Eyeballs matter

Sometimes I wonder if I am an adult. When I’m arguing with the insurance lady about coverage, I feel like one. And when I’m reading in bed at the ripe time of 10pm after clipping my toenails and playing Scrabble, I know I’m an adult.

But, when I fall off my bike because I’m texting or when I receive a notice in the mail about a delinquent payment from that same insurance provider, I question my status.

After much thought, I have defined what it means to be mature (said with a hard T, very fancy-like). Being an adult means buying art and never running out of toilet paper. It’s that simple. If you have enough shopping consistency to keep up your TP supply, it means you have a routine, you buy groceries, and you do not have an old Tupperware filled with unidentifiable foodstuffs in the very back of your refrigerator. If you buy art, you have disposable income, you have solidified your tastes, and you probably have a home in which this art will live.

Based on both these requirements, I am far, far, far from being an adult.

I rent an apartment with a popcorn ceiling and vertical blinds. I love it because it’s two stories and, while it looks like a place Jack Tripper would have loved, it’s next to the beach. I wouldn’t say it’s a very ‘adult’ place to live, although the place is crawling with older people. Based on my criteria, I might be the only non-adult here, my fridge crying out for more consistency.

“Stop settling for PBJs,” it says. That’s when I go for the hummus.

I have one piece of artwork that I love, but it was painted by my gay dad’s first wife (who is my friend and who also married my dad’s best friend after divorcing my dad. Screenplay pending.). Even though it’s my very own artwork that I love, it doesn’t count toward adult status. I know the artist, and, while I did spot it on her Facebook page and instantly love it, I didn’t spot it in a gallery in Manhattan and plunk down thousands of dollars for it. It simply cannot count.

With the cardboard of my empty toilet paper roll taunting me, I knew I had to do something adult. I had to buy some art.

Venice has an art walk once a month where local artists sell their wares on the streets. I went a few months back. I had some wine and dropped artsy terms like ‘color profile’ and ‘canvas.’ Searching for the perfect piece, I eyed some photography. Not only were the shots expensive, they were photos of violence. I don’t have a mantel that’s quite right for a black and white photo of a man’s brains blown out on the street by my favorite cafe (Venice!). There were other things as well, all for way out of my price-range. I started home, feeling like a failed adult.

But then I saw her, a unique beauty for the low price of $60. And how cool was the shape of her canvas? That’s some art!

“Please, don’t sell her,” I told the artist. “I will be right back from the ATM!”

I ran as fast as I could, yearning to prove that, YES, I am an adult and can own something I bought for myself.

I walked the heavy wood painting back to my apartment and leaned it against the perfect wall. Hmm… It didn’t look good. Maybe that other wall? Nope.

Shit.

That’s when I noticed: The art I bought is really ugly.

“No!” I thought. I just have to give it a chance.

So I’ve been letting her sit in my bedroom for months now. You’d think it wouldn’t matter because she only takes up a sliver of floor space. But, no. Her presence is always home. And it’s still ugly.

Every morning, I wake to her staring at me. I size up her body structure. How is her boob so big on the side? Are her boobs really far apart in the middle? I’ve seen that before. Why is her shoulder so out of proportion to her tiny hips? Where is her eyeball? Why is her butt so flat? What is she, a size one?  Seriously, where is her eyeball?

Each morning, I find that I can’t get out of bed before I try to figure her out. Is she supposed to be an android or an alien? And where the fuck is her eyeball?

It’s too much. After analyzing her body structure for a half an hour this weekend, I felt a rage I hadn’t felt before. In a panic, I walked her out to the street. Fuck her and her alien hair. I thought about selling her on Craigslist, but I didn’t want to put anyone else through this misery.

I put her on the street at 10am.

At 10am THE NEXT DAY, she was still there.

NOBODY ELSE wants her either! That’s how ugly she is. That’s how bad I am at choosing art. I am scared to look and see if she’s still there. I feel like I’m abandoning her, like I’m judging her on appearances. She can’t help it that her butt is so flat. She can’t help it if she has no eyeball. In fact, it’s probably better for her in that she doesn’t have to look at herself. Even with so much guilt and a need to prove that body image is not the basis of love, I couldn’t find it in my heart to rescue her. I’m not sure anyone has. Days later, she might still be there. I am scared to look.

In trying to be an adult, I have learned a valuable lesson: I have horrible taste. I should never EVER trust myself to buy art. Also, I’m not so bad. I may have unidentifiable foodstuffs in the back of my fridge, but at least I have an eyeball.