26 november

Sometimes when I turn on the dishwasher I feel totally normal. I’ve loaded it, mostly carefully. I’ve added the little plastic bubble of detergent, retrieved from the soapstinky package on the top of the cabinet that has not gotten lost, despite being tucked carefully of the way and far enough removed to avoid having that smell infiltrate other kitchen items or experiences. I’ve turned the dial to NORMAL and heard the click. I’ve pulled the lever that closes the door satisfyingly into place. I’ve heard the water start running almost immediately, perfectly in response to my request. Nobody has rushed in at the last moment to say ‘WAIT! You don’t know what you’re doing!’ Nobody has discovered me as a pretender. A fake adult. I keep expecting it to happen. And yet. Not yet. Either I’m doing it right, or everybody else is too busy pretending through their own questions and insecurities that they simply have no time to worry about mine. Perhaps both are true. The girls walk by, dressed up for each other, and the boys do the boogie-woogie on the corner of the street. Come on out and dance, come on out and dance, come on out and make romance. Everyone is fooled, by themselves and each other. And on we go, and the dishwasher sings its soothing song, swooshing and gurgling each utensil, each item. Carefully swirling the solutions to soiled surfaces, warming the handles and hearts of every one, inside and out.