun while not being able to get outside is its own form of torture.
But that’s a problem for later.
For now, the soft shag rug feels nice on my feet, especially in the dark when I can’t see the fern dirt amid its hideous mottled brown and beige swirls of synthetic fibers. I knew it was ugly when I bought it, but it was on sale and I appreciated that it was super soft and would hide dirt, so I wouldn’t have to vacuum as often.
I wish I had the luxury of hiring a cleaning service occasionally to do it for me, but that’s a fantasy for a day when I’m not gaming the system by loading up on mushrooms, sprouts, and other lightweight items at the Whole Foods salad bar to keep from spending my entire paycheck on one meal. I would never splurge on a fat cucumber slice or a weighty cube of tofu.
Someday…
For now, there’s still a lot of ramen for dinner and protein bars instead of lunch. Reporters don’t really make the big bucks, at least not entry-level reporters who still have years to work their way up to plum assignments and decent paychecks. Journalism is one of those jobs people choose for reasons of passion over paycheck, generally because they feel like it’s a noble calling or a necessary check on government.
In my case, it’s because I love finding a story no one else has and writing about it first. So yeah, I’m just a little bit competitive. I guess it’s a labor of love, and I hope that if I hang in long enough I’ll work my way up to a salary that allows for a decent robot vacuum and cherry tomatoes on my salads. Goals.
Truth be told, I do have enough money to shop for sensible dinners and modest-priced work clothes. But where’s the fun in that? I’d much rather skimp on lunch all week and buy an awesome pair of stiletto boots that are as impractical as they are fabulous. I’d rather socialize with a barista for five minutes at Starbucks over an expensive vanilla latte, extra-shot, extra-hot, than watch my hand-me-down Melita drip machine churn out another depressing cup of coffee. I know I don’t always make sound financial decisions. I’m twenty-eight. When I flout wisdom, I go big.
I hear my mother’s voice in the back of my head, telling me I could be saving money if I made better choices. Then I actually hear it when I talk to her on the phone. “You have to have a plan. A savings goal. You need to commit to putting twenty percent of every paycheck away,” she says.
“I know, Mom. I have a plan,” I tell her.
I hate lying to my mother. There’s no plan.
“Good girl. I didn’t raise a dummy.”
The economic term for my situation is cost-burdened. Anyone who spends more than half their income on housing gets to lug around that hyphenate until either they find a cheaper place to live or they get a raise.
And I’m not about to move.
I love my apartment. It’s the top floor of a duplex, with blonde hardwood floors, cantilevered windows, and old dark beams across the ceilings. Even with my yard sale decor and bookshelves sitting atop milk crates, it has enough style to look amazing.
I moved in two weeks after I got promoted from news assistant to my reporting job at the Examiner, even though I knew I’d be financially stretched every month. The windows face east and west, and even though there’s a tall orange tree outside one window, it’s always really bright and perfect for houseplants. There are trailing ivy plants, hanging baskets, and a few fiddle leaf ferns in urns on the floor on opposite sides of my Ikea couch. I may have gone a little overboard with the greenery, but at this point in my life, plants make the best roommates.
Today, I haul myself up before the dawn to hit the gym because I know it’s the only time I’ll be able to fit in a workout. The lights are on dimmer switches and only turned on to the lowest light, not because I have a roommate or boyfriend I’m afraid of waking, but because I’m still half asleep and I intend to stay that way for as long as possible, toe stub notwithstanding.
If I keep the lights low and stumble around in a kind of fugue state, I can convince myself that I’ve actually gotten an extra half hour of sleep. That will come in handy later when I start feeling a little tired and need to fool myself into believing I slept a full eight hours. Well… seven. And really only six and a half. Or whatever.
Really, does it matter?
The regulars greet me at the gym, we adjust our bike seats and handlebars to the heights we like, and I take my usual spot in the back row. I like the vantage point from there. It helps me absorb the energy of everyone else in the class when I can see them all, and at this hour of the morning, I need that extra push.
“Hey Linden.” I hear the voice before my eyes can adjust to the dim lighting in the room. But I know who said the words.
“So early,” I whine to Cassie, a brunette with narrow hips and the kind of giant boobs that seem uncomfortable to manage in a spandex tank with shelf bra. She always takes the bike on the end and always gets there before me. “If it’s still dark out, isn’t it technically the middle of the night?” I ask.
Leaning down, I try to balance on one foot while putting the hard-soled spin shoe on the other. I tell myself that it’s the early hour that makes me especially clumsy, but I know I could easily fall over at just about any hour of the day.
“I’m a naturally early riser. I did Pilates before this at five-thirty,” Cassie says, spinning her legs quickly with light tension, making her bounce up and down on the saddle like she’s riding a pony. She’s kind of adorable.
“You’re a beast,” I tell her, repeating verbatim a conversation we’ve had at least six times this month. I’m not much for new thoughts before seven in the morning.
“I’m just lucky. I only need five hours of sleep,” she says, and I mentally curse her and her curvy body. I swing a leg over the saddle and clip in. Then, I give my legs a mental directive to start pedaling.
Come on, you can keep sleeping, just make circles.
Feeling like leaden tree trunks, my legs obey, and I wait for the instructor to turn on the first song so I can lose myself in Lizzo and get my sweat on.
“Did you see Bachelor Bay last night?” Cassie asks, unable to keep the squeal out of her voice.
Discussing this reality show is half the reason I’m here. “Yes, and what was that thing with Diego?”