The Silver Mother Diaries: episode 2

It’s snowing today. Again. Big flakes this morning, and they’re sticking. I wonder what the Silver Mother (the name I’ve given the Airstream) will look like covered in snow. A dreamy image found on a “glamping” or “wanderlust” themed Pinterest board. Ha! When I get home tonight it will probably be around 30 degrees inside and the two electric space heaters will take their time warming her up. I’ll shiver and stay in my knee length puffer jacket in front of one of them until the temperature becomes bearable for my hot blooded ass.

Getting dressed in the trailer each morning feels victorious. My closets, two identical 2x2 foot tall, rectangular spaces are both stuffed full, with my clothes, jackets, scarves, hats and shoes jammed into their spaces. I feel sorry for the metal bars holding everything up and try not to think about the day where they decide to give up. This glamour boudoir is attached to the bathroom, which is currently an unfinished construction zone. Cold air shoots in from mystery holes and un-insulated corners of the floor and walls as I wrestle with my sweaters, “I feel like dressing 90s Seattle today,” I think as I squint into the unlit clothes coffin, yanking at something, but unsure of what. By the time I get my boots zipped up, I’m out of breath, but warm, because what I’ve just done has felt like exercise.

I no longer have space to fuss over perfecting my day’s outfit, something that has made me late to every job I’ve ever had. The only thing that matters now is warmth, coffee, some running water to wash my face and brush my teeth with, and a decently clothed body so I can step out into more freezing cold air and get to work.

“You look so good today,” my ex used to say as he’d watch me get ready for work. We used to fight over space each morning as we both got ready in our small bedroom. Back then we had a whole luxurious wall of closet space, he with his side and me with my mine. Yet, it wasn’t enough. Between his late night rock n’ roll appearances in town, and my high profile job in Advertising, there was a shit ton of clothes and style between the two of us.

We woke up together, got dressed together, and drove to work downtown together. On the good mornings, we’d laugh and talk with our coffees on drive, but on bad mornings (which most of them were) I’d have an outfit meltdown in our bedroom while he’d wait for me outside with the truck running. I’d cry or pick a fight on the drive in to work, and then I’d face an anxiety inducing day at a job I hated. No kiss goodbye, no have a great day, no I love you. Just rushing and running late, a hard door slam to emphasize how unhappy I was. This is how I used to start each day, and it was awful.

Some mornings, I miss hearing his voice give me that encouragement. I miss the fashion, I miss our style, and I try to forgive myself for the bad mornings that caused us both so much pain.

Dez Ramirez