There's a muscle in the shoulder I've been noticing. It appears when I hinge my arm and lift it upward, like I'm sporting water-wings or like I'm throwing an illicit elbow on the soccer field. The muscle shows itself best with modest shadow. It is a polite and subtle declaration. I flap like a chicken in the mirror to watch the muscle, and the cat doesn't mind.
There's a bone in the shoulder I've been noticing on celebrities. It sits where my muscle does--and her muscle does, presumably--but her muscle has made work of unbuilding itself from view. For the bone's sake. The bone eats shadows and gargles them before it's done with them. The red carpet loves shadows. The red carpet loves bones. The red carpet loves tired women.
There is a Chewy box outside. I heft it in a grip slightly awkward and jump it up 3 flights of stairs. My hold is somewhat awkward, I think, as I set it down beside the cat who more than happily minds this box. I tear the packaging with key-teeth and note before the flap inverts that the box is marked 49lbs. It didn't feel 49lbs. I use my shoulder muscle and chicken-wing grip to jaunt the full cat litter one-handed to its place while my cat licks the unopened food bag. The motion is easy.
Those who make velvet marks of their high-heeled toes on the red carpet and those who heft Chewy boxes up triple-decker walk-ups are mutually exclusive groups. I imagine anyway the celebrity with all the fuck-you money in the world, and all the access to gyms and personal trainers and nutritionists and fitness plans, squatting heels-flat and grip-cupped to my Chewy box. I think that shoulder bone would writhe under taut skin like my cat shoving her hopeless face against the tiny opening from inside her cat carrier. I think the muscles would strain and the bones would hush them. I think the Chewy box would never move.
I want to lift Chewy boxes for another 40 years.
