Day 127

There are practical anxieties whenever I find myself in a place that could have inspired a bottle of ranch dressing. Namely that my attire inspires an unending stream of inquiries asking, “Where are you from?”

I don’t try to stand out or blend in. I just don’t own any slacks or jeans. I do own casual dresses but the fact that I have a category of clothes I call casual dresses should indicate the level of the problem.

In terms of pants, my only option is lulu. If you’re in a rural countryside wearing head-to-toe spandex, you are not going to blend in no matter how quickly you try to pick up the accent.

I don’t know what strangers see when they look at me and inquire; probably an oddball, which is true enough. When I look in the mirror, I just see a sad lady who has failed at the most important job—protecting her child.

I could stay in England and be a tour guide. No one can understand my thick Chicago accent so it won’t matter that I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ll just mumble and say “Churchill” randomly.

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