Isn’t it funny how hobbling in pain due to my torn meniscus’ in both knees while I schedule picking up my husband at work after he turns in his car, phone and other items because the company has closed their doors permanently just in time for the holiday season, I hear unfamiliar sounds in my 15 year-old car? I would get out to investigate, but my brakes aren’t working all that well.. Why risk it? Just keep driving and pray for green lights.
My car handle isn’t working properly either. I have a fear that I will soon have to crawl out through the back door. Not to great on those above mentioned knees. And exiting through the window is not an option. The automatic window is not so automatic. But I am glad I have a window in the car that prevents the rain and heat from coming in as opposed to my house, which apparently was never properly sealed to prevent that from occurring. Lining the windowsill with my bath towels helps, until I am standing in the shower trying to remember where my towel went.
To conserve resources I decided to sew one of the play costumes. I guess it didn’t help my aged body to seam rip until the wee hours of the morning. And heeding the call to paint by numbers on the high school musical presentation was the right thing to do. It’s the climbing up and down those stage steps that killed me. I don’t mind laying in ice to ease the swelling and the pain. Really, don’t mind at all. Could use a bath towel though.
Sometimes I feel like I am in that tornado in Kansas. I can see my car and house and children flying outside this quiet bubble, but I know I might just as well enjoy the moment because any minute all those things are going to either land on me or I will be pulled into the worm hole myself.
And considering all the other stress induced deadlines, commitments and issues I won’t even begin to complain about I was doing okay. Really I was. Until I read some middle-aged lady, actually she is older than middle-aged, just to be clear. She was trying to be funny about getting old. She is famous and rich and successful. How I pity her.
It was reading her description of what I discovered that very morning in the bathroom mirror san towel, that sent me over the edge tumbling down to the dark side. It doesn’t matter that her description confirms what all women eventually experience in older age. Doesn’t matter at all.
Yes, my cleavage now looks like a peach pit.
Those are my toes curling under that house. I want to kill that little dog! Welcome to oz. There’s no place like home.