before "It would look good," Mary Anne muses. "That's not why I want to do it," you respond, immediately regretting how pointed and harsh your voice sounds. Mary Anne has always wanted the best for you, and here you are, snapping. An uncomfortable heat starts in your cheeks and spreads down through your chest to the tips of your fingers. You wring your hands. "Sorry. I just... that's not why I want to go. I don't want it to be a thing. I want to go because it's the right thing to do." "I know, and I think that's great, T, but there's going to be so many people there... don't forget what Dr. Peters told you about self care." You hate the term self care. It feels indulgent, a caricature of an actual need. You have a pedicurist who does house calls in your phone directory. You're the last person in need of self care. You hate counting your spoons and calculating your energy stores. You woke up at ten thirty today, did a shitty approximation of yoga, took a shower, ate breakfast, and now here you are, on a couch you spent too much money on, listening to your manager tell you that you need to take better care of yourself. How many spoons is that? "It's fine. I'll be fine. I'll just stick to the outside of the crowd... and I'll wear a hat or something. Sunglasses. No one's going to be paying attention to me." Mary Anne has been with you for nearly ten years now. She's like a second mom, which is just what you need in this particular moment: two moms worrying about you. But while your real mother would sigh and ask you to reconsider in a way that would make you instantly feel guilty and resigned to spending Saturday at home playing solitaire on your phone, Mary Anne takes a moment to mull it over, then nods. "Okay. Bring a friend with you. Just in case anythi--" "I'll be fine. I'll bring a friend. Maybe I'll even bring two. Assuming I can find two people willing to act like they're friends with me." It's a lame joke, and it's obvious the hollow laugh you punctuate it with does nothing to assuage Mom #2's fears. "I'll bring a friend," you repeat, more solidly this time. "I'll be fine." during "This is incredible," Ashley grins, gently checking you with her hip in a way that still manages to send you stumbling into the nearest wall. Laughing, she takes your hand and leads you like a body guard, her ample frame easily navigating around people on the sidewalk. She walks like a queen, stopping for no one; you pick up your pace to keep up with her long strides and gratefully slip through the path she leaves in her wake. You can hear the crowd a few blocks before you start to see it, which makes the hairs on your arm stand up. It's the same electric, vaguely nauseating feeling you get before a big red carpet event, and so you focus in on your breathing - in through the nose, out through the mouth, repeat. You watch Ashley's broad steps and attempt to emulate them. You thank God for Xanax. You wish you had taken two. Ashley stops. You're here. "This is pretty incredible," you admit. A solid wall of women spreads out before you, milling around each other and chatting animatedly as they gear up for the day ahead. What normally would be instantly claustrophobia-inducing feels... well, kind of cool. Taking advantage of a moment at ease, you pull out your phone to snap some pictures, and hang back as Ashley compliments a group of girls on their signs and effortlessly falls into a conversation you're too far away to properly hear. Probably something about shoes. The weather. Trump's tiny hands. If Secretary of Small Talk were an electable position, she'd have been sworn in ages ago. You're finally starting to feel at ease when you feel something poking your back; you turn to find a girl who looks to be in her early twenties, somewhat apologetically asking if you're Talia Crane, if you'll take a picture with her. "You can keep the sunglasses on, I won't tell anyone else you're here," she says with a small grin, and then you're embarrassed because she probably thinks you're awful for even hesitating and you're saying of course, of course, and you try to contour your face into something that looks friendly but not fake. Satisfied, she thanks you and is gone quickly as she came, a speck in a sea of people. You think of yourself as a speck in a sea of people. It's oddly comforting. Hey hey! Ho ho! Donald Trump has got to go! You're fine, until you start moving. Ashley's back at your side, comfortably carrying both halves of the conversation as she tells you about the girls she just met, how they trekked down from Maine to be here today, and you silently wonder why if they came this far they didn't just go the four hours to DC, but on the other hand why didn't you go the four hours to DC, and you nod and smile and let your feet carry you with the crowd. My body, my choice! My body, my choice! It's like in a cheesy action comedy film, where the confident protagonist hanging from a cliff is told not to look down and then does anyway, only to realize exactly how fucked they are, only no one warns you not to look behind you. That's when you realize how deep you are into the crowd. That's when the people start to look more like walls. The people united will never be defeated! You keep walking, but you're underwater and on fire at the same time. There is something heavy sitting on your chest. You grapple for Ashley's hand. The grin she turns to you with quickly becomes a look of concern. "Are you alright?" she asks above the din. "I can't breathe." Hands too small, can't build a wall! To her credit, Ashley snaps into action, handing you a water bottle and using the same bold strides that brought you both her to try and navigate you outward. "Excuse me, medical situation!" she yells, and you squeeze her hand, shaking your head rapidly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Every person who turns to look at you is a new bead of sweat running down the back of your neck, a shallow breath you can't quite hold onto. You can control this. You can control your damn body. "Just need to get out," you insist. "Don't need medical anything. Just out." It's obvious that Ashley isn't in love with the idea, but she's still able to steer you toward the edge of the lineup, to push you off route as the mass turns a corner. You sink to the curb, embarrassed. "Can you hail us a taxi?" We are not going away! Welcome to your first day! after "Okay, so, maybe we can agree, not the greatest idea?" Mary Anne is not trying to be unkind, and you know it, but you still sort of want to throw your tea at her.