I’ve done a round-table introduction just about every week since I moved
here. After my name, I say where I’m from. It’s the natural next step
in these kinds of “tell us a bit about yourself” prompts. I’m Kiley Quinn and
I’m from Cold Spring, NY. The kind of crowds you find at a bar, or a Domestic Violence Survivor round up meeting. I always use my pen name, I talk better under the disguise.
To describe myself, I’m left with words like “once was” and “not quite,”
words that hint at incompleteness. They mean that I’ve lost, or gained
(something) – what exactly, I’m not sure yet. Perhaps it is my sense
of place of self, of purpose, my sense of belonging and furthered sense
of now becoming. I always talk to the crowd,
I am not quite sure, on many days, what day it actually is anymore. One
day seems to blend into the next, until they all just flow as one
continuance one. I would know it was Wednesday if I were still 7,
however. I would know it was Wednesday because I would be wearing my
day-of-the-week underwear and I exactly remember how dutifully I relied
on my unmentionables to celebrate the passage of my days. But, I am all
grown up now, and my days of the week have turned to a bit sexier lacier
ones. I liked the days of the week ones though; they kept me on track,
even on those hazy crazy days.
I don’t know that I was 7 for sure. They didn’t make undergarments for
that sort of thing.
I said I had wanted to be a writer when I grew up. I would sit on the
radiator and scribble out words, my siblings, probably playing
basketball, or bike riding at the neighbor’s house like normal children.
I liked to read Nancy Drew and eat treats littered with high fructose
corn syrup, while writing with a Red Paper Mate on blank journal
pages.(I have long since tossed the high fructose syrup diet and taken
up running and yoga and water and cranberry juice upteen years ago) In my own state of mentality I thought
the red pen was elegant, sexy even by the time I became a teenager.
Black and blue just seemed so dull, so unerringly unfeminine. Surprise
to say so though, no, I never felt the same dullness for my day of the
week undergarments. (They kept me in check, on schedule.)
I have,
eventually, as you know, become a writer. A writer whom also has given
up her day of the week undergarments. That is a contributing factor as
to why I may not always know what day it is anymore. But, for sure, I am
sitting not knowing it in black lace bikini, or a midnight blue lace
boy short.
It hadn’t occurred to me that this ever mattered. Now, it has occurred
to me, how could anything else ever matter as much?
What you wear as undergarments always matters. It even alters your outlook on life. (turns out perspective looks better in shades of cutting dramatic lace)
Somewhere between being dutiful about my days of the week, and walking
into a Victoria Secret store, I grew up. I knew I wanted to live my life
for what mattered, for someone who mattered.
Someone like myself. I tossed those days of the week undergarments, and loaded those same dresser draws with the sheerness of lace, lots and lots of lace.....black lace, red lace, white and black lace, pink lace, lace boy shorts, g strings, bikinis, polka dots, stripes, little tiny bows tied on the sides......and, oh my good god, a pair of midnight blue lace boyshorts that just take the cake...you know, the ones that are the cheekiest of kinds....
My undergarments truly shape the way I present myself as a woman, as the new inspired happy soul that I have become.
Born of the hustle and bustle, and blatant insanity of
my infamous family. I have surpassed it all. What I refer to as a train wreck of a first marriage, yup, that too, has come and gone, finally.
Here I still stand, living in the everything after of Domestic Violence and dysfunctional family.
Living in all of the grownup, that I have now become........no longer with living in days of the week underwear or training bras!
