It’s Retirement–Day 9–and while my body understands what happened, I’ve noticed a cerebral hitch in my get-along.
I can’t relax. I’m wound up tighter than a __________. You may fill in the blank. Be kind.
I’ve mentally cut people off this past week. I’m not sorry. I want them to stop talking. I’m nearly choking with something I need to do or say, of paramount importance. Something needs to get done. I check my Fitbit for the time. Don’t I have to be somewhere? I know I’m late.
I’ve chopped up my week into sections, allotted pockets of time for this, and a bit for that, but scarcely more, and I’m not giving anyone or anything my full attention. I’m frazzled and annoyed. There is a sense of impending something…
I was in a real hurry today at mom’s apartment, in Independent Living! No wonder I retrieved odd stares (more than
my 30 or 40 on any given day usual), because NO ONE HURRIES over there.
But, me? I blasted down the hall like
there were free maple bars in the dining hall after the last time I pulled the fire alarm someone from high school recognized me. I raced to her door and left even quicker. I’m sure it’s on tape, now on file at the police station.
I’d seen Grace-Allys reach for her cell as I flew by. Bitch. It had to be her. What kind of a name is that, anyway? What’s with all the hyphenating crap? Why can’t she go by Grace? Or Allys? Or better-spelled, Alice, like normal people? She wants attention. Bitch.
I gave mom a hug and sat on her couch. The edge of her couch. I couldn’t scoot my hiney all the way back because it’s harder to bolt. I didn’t want to pull a muscle. After I checked my Fitbit, I looked up and there it was. I saw the look. I noticed how sweet mom was while sending it my direction. It’s the silent, ever-patient what-the-hell-are-you-doing-but-I-love-you-anyway-because-you-are-my-child look. Oops.
I felt like running. I thought I might have ants in my pants. Or a rash. From the ants? Or the running? I just don’t know. I can’t think straight. Maybe I should apply salve.
I flew in my door after driving home like a bat out of hell, raced into
her highness’s quarters the family room. And, there she was, our Blossom, on the couch on her cat bed, swathed in lying on her homemade princess quilt cat blanket, snorting breathing peacefully next to the mostly-eaten piece of oven-roasted Parmesan chicken on her little silver platter cat food dish, blissfully lost somewhere in feline Heaven, whiskers a twitching. Kitty-kitty.
It was then I recalled that
morbidly uncomfortable hotter-than-hell August day…
I’m sure it was
hell well into the 90s. I’d been out back sweating like a trucker, daintily perspiring, trying not to slip out of my lawn chair again to keep cool when I saw the moment. I needed to get this on film. Or sensor. WhatEVER. How the hell does digital photography work anyway?
Here was our Blossom, flat on her back, her under parts fully exposed. And I’m thinking, “Wow, SHE knows how to do this.” She’s got it. Just look at her!
Then it hit me, how lovely it would be if people did this–without others getting their panties in a knot* or calling 911–to lie flat on our backs in the grocery store, at the airport, or the DMV, wherEVER–when we need a moment.
And moments we have, all of us, when life changes occur. It’s a time to take note, breathe, plan, meditate; it’s time for pampering. It’s time for several well-deserved
LADIES NIGHTS OUT!!! It’s time for wine, maple bars, and time to take it easy. It’s time for books, chats, and very long walks. It’s time for whatever I want it to be.
Because I’ve put in my time, it’s time to believe it’s my time.
*But, people do get their panties in a knot, and they do call 911 (Grace-Allys, I’m watching you).