None of This Would Have Happened If Prince Were Alive

by Carolyn Prusa

Prince, if you’re listening, shine your purple light down on me from whatever cool version of heaven you’ve found. Give me strength.

Could this be a path to assume control of a life where I’m not taking care of someone else all the time or resenting the partner who isn’t? And really, is that so bad? Sure, it’s the end of a dream. Could it also be, let’s quit while we’re ahead?

Clarence Thomas. I can’t forget the damn guinea pig. “I believe Anita Hill,” I tell him. “For your file.”

I should have told him. I didn’t because I’ve been conditioned to pretend that I can slide my children into file folders with different colored tabs in order to be taken seriously as a professional woman.

I am drowning in expectations I find impossible to meet. Patient mother. Supportive spouse. Diligent employee. Master chef. Thoughtful daughter. Punctual chauffeur. Scrupulous cleaning lady. Enthusiastic classroom volunteer. Not to leave out the most important job, according to Desmond, vivacious sex cheetah.

Before I had kids I had all these dreams that I would raise well-educated and nice-mannered humans. Now my main goal is that they avoid getting face tattoos.

“I have a theory. I’m still working on it, but I think Prince’s death was a lesson to all of us. Like we can’t be complacent that Prince is always going to be around. So we have to get our joy when we can.”

Whoever said love is all you need never needed a catalytic converter.

What I do miss, maybe: the way making art made me feel—capable, resourceful, peaceful. Without art, I feel like I can’t make anything happen. Like I can’t make something beautiful.

Lightbulb: If I bring back the corpse of the class pet, saying, I’m so sorry about that, will it change the conversation from, that’s the woman whose husband slept with Sarah Ellen to that’s the lady who killed Clarence Thomas? Don Draper said, if you don’t like what people are saying, change the conversation.

It’s irritating having an older kid catch on to things when I’m used to issuing sweeping generalizations and lies to smaller people who believe them.

I thought becoming a grown-up meant you have to give up things. Some of them you probably should: exotic animals, motorcycles, white furniture, heroin. But you don’t have to sacrifice creativity or joy. See, I wasn’t unhappy because Prince died. It was because I completely forgot how to live.