Write365

Cheating is a strategy, not a philosophy. You shouldn’t take it personally. Truly, I don’t really consider what I do cheating anyway. I’m just trying to get by, just like we all are. And I’m getting by just fine.

I haven’t always been like this though. I started out my life quite earnestly. When the pastor told me that virtuousness would be rewarded in heaven, I was first in line at the virtue hut. When I entered school, I was sure that hard work and studying would get me far—all the way to high school, and beyond, with my proud parents at my high school graduation…! But when an entire afternoon and a good part of the night were spent studying, and I still flunked my first math test, I lost my faith. My dad called me dumb, my mom called me lazy. I’m neither dumb nor lazy. In fact, I’m quite bright. Bright enough to know that that was the last time I was going to put in that amount of hard work for zero reward.

I looked into other options for passing math tests. I looked at a lot of options. The best one was a boy called Carl. Now, I didn’t exactly ask him to let me cheat off of him. I asked him to be my tutor. We did make some progress and the next test I got a C. That wasn’t good enough for Carl, and it wasn’t good enough for me either. The next time we did better, even if it did involve me looking over at Carl’s test to be reminded of the right answers. Men and boys are the best people to work with when you’re doing stuff like that. Girls are not only prone to incredulousness, but they are also very competitive and don’t really want to get anyone else get ahead – especially not another woman.

My parents praised me after my math improvement, but I wasn’t interested in them anymore. I was going to succeed, but not so I could get their approval. I saw how fickle that could be, and in the end, they couldn’t help me anyway. A waitress at the local Denny’s and a manager at Walmart—these were my parents. At first I felt a certain amount of anger at them for expecting too much of me. Then, I quickly realized that the opposite was true. They didn’t expect nearly enough of me. And, in turn, I expected nothing of them.

I know what you’re wondering. Did I sleep with Carl? Well, yes, I did. And I’ve slept with many men since who have helped me out – in school, in life, in my career. But I’m not a slut. Compared to my friend Dina, my numbers are quite low. She sleeps with men to make her feel better about herself. I sleep with men who happen to be in positions where they can put in a good word for me. But, you know, it only works if you have something to offer. And I’m not talking about in the bedroom. I’m merely average there. But I do offer a bit of flattery to generally neglected, perfect attractive, married men. And I give them a chance to help someone out. I read somewhere that that was good for your heart – literally. It’s good for my career too.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Carl had never let me cheat that first time. Of course, now I have no need to know math. But I gained a much greater skill than dividing fractions that sunny afternoon in Mrs. Hines class. I learned the best strategy of all. And one that comes in very handy in my current role. There’s a knock on my door….

There was so much to remember. The responsibility of being a priestess of the goddess was great and she didn’t want to mess up. But the knowledge that the elders gave to her was overwhelming. A young man came to see her yesterday and wanted help. He had been married 7 months and his wife still hadn’t conceived a child. Out of the 125 or so herbs, roots, and flowers that she was qualified to give out, she couldn’t remember which one to give. Should it be something for him, or for his wife? But as a priestess, she could not show hesitation or doubt. As he waited, with reverance and anticipation, she ground up the leaves of the blue flower that grows on the foothills of the mountains. “Give this to your wife. Tell her to take it right before the full moon. Come back in 2 months if she hasnt’ bled.” She said it confidential, but truthfully she had no clue if this was right. Though she did no that it could do no harm. Sometimes people just seemed to need hope, and that cured them just fine.

In the meantime, she seriously needed to brush up on her knowledge. When the sun went down, the tent was packed up and her and the other priestesses retired for the night. Samwa, the wisest of the older priestesses always settled down near her for the night, so she took the opportunity to ask her, “what is the herb for fertility?” Samwa had a lengthy answer, depending on any number of variables that she had neglected to ask the young man. “Does she bleed normally? At what time of month are they active? Is she taking any other herbs? She listened carefully and kept repeating the information to hersefl all night until the sun came up.

When it was light, she grabbed a stick and walked far back behind the sleeping tents. She scratched into the earth with the stick a penis. From that, she drew a line to an aster shaped flower. Under that, she drew 2 stick figures, back to back, and a line to a picture of a jagged leaf. That was for couples who weren’t in the mood. She drew 3 more pictures of marital circumstances linked with 3 pictures of different roots and flowers. Now I’ll remember! But after the first rains, she knew she needed a better solution. The men were making clay for bricks and she watched as they made patterns in it when it was wet. She stole 2 bricks and brought them back to her spot beyond the tents. When it rained, she etched her pictures in with a sharp tool.

Over the years, she continued etching her pictures, but showing no one. She become the most sought afer priestess because she retained the most knowledge. Never did she have to seek advice, never did she have a doubt. When she became an elder priestess and the season’s new devotees entered, she picked one to pass the knowledge on to. She taught her the pictures and the secret pace she kept them. When she died, her devotee taught the pictures to everyone and they created a wall of mosaics that held all the sacred knowledge that they held. Nothing now would be forgotten, nothing lost. And so it was that the written language was born.

She wasn’t really the type to wander into an art gallery. Not that she didn’t like art, but something about the pretentiousness of wandering in off the street into an art gallery was beyond her. A science museum, certainly. She could look for hours at fossils of trilobytes and peer over displays made for children without one thought of self-consciousness. She loved to learn, after all, and was not ashamed of that.

But art was something she hadn’t thought much about since college, when she fell in love with Renaissance art, especially Boticelli. The romance of it all was what appealed to her, till she wouldn’t be satisfied until she went to Italy to see it all firsthand. She finally made it there, with the first substantial boyfriend who could afford the trip. But after the stress of traveling with someone who had never been oversees, and the annoyance of traveling with someone who didn’t give a damn about art, she felt unbearably let down. But she took what the universe gave her. “It is what it is,” she told herself.

No one would have thought her the romantic type anyway. Serious face, never smiling, except with people she was familiar with. Then she laughed a lot. But most people thought her a little uptight. Starched white button down shirts, knit vests for some color. The shoes were bit adventurous, but never too much so. The 3 inch heels raised a few eyebrows, especially since they brought her height to nearly 6 feet. But never an ample breast revealed, or a thigh uncovered.

Today, she was wearing jeans, since she was on vacation. They weren’t loose, or of the “grannie” variety found at LL Bean. No, these were real boot cut jeans that showed off a nice curve of an upper thigh, tapered down to the knees and then flared out slightly, accentuating her height and her figure. On top, she wore a white tank top covered by a tailored khaki jacket. Yes, it was a bit out of character. Visiting her sister in Washington, DC, they had gone shopping. Alone (as in without her husband) for the first time in ages, she found herself being talked into all kinds of purchases that she would never have bought at home. And now, here she was, wandering through an art gallery, looking nothing like herself, and frankly, feeling nothing like herself. And she liked it.

Out of nostalgia, first she headed to the medieval and renaissance section. Now, it just made her feel sad. Like the possibilities that never worked out. There were only a few Botticellis on display. One simply titled “Portrait of a youth.” She looked at the youth - a young man with long brown hair, and a red hat like a fez. Attractive. Exotic. Beautiful. She walked on with her typical blank expression on her face. She felt down. What had she done with her life? She sighed audibly. She was agitated. She should call her husband, but she didnt’ want to.

In the West wing of the gallery there was a photography exhibition. Something recent. She never fancied herself one for modern art, but she felt a gnawing need to get out of where she was. She crossed over the covered walkway and walked up the stairs. They were pictures of people at the beach in hawaii. People in clusters on towels. Couples, friends, singles. Spaced appropriately enough away from each other. She wondered why they were all white. Wait, here were two japanese guys. Something about the picture appealed to the voyeur in her. She loved to people watch. Sometimes people could be incredibly boring. But sometimes they could be utterly fascinating. At the museum, there was no one to watch, which just made the art more appealing.

She stood in front of a giant photograph, stretched across half a wall. A vast beach, totally free of people except one couple laying on a crumpled blue towel, locked in an embrace. Diagonally across the top 1/5 of the sheet, the water from the ocean laps the edge of the sand. There something beautiful about the photo, yet something disturbing as well. The sand looked inviting - soft, like talcum powder. But she felt sorry for the cavorting couple. She was mad that the photographer took this photo of them. It was intrusive and voyeuristic. And yet, she herself couldn’t stop looking. She wondered when the last time she was locked into an embrace of such intense desire. High school? She sighed. An older man next to her sighed too and said “There’s no use wanting that again. That kind of love is for the young.” She laughed and smiled at him. “Yes, I guess you’re right,” she agreed.

And yet, she suddenly wanted that. She suddently knew that she could have that again. Yes, she could. She stood a little straighter and lifted her chest. As she walked out, she locked eyes with an attractive stranger waiting on the steps. She purposefully stopped at a kiosk to buy a map and turned her head to look at him again. He was standing beside her, smiling. “Can I show you around town?” he asked. Yes, sometimes the universe gives you what you ask for.