I’m a busy woman.
It started back when I wasn’t yet able to read, which was part of the problem.
Dad worked as custodian at a mountain retreat. In early spring, mid-week, there were no strangers around, so I got to play on the hillside between the main building, now empty, and the weaving workshop.
Nothing bloomed there. Black skinny branches laced sand without leaves and only a few thorns. I knew about the silky blue flowers over in the forest, but I had to stay put where my dad could see me.
Now I got really busy. I had to do everything myself. I had to be princess, prince, and dragon.
Princesses, I was told, didn’t do much. So, as princess, I typically parked myself somewhere to dream and wait and let the other two have at it.
As prince I waited, too, but I was alert and my imaginary sword gleamed with imaginary sparks beneath the real sun.
As dragon I was furious. Understandable, really, when you’re always considered the bad guy. So I rushed about and roared and fumed and spewed imaginary fire. I was undaunted, though, despite the probability that I would one day be defeated.
Not much has changed. The last straw is that I’m expected to love myself. I mean, does loving yourself even count?