Kari Toney

No One Said There'd Be a Box

I'm writing this collection of thoughts because there isn't enough time in one elevator ride to gain my acquaintance.

You are reading this because you are literate, bored, or humoring me. In all cases, I win. And so, I begin.

1.

There are 23 seconds that go by each time I re-word my thoughts so that someone else can understand---or much worse---approve of what I am saying. 23 seconds. In my lifetime I have wasted 243 hours, 56 minutes, and 29 sec 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37 seconds. I would like that back. No one ever told me there was an imaginary box that I was expected to live in. It seems to me that box-living would be crowded, stuffy, growth-impaling, insufficient, and monotonous, but that's just my humble opinion. And, to do any thinking inside that box would be downright suffocating. "If God, this is the life I was intended to live, just shoot me now, mount my head on a plastic oval, and hang me in some happy-ass trailer."

Apparently we're all supposed to think in a greater good manner. Think inside the box. Think like she thinks because she is thinking like he thinks and he is thinking like he thinks she wants him to think. They both seem to like the way I think, but they don't want one another to know. Secretly, they are thinking the same thoughts I am (let's burn down this box and piss on the flames!) but they'll never let on. So here I am---outside the box, with my kerosene and Bic lighter, but no takers. It occurs to me that I no longer smoke so, like the Chia Pet that never grew hair, the purchase of this lighter was completely useless. Nothing was burned that day. Nothing. And all those box-sitters just sat there laughing at me and my useless lighter.

Thus, I've decided I can't win. I'm a loser. I am "winning impaired" in p.c. terms. Everyone wants to hear things in a politically correct manner now. Either way, I thoroughly suck to everyone I meet and what's worse: I don't agree. Generally, people know when they suck so when another person says, "Hey, you suck, ok?" they just nod and think to themselves, "Damn. They're right. I sure do." The problem is when someone like me decides I am among the very few on the planet that are worth listening to, yet these box-heads are still sending form letters, fancy memos, and reports (MLA style, of course) to one another as well as the outside world telling them I am completely insignificant. How can this be? Inspirational, certainly. Insightful, absolutely. Insignificant, I object. I suppose one could rationalize that they all sound similar. Riddle: If you are a genius but no one agrees, are you still a genius? Sometimes I am not so sure. I must be plagued. I must have missed the memo.

2.

I was born chubby as most infants are. I have been and always will be chubby. Big boned, fat, hippy, womanly, big, overweight, husky, athletic, and (my very favorite) thick. I was actutally very fortunate in that thick girls became high-fashion and downright trendy in the 90's. Following closely behind was the mixed-girl fad. Me? I was a poster child for both and was a dead ringer for a booty chick in a short-term rap video. My debut and my curtain call seemed to happen all at once because the moment I realized I had it all going on, the damn government put something in the water and all the girls became transparent in every sense of the word. I own a shirt that says NOT ANOREXIC in big black letters across the front. I think it's my silent revenge on the skinny broads that pride themselves on protruding rib cages. My boyfriend thinks I am an asshole and insensitive. I think his sense of humor is broken. In the end, I am like a thrift store Barbie. The good thing is that most kids my age remember when it was cool to be me and they still think I am cute---in a vintage kind of way. It's my own personal loophole. I say 'kids my age' because I can't remember when I became an adult, exactly. I can't remember my first kiss, car ride, mortgage payment, massage, tee-ball game, or joint pain, but I do recall my very first white hair. This is what my Dad calls the Toney luck; getting white hairs. It came without warning. I had no gray hairs, no dull follicles here and there, just thick black curls. This brick in memory lane appeared only days after I turned 25. I was at work in the ladies' room and there it was. It saw me, I saw it, and the rest is history. Don't get me wrong, I am thankful I am not bald---another Toney curse. Although, come to think of it, I have never acutally seen the top of my head and could very well be the proud owner of my own crop circle. I suppose my son would tell me if I were.

3.

My son, Ben. There is literally so much to be said about him that I will say nothing at all except that he is the only one in my life who laughs at all my jokes and in turn, makes me laugh so hard I cry. He is truly the light of my world and renders me speechless. So, I've got all this hair on my head (for the time being). It's a curly, matted, undefined combination of black folks' and white folks'. My hair is essentially a joke played on me by my parents. Apparently, love makes you stupid. Eighteen months later, they were divorced; Dad got the dog and the red toolbox, Mom got the frost-free refrigerator, and I kept the hair. Go figure. I believe I deserve a cut of the profits from Mr. Sassoon and the Suave family for single-handedly creating an entirely fresh, new market for them. They have developed a range of at least 7 billion products to suit my hair over the years. Exactly none of them worked. Therefore, I just let my hair do what it pleases. One day, I am sure it will please to be thin and gray (or white as the case may be), so I will enjoy it while I can, despite the tangles. It is, in fact, what separates me from the newer Barbies. That, and my chubby thighs.

Kari Toney lives in Canton, Ohio, and she has been a writer since before she could write. Kari loves writing because she believes that creative expression is the only free passion.