I Wonder

A few things I’ve speculated about lately…

Have I ever known, or at the very least, passed someone on the street that was in the witness protection program? I wonder how many sad, secret lives are out there, that none of us even know about, never even spare a passing thought to.

If we’ve got phlegm in our chest, we’re supposed to cough (or spit) it out, correct? I’ve always heard that, but swallow the nasty acidic sludge, never wanting to spit it out. But, this morning, I was in the parking garage, just getting ready to walk into work, and I did one of the nasty phlegmish coughs. I thought, hey, maybe it’ll help with my asthma and breathing to get this crap outta my lungs. So I cough and hack until I’ve got a sufficient amount in my mouth, bend over, and spit it out. I hear footsteps behind me. And there’s my boss. Suck.

So back to the ‘I wonder’ part. Are we really supposed to cough it up, or is that some old wives’ tale or something? I should ask my doctor brotha. He’d know. Because what I do know is that I’ve got a whole lot more sludge in my chest. My humiliation this morning was all for nothing.

I wonder if anyone is not afraid of heights. I don’t believe that anyone would stand at the foot of a building or cliff and think, hey, wow. Who cares if I fall? I’m not scared at all. I think everyone’s scared. Maybe there are people who are more phobic about it, but withstanding the circus monkey freaks that walk the tight-rope and flip around on the trapezes, I’d say everyone is afraid of heights. It’s only natural, after all.

I also often wonder about my blog. My niece put it so eloquently in one of her blog entries, and I won’t even try to compete with her caliber writing, but I think, what will my readers think of me after reading this entry? Will disappointment lick their insides, did I not post what they wanted or expected? Will they think less of me? Perhaps more? And I wonder why I care. I wonder if my writing is any good, especially when void of humor. I wonder, but I already know. It’s not. Good, I mean. Sure, the grammar is more or less correct, as well as the spelling, but it’s missing passion and excitement and that fervor that keeps readers interested. I know this. My writing, like me, is mostly mediocre. Just ordinary, run of the mill.

Now I sound like I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I don’t mean to. So, I’ll move on.

I also wonder what it would be like to wear a burka for a day. To feel the fear and shame of being inferior, all for being a woman. I wonder what it would be like to be ashamed of my gender, to be humiliated for something I have no control over. And then I wonder what it would be like to wear it for an entire lifetime, hiding everything, living behind a veil. And then I think, I am. In my own way, I am. Hiding behind my eating disorder. People cannot see the real me, though my eyes, vibrant with life, peek out - more and more now. But I want to be proud of being a woman, proud of my curves and softness.

And then I question who I am behind the shroud. Who am I without it?
I wonder.