Keys

I miss grabbing my car keys and heading off wherever I want, whenever I want. It provides some freedom, to come and go as you please, to be alone in your car. You can yell, sing loudly, whatever. There’s solitude in that.  A moving refuge.  The company car sits here every night, taunting me, “Take me for a spin!  Get out of the house. Drive around and explore Yangon.”  I’m very tempted, but I don’t have the keys for the car. Actually, I don’t have any keys. 

I also don’t have a license to drive here.  The husband just got his.

We’re fortunate to have a company driver take us where we need to go, but there are times I yearn for privacy.  I don’t always want someone knowing which days of the week I go to the supermarket and what’s inside the plastic grocery bags.   

I don’t always want to keep my mouth shut tight, polite, ever mindful of my husband’s position at work, and that I am reflection of that. “Behave,” I tell myself. “Be quiet,” I scold myself.  “Don’t make a noise when the car almost hit a pedestrian or a bus nearly hits the car. Might make the driver lose face.” 

I don’t care if I lose face. Pretty easy for me.  I wear my heart on my sleeve. No. Scratch that: heart on sleeve. I wear my heart, my thoughts, my feelings, all over my face. My face reveals me.  No mask here.  Anyone that knows me in the slightest knows this. I’m all about losing face. I don't know how NOT to lose face. I suppose that’s why the entire concept is lost on me.  

By god, when I get a hold of keys to that car, I will set-off on a loose-faced, losing-face mission.