Mary Biddinger Dregs Week

It was like fashion week but without the threads, shark week minus the mouths. Most of the sponsored content was targeted at millennials, though every four or five channels aired an old fashioned sack race or historical think piece. I would describe my desires as typical click bait. How to fantasize about money without feeling like a punctured yogurt carton left in a backpack. How to remember your old body without resentment about your present state, which resembles an unclaimed free couch more than an egret landing in its home marsh. Dregs week avenged the mostly-used body wash, married the ketchups, mixed all the leftover uncooked pasta shapes (even the novelty dicks) into one boiling pot. It meant lunch with a least favorite colleague, the one whose breathing you can pick out from yards away, the one who prompts you to hide beneath your desk. Dregs week occupies only one cell in the spreadsheet, but it’s maximized to fit all the exceptions and counterarguments. No week is more like a gorgeous blouse that shows blotchy sweat stains before it’s even on. It’s a new job that feels exactly like the old job except you never quit the old job, and who needs sleep, isn’t it an abstraction rather than an action? All the photographers on the subway were headed to dregs week with their jouissance, which made the rest of us feel like caged bison. Gone were the charm necklaces of our youth, which weighed more upon our breasts than our breasts would ever weigh.


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