I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know what day it is because I don’t look at my calendar. I intentionally avoid the date looming at the top of my phone because whatever day it is will not add any benefit to my life. It only means that tomorrow is closer and I’ll be older and so will you and all the goals we’ve made for ourselves will still be lingering on our shelves for later days like trophies we’ve never won and probably never will. Gathering dust will all our ideas of the lives we had planned for ourselves.
I know that it’s Tuesday and I know that it’s humid. I live in Tokyo and I carry a towel on my bag to wipe the mist of sweat from my brow or my armpits or whatever pocket of skin decided to wet itself. I try to convince myself that living in a virtual bathtub of air will somehow preserve my skin in the same way that I observe the Japanese people around me, forever young. But they know the truth and so do I; I am Caucasian and I am aging.
For eight years I have been dancing between Tokyo and New York with dips and spins in Seoul and Europe. But now this could be the last time, for immigration is not the fool that I perceived. They are on to my tricks, they sense the shame of my worthless soul bringing empty presents to their perfect humanity, the sick and perverse flesh lining the inside of my sequined silver Converse shoes.
Every Japanese girl I come in contact with has a day planner, the surprising tool of our yesterdays that has yet to fade away here, like the video rental stores, which are frequented by all and remain ever popular even in the wealthiest of Tokyo neighborhoods.
These delicate flowers adorn their day planners with stickers and write with character pens that would be the envy of any girl who’s main wardrobe remained centered around plaid skirts from The Limited Too. They know what day it is and they’ve got plans for every hour of every day. I long to step into the mind of someone with such efficiency, such self worth.
If you wake up late the weather is less oppressive and there are less hours to get in the way before culture dictates alcohol consumption is acceptable. If you wake up late there are less hours in a day to spend hating yourself. Lack of productivity is left to dreams, and if I don’t wear black I can cruise home on my bicycle convincing everyone else that I too have a day planner in my backpack and a place to be and a beautiful systematic life to be living.