1: Exercise More!
Buy the shoes. It’s okay, screw the budget, that’s not this year’s resolution. You deserve this. When the saleswoman asks you if you’ve done much running, laugh and gesture to your mid-section. The woman will blink, force out a half-baked hah. It’s a reaction of discomfort, not cruelty; you made it weird. You don’t know why you feel the need to shame your own body in front of a stranger, but you blame it on her lululemon leggings and air-hostess smile. She makes you nervous. Most people do.
When you go outside, sit next to a man on a bus bench. He’s reading a book, and you recognize the cover from an English course in college. A man’s body, clad in red, knight-like armour, with a white mask where his head should be. The mask is smiling and handsome on one side, twisted and snarling on the other, with a hollow void where his eyes should be. The Mysterious Stranger, by Mark Twain. Good taste. When you sit, notice how the man’s eyes dash over in your direction. It’s almost imperceptible, and no other part of him moves an inch. Convince yourself that the chill trickling down your spine is a sign of an early winter wind. The sweat beneath your arms says differently.
Change into your new shoes right there on the bench. They’re tight, but almost comforting, reminding you of the cattle squeeze chutes on the farm you grew up on. Your new shoes are white, because white seemed luxurious and fresh and symbolic (new beginnings, clean slate). Now, curse and rub your own spit into a dirt smudge on the side. Remember that white is rarely ever white at all—think of the stains spreading like mould along shower walls.
When the bus arrives, sit near the front. You’ll only take it half the way home today and walk the rest (new year, new you). The man with the book sits at the back of the bus.
This is your bus stop, in a residential area you don’t know well. Apparently, it’s his bus stop too. Start walking. Notice he is walking too. This shouldn’t make you nervous. You always see the worst in people. What is wrong with you? Therapy should have been one of your resolutions.
It’s been fifteen minutes. You’re almost home, but you don’t want him to know where you live. So you walk past the turn to your street and feel your heart drop to your toes. You can smell the fishy stench of your own stress-sweat leaking through your corduroy jacket.
Twenty minutes. Almost out of the residential area. In a couple blocks, you’ll be on commercial drive, where you can enter a café, or a bar, and have a panic attack in a graffitied bathroom stall until the perceived threat is gone. It wouldn’t be the first time.
When construction blocks access to the street crossing you meant to take, you’ll have to find a detour. Luckily, there’s an alley to your left, a shortcut to safety if anything. You just need to move fast. Good thing you bought those shoes.
When you hear the man’s footsteps beating at your heels, run.