Tonight, I offer a true free write – from my brain to the page, and then to your brain. I warn you now: it got odd.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to write, it’s that I have everything to write.

It’s not that I have everything to write, it’s that I don’t have the time to write what I want in the way that I want to.

It’s not that I don’t have the time to write what I want in the way that I want to, it’s that I am doing too many things.

It’s not that I am doing too many things, it’s that there are so many things I want to do.

It’s not that there are so many things I want to do, it’s that I keep doing things that aren’t that important to me.

It’s not that I keep doing things that aren’t important to me, it’s that so many things must be done.

It’s not that so many things must be done, it’s that I’m not managing my time well.

It’s not that I’m not managing my time well, it’s that there’s not enough time to do everything.

It’s not that there’s not there’s not enough time to do everything, it’s the idea that there is everything to do.

Usually, when my brain reaches this point, I take a bath.

When I take a bath, I sometimes look at the state of my toenails. They could almost always use some love. Sometimes when I look at the state of my toenails, I wonder what they would look like if I had married the man who was interested in my feet when I was in my twenties. We didn’t date or anything – I didn’t even know him well; he was my roommate’s colleague, an attractive South African man who sometimes came by. Several times, he mentioned how much he liked my painted toenails. It turns out, he also mentioned them to my roommate once or twice when I was not there. Apparently he liked my feet. This felt… unusual.

Sometimes, I imagine that I married the handsome South African who I did not know well and who found my feet attractive. I imagine that my feet now would be amazing. I would get regular pedicures and I would not have done things that made my feet spread and whatnot over the years. If we had had children, I would not have walked around barefoot in the heat during my pregnancies. I would spend a lot of money on shoes, and they would all fit me perfectly, so my feet wouldn’t have the weird lumps and bumps that feet sometimes acquire. I probably would not do yoga or run. These things are hard on one’s feet.

I suspect that by now, if I had married him, I would resent the attention that my feet required. I would get pedicures, but I wouldn’t think of them as a wonderful indulgence; instead, I would consider them wasteful and time-consuming. I would look at women on their way to yoga and long for the inner peace I imagined they experienced. I would think wistfully of buying cheap shoes at PayLess and I would resent the way my friends casually compared me to Imelda Marcos. Maybe I would be considering divorce – or already divorced! – because I was so frustrated at having to take care of my feet. 

I get out of the tub, happy with the revelation that I have better things to do than take care of my feet – things like write a slice of life about the weird ways my brain works. Then my spouse, who is not South African and probably prefers my writing to my feet, comes and settles in next to me. “I think my brain is better than my feet,” I whisper, and, while he looks perplexed, to my delight, he agrees.