The meaning of life (and other stuff I don’t know)

03/06/24

I’m back in North Carolina.

I’m chatting with the shop owner of a small boutique in Downtown Cary. I’ve learned she’s overwhelmed running the entire shop on her own, but she loves Fresh Air’s Terry Gross, values work-life balance, and has a daughter in high school who enjoys songwriting. 

The woman steps in the back to cut stems off a flower arrangement for a customer, leaving the store unguarded. I turn my attention to a mosaic-looking art piece. I can’t afford the piece, but wouldn’t it be nice if I could?

“Do you work here?”

Two new faces hover in the doorway to the shop. They look at me expectantly.

I open my mouth to say no.

“Sure.”

I direct them to the trash can when asked where they can discard their empty coffee cups. I learn they’re new to the area. They are grandparents to a little girl named April, like the month, even though she was actually born in August. A missed opportunity, I quietly think. August is a lovely name. 

I help them find the soy wax candles they’re looking for. The candles are in the shape of fruit but they don’t smell like the fruit they resemble. Another missed opportunity. The couple admires the candles but decides not to buy them. They apologize for “wasting my time.” 

“That’s what I’m here for.”

I most definitely don’t work here and this is most definitely not what I’m here for. But it’s nice to help someone. And it’s nice to be a part of something.

I frequently find myself (often accidentally) wiggling my way into things, becoming a permanent and necessary fixture of organizations and social groups. I like a TASK and I like feeling instrumental to a process. But conceptualizing myself as a fixture of something I chose to be affiliated with also feels like an explanation for how I exist in the world. Like a justification for my existence, a stamp of approval for taking up space. An answer to a “check the box” question.

Select One:

Nice to meet you! I’m Layla, (Assistant Editor) (Vice President) (UNC student).

Therefore, as you can image, as a recently unoccupied, unaffiliated, nomad I’ve found myself a little lost.

Select One:

Nice to meet you! I’m Layla, (Very afraid of bees?) (One time a writing professor referred to my work as “the death of comedy?”) (I’ve never seen a ghost but I’m 99.8% sure they exist?)

So, okay, fine. I don’t have a neat and tidy checkbox answer after my name right now, and I might not feel like I have some societally garnered “stamp of approval.” But maybe I don’t need approval to exist! Maybe I’ll always be a part of something, even if it isn’t an explicit organization and I don’t have a TASK in accordance with it! I just have to look a little more carefully.

I am tucked away in all the people and places I’ve known. Some of them I chose, some of them I didn’t. Some I’ve met in passing, some I know better than I know myself. All of them know a part of me.

I’m my own mosaic. A colorful puzzle of all the bits of the world I’ve met. What a wonderful thing it is to be so beautifully composed of life around me!

Here are some glass pieces that make up my mismatched portrait:

• I straighten my hair the way the first friend I ever made in college taught me. I flatten the pieces near my ears twice – it's the most important step.

• I order a Hugo Spritz whenever given the chance. An 18 year old sort-of mean British girl who slept on the floor in our hostel one night in Venice told me to order one with a strange amount of authority peeking through her Cockney accent. Her rudeness was forgotten the minute the bubbles hit my tongue: it is the best summer drink.

• I wear bracelets because my grandma wore bracelets.

• I started listening to Hozier because a girl I almost lived with in college recommended I do. I didn’t even end up living with her, but to this day Wasteland, Baby! winds its way through any space I’m living in. Andrew Hozier-Byrne maintains a wild monopoly over my Spotify Rewind.

• I decorate with windchimes. Our neighbors growing up always had them hanging on their back porch. Their natural orchestra backs up most every memory of my childhood backyard: bug bites on my arms, the dirty cuffs of my jeans, and the wind composing its own symphony.

• I always have sweet mint gum in my bag. A friend I met while living in Greece used it to kick a habit of chewing on her inner lip. I stocked up for her, but it became my preferred flavor too.

• I always comment when people cut their hair, even if I don’t know them well. A classmate in high school always did: his mother taught him to say something whenever a “lady changes her hair.” I hadn’t even cut my hair the first time he commented, but it’s the thought that counts.

• I prefer limeade to lemonade. A childhood best friend's mom always made it fresh, squeezing the limes by hand and melting a sugar syrup together with a pinch of mint over an electric stovetop. We’d sit on the linoleum floor by the fridge waiting for it to be cold enough to drink.

• I keep trinkets. My third-grade teacher collected gadgets and gizmos and I always thought it was lovely how she filled her space with a personal collection of secret treasures.

The woman returns from the back with a gorgeous bouquet. It’s green and purple, my two favorite colors. There’s gratitude in her expression: the walls aren’t that thick. 

I turn away from the mosaic. Sometimes what’s meant to be is — I can’t afford the artwork, but I guess I don't really have a need for it anyway. I probably do have a need for a soy candle in the shape of an orange that smells like a strawberry though.

(I start working for the boutique next week.)

((Let’s hope that doesn’t stamp out any of the progress I’ve made fighting internalized capitalism, re: above!))

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Survey results are in, folks! 

The majority of this Listserv are Galentine's Day celebrators who are pro-chocolate and anti-people who dislike all female musicians (AS WE SHOULD). Most of us are also pro-blind date and prefer either quality time or words of affirmation for giving and receiving affection.

Lastly, y’all are HINGE people. Literally only nine (9) people had an answer for the “What dating app is the best” that wasn’t Hinge. I am honestly shocked by the enthusiastic consensus, but it’s sort of a slay. Pro tip: my Listserv is on Hinge and my Listserv is SO FUN AND HOT. Just saying.

New survey for your answering pleasure: https://forms.gle/jH5JEsXqjqte3cvn6

Quick reminder as we approach election season: Do your research! Rush the polls (if we can’t have Franklin at least we can have the polls)! Be the slay you wish to see in the world!

I really adore y’all!

Love,

Lay

*P.S. sorry I wasn’t funny this month, I promise I’ll do it next time, sometimes I’m just a GIRL, okay I can’t be funny ALL THE TIME, I’m JUST ONE SINGLE WOMAN –