I was a tourist.
I was a tourist on a sheep farm in Indiana. I was a tourist in a man’s bed. I was a tourist in the world of rules and business casual and strategizing for the greater good. I was a tourist in my body, now wobbly and foreign; it was difficult to walk and think simultaneously. It was difficult to know how to defend something when every other thought was interrupted with having to pee more than I’d ever had to pee in my entire life. My daughter was a tourist in my womb.
This nonfiction piece appears in our Fall 2013 issue (Vol. 60.1).