April 2021: Portrait of a Woman On Her Way To Her Vaccine Appointment
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I am writing this the night before I get my first vaccine shot. I received a text message from our county - there were limit doses available the next day, and appointments would go very quickly. I yelped, clicking and scrolling, hands shaking. 5:45pm? An old JC Penney’s in Poughkeepsie? Moderna? Sure! Yes! Whoa! One year ago, we did not live here. We did not think vaccines were coming. We did not know if we would survive.
I went to my senior prom twenty years ago this spring. I bought a dress from a local thrift shop - it was a black and white silk costume gown that I planned to wear with white opera gloves and my Manic Panic blue hair. My mother, though, wanted the prom experience she had pictured for me: a new dress, a hair salon appointment, kitten heels, a boyfriend picking me up. That wasn’t the story at all. Still, I came home from school one day and there was a plastic garment bag from JC Penney’s hanging in the living room. It was a sea foam green Jessica McClintock dress in my size. Please, my mother begged. Just try it on.
The last time I tried on a dress, it was in our apartment in Brooklyn, in February, before everything changed. The year before, I’d gathered at a bridal boutique with my mom and my friends for a 45 minute appointment of me trying on wedding gowns. It didn’t feel right, but I didn’t know what else to do - I wanted to be celebrated, but I didn’t want to wear a wedding gown. When I got to the building where the shop was, the man at the front desk asked me where I was going. BHLDN? I asked, pronouncing the jumble of constants like my mouth was full of marbles. The 45 minutes went by in a mess of tulle and jump suits and zippers that wouldn’t close. A year later, I ordered one of the dresses in a size 14 and tried it on with the bedroom door closed. It didn’t fit. The fabric strained, the zipper stayed open. On the other side of the closed door, Emily asked if she could help. No! I shouted. I didn’t know I was on the verge of tears until I opened my mouth. Stuffing the dress back in the box was endless, a puddle of gauze that wouldn’t fit. I knew the dress I wanted. I always knew it: a cream silk shift dress from a designer in Tennessee that I loved. They had an online sample sale with one of the dresses left, in my size. The last thing I bought myself before the world changed.
The first time that Emily and I wore masks was Easter Day. I’d ordered fabric masks from an Etsy shop, but they were so overwhelmed the order never arrived. Our friend’s mother in Ohio was sewing masks and sent us two - one astroturf green, one with pink and red little flowers. On Easter morning, we tucked coffee filters inside of the masks and wore them when we walked to bakery to get sticky buns. I called in the order from outside of the bakery. The baker looked at me through the window while we spoke. I didn’t know what the future would look like, but I knew I’d always remember this.
My dad in Arizona got his vaccine appointment and immediately bought a plane ticket for August for our postponed wedding. I sent him a t-shirt that said Vaccinated AF. Do you know what AF stands for? I asked when he received it. As fuck! he laughed. Sometimes I think about when we’ll get to hug when he arrives in August. Sometimes I don’t believe our wedding, any wedding, will truly happen until I’m standing there in the reality of it. Sometimes I remember that 550,000 people are dead and gone. Gone, gone. Where does the grief go?
My third year teaching I worked with someone who always said that the only constant was change. When I told her I was quitting, she was quiet. She’d worked hard to mentor me, and I was abandoning my post. It was January. It was a long time ago. The phrase “the only constant is change” echoes in my head, in her voice.
The sun’s out. That’s something.
On Tuesday I went to a virtual reading to celebrate Melissa Febos’ new book Girlhood. Even through the screen, even through the little chat box, I felt a spark of connection with all the fantastic writers, their generous spirits, their words in the air between us, which was not air, but sound, wires, technology. Magic? Anytime there is writing, there is magic. I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote the first draft of an essay. It’s been ages since that’s happened.
I brought a girl to prom. She went to another high school. Someone I worked with at Waldenbooks said, you should meet my friend, sometimes she thinks she likes girls. Okay, I said. Her name was Lauren. At prom, Lauren and I did not hold hands. We didn’t dance together. She said she had a headache and we left early. Driving back from Philadelphia, we didn’t talk. I was wearing the black and white silk gown, the long white opera gloves. I knew what I wanted, and I knew it wasn’t this.
What time are we leaving to get your shot? Emily asks. 4:45pm, I answer. I am so far from youth. Emily’s appointment is on Saturday. After months of living in this new town, I realized last night that soon, we could go to restaurants here. Restaurants! I cackled. Is it okay to enjoy life again? At least outdoors. At least for now. By the door there are two hooks for all of our masks, including the ones our friend’s mother made for us last spring. The only constant is change.
xo,
c
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