Acetone Grass

I spent the last week living out any earth-lovin’ hippie’s wet dream.

The first evening found me lying on a patch of soft green grass, next to grazing horses, watching the sun shimmer like a new penny behind wiry trees, listening to a language foreign to me. Could’ve been spoken poetry for all I know.

I reckoned the next day we’d hike a mountain.

Fast forward to day six, which found me at 3am sitting on the cold bathroom floor after everyone had fallen asleep, dipping each finger into a honey pot of nail polish remover. Inhaling deep to get a cosmopolitan fix. Frantically filing to round out nails used to keyboards not shovels.

I want to not mind dirt under my nails. I want to wake up, throw my hair in a ponytail and get on with a day of hoeing, cooking, child-rearing. I want to not be defined by eyeliner. [me-liner]

I reckon that ain’t me though.

I enjoy international cuisine. I enjoy heels that make my smoothed and tanned legs look a mile long. I like my love/hate relationship with subway cars. I won’t eat half the things that I saw on the farm. ‘Pig’ here refers to something that doesn’t necessarily eat from a trough and ‘working with my hands’ doesn’t require getting out of bed.

And in this sense, I feel like I’m failing to live up to some idealistic hippie image that I’ve seemed to have acquired somehow because I throw my plastic bottles in a different bin, and because, for at least some amount of time, I think about what’s happening outside my bubble.

I am no farmer’s daughter, no flower power child. My mountains are made of glass and concrete. My grass is gravel. My horse has wheels and pulleys and steam.

My heart and innards may be made of earth, of dirt. But my hands and my feet, well, they’re manicured. My eyes? defined.

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