Vail Open Bar column: These parts are not my parts
The mirrors in the house are covered as if its occupant was sitting shiva. But it is not death that mocks her; some days she may even welcome that grasp. The sight of her own body, of its perpetual stubble, slim hips and broad shoulders, is no longer tolerable. It is bad enough that when she looks down she sees it, an unavoidable protrusion weighted with a gravity disproportionate to its actual mass. She does not need additional reminders of the cruel trick played at the intersection of biology and psychology.
Reality being three decades of torment, she has lately slipped into a borderline fugue state, encouraged on this descent by the wiles of drink and drug. The phantoms created in this hazy existence all seemed to grow out of the reflections, but she was too superstitious to smash them. So, as with all of the problems associated with what she believes is her predicament, she did what she could to survive.
She has allies, but they are all theoretical and are in locales that might as well be movie sets when viewed from her rural abode. The people who can help her, who want to help her, are prodigiously outnumbered by her enemies, on scales both familial and global. Most do not even know that their beliefs are in direct contradiction to her existence, assume that what they see is what she is. These people are the most unintentionally destructive, as they assume that hers is a sympathetic ear to the hatemongering that they spread like stock tips at a country club or gossip in the lunchroom.
There was a period when she was more courageous, keen to embark on evolution. Between the ignominies and confusion of adolescence and the despair of approaching middle age was an awakening, a call to take charge of her life. She thumbed her nose at the body with which she was born and embraced the miracles of science that would align her physique with her feelings. She would finally be herself.
But it was not to be: Her metamorphosis would be expensive. Funding was as dry as the tears on her cheeks when her employer, aghast at her intentions, summarily fired her. Parents and siblings had long ostracized her, sensing even from a young age that she was to be a burden, a distraction from the sinless world in which they believed they operated. Her extended clan was as allegedly pious.
She moved away as far as she could, but it was not far enough. She knew that she needed to escape the daily oppressions of her close-minded community, but she did not have the means to do so. She tried to slip back into the role that she appeared born to play: the former high school quarterback out on conquests business and personal. An actress in a play whose curtain never fell.
Now, she floated through life in a circle of people who did not know her. They liked who they thought she was. Still stung by the defeat of her previous revelations, she did nothing to correct their misapprehensions. She was now safe from the hands of others but in danger of retribution from herself.
Each story that flitted through her feeds, of attacks and legislations and casual cruelty, served to reinforce the hard steel bars of the prison cell of her body. When would she ever be free?
T.J. Voboril is a partner at Reynolds, Kalamaya & Voboril LLC, a local law firm, and the owner-mediator at Voice of Reason Dispute Resolution. For more information, contact Voboril at 970-306-6456 or email@example.com or visit http://www.rkv law.com.
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