Finding yourself is easier said than done. Most people think it's easy to know who you are, easy to figure out where you belong, easy to be yourself. Those people are wrong. No one knows exactly who they are, especially not at every moment of every day. There are moments of doubt, insecurity, and hopelessness. Midlife crisis is not something that is made up. It's just the only time where people have given it a name and condoned it, well more like tolerated it. Teenage years are the only other designated time where it is okay to experiment and find yourself. Past that? You should know who you are, at least according to society. However, there are some people that are still searching, but most likely most of them aren't searching in a dingy motel room off the interstate just outside of town.
Note to self, raise standards on motel rooms. Emily cringes as she looks around the pathetic excuse for a bathroom. She knew this was coming. It's not like the bedroom was anything spectacular, but the sight of the yellow stained walls and floor of the bathroom, not to mention the collection of dead and alive cockroaches in the corner, is too much.
The sight of pink in the mirror catches her eyes. She cocks her head, trying to make out the image in the cracked, dusty mirror. It takes a minute, but it finally clicks - Mindy. That's who she is supposed to be right now, isn't it? Mindy from Tampa. Emily doesn't remember how Tampa popped into her head, but it did, and apparently pink hair is 'all the rage' there, at least that's what she told him. She laughs softly, remembering their first meeting. He was forward, clearly not ashamed of knowing what he wanted. Some guys are. Some try to act like meeting at a dive bar and hitting up women is normal. It's going to lead to a first date. 'I'll buy your drink, sweetheart' comes out like it's the same as promising to buy a diamond necklace. It's not. He knew that. He wasn't afraid to slide his hand up your thigh, squeezing and massaging lightly as he leaned forward, whispering filthy promises in your ear. Emily, or rather Mindy, didn't have a problem with that, especially since he delivered on everything he said. She smiles, her eyes closing as she gives over to the memory. She can practically feel his lips on hers, on her neck, her collarbone, making their way down her body as his hands begin teasing her in all the right places. She liked him. He was one of the better ones. If only it could have lasted longer, longer than her standard one night stand. There's no use thinking about that now.
Tentatively, she steps into the bathroom, trying hard not to pass out at the sensation and loud crunch that comes as soon as she sets her foot down. She glances down and raises her bare foot up so that the bottom of her foot is visible - correction, the dead cockroach covered bottom of her foot is visible.
"Son of a bitch."
She doesn't even try to make it the rest of the way to the sink or bathtub to wash off the disgusting insect that is quickly becoming one with her skin. Instead, she retreats to the bedroom to gather her things. If there is anything worse than stepping on a cockroach barefoot, it's the sensation of scrapping the cockroach off by rubbing your foot against the coarse, multicolored excuse of a carpet that lines the bedroom. The damn bug refuses to get all the way off. Thankfully, she comes prepared for things like this. She grabs her bag as she sits on the towel she placed on the bed, and dumps out everything until she finds the sanitary wipes. Normally she uses them for something other than wiping off dead bugs from her skin, but she figures it can't hurt.
Next time, Emily knows better than to look. The sight of brown goo and legs plastered to her skin almost makes her lose it right there. She snaps her eyes shut, quickly and manically wiping. It's the sound of music that forces her eyes to open. Quickly she dumps the cockroach stained wipe in the garbage bag as she answers her phone.
"Hello?"
"Emily? It's your mother. Don't forget that we're having dinner with the Kirkpatrick's tonight. Their son Donny will be there. You remember Donny, right?"
Emily manages to muffle a groan as she takes off her pink and now slightly red wig. It's sticky. Of course it is. Emily sighs as she takes another wipe out, running it along her fingers, attempting to remove the hints of red from them while listening to her mother ramble on about Donny and his many achievements. Once she is sure that her hands are clean, she undoes her bun, letting her brown hair cascade down, falling in its normal place just below her shoulders. "Yes mom. I remember being guilt tripped into coming to this poorly disguised set up dinner."
Surprisingly, her mother chooses not to comment on that. "Make sure you look nice. Wear your blue dress, it goes well with your eyes. Oh, and Emily, take an actual shower this time, don't just lather yourself up with antibacterial wipes. It's not the same, hon."
"Thanks for the advice, mom. I'll see you tonight." Emily hangs up, not wanting to hear her mother try to offer her some more sage advice. According to her clock, she has three hours until dinner. That should give her enough time to take care of everything. Emily takes out another antibacterial wipe, running it down each of her legs and arms. It doesn't take long for the wipe to turn completely red, and Emily manages to throw it into one of the garbage bags near the bed before it begins dripping on her. Mindy was not as careful as she should've been, but thankfully, Emily always comes prepared.
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