In the middle of a yoga class the other day I found a piece of glitter on my foot. For a second I was confused about how it got there, but then I remembered: I made a sign for a coworker that had glitter on it and put it in my bike bag. Then next day I put my yoga mat in my bike bag and then I was here, at yoga, with glitter.

Glitter is contentious. It is a microplastic. It invades all places. I know some households that have glitter prohibitions–and rightfully so. But I can’t help it. Glitter always makes me smile. There’s something renegade about it. Once released it evades us in spite of our best efforts to wrangle it.

One year when I lived in New York City my roommates and I agreed to have glitter at our New Year’s Eve party. One roommate in particular was the glitter lobby and I of course did not need to be lobbied but a few other roommates did. The allowance of glitter was a big concession. I do not remember exactly how the glitter got to the party or when. But I remember after everyone left I sat on the floor in my black tights and my black dress and observed how the glitter had conquered all corners. It blanketed the hardwood floors, the couch cushions, even the bathroom vanity. I pressed my hand on the floor and drew up a palm of glitter. In awe of the chaos we’d sowed.

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