Dishing dirt about aging is table talk for women. Then, from an old friend, a gentle reproach.
I feel it a privilege to be here, alive.
The room is still for the tiniest moment. Sheepishly, we stamp on the fire, grousing dimmed to a low simmer. A crackle and we’re back, snapping fast ones about colleagues, kids, partners, parents. Back at my desk, privilege skirting around my head, I tell Lucy if she stops peeing on the bathroom carpet, I’ll take her to a new park tomorrow.
Bargaining with dogs doesn’t get rid of the flutter gripping my heart. I have less time.
I need to figure out if Chekhov wants me to laugh or cry. Tomorrow the Friendly Greek and I will see this.
I need to find out if the nutritionist at the physiotherapy office snuck one of the cinnamon doughnuts* I dropped off this morning. Joe the physio dude says yes, my formerly fucked up ankle is ready for snowshoes. There’s no dancing allowed here so I practiced the tip toe walk and told him he was ok to eat the doughnuts. They’re baked, not fried. Yes, this old broad can get up on her tiptoes. There’s privilege.
I need to figure out what the first page of my Blind Spot journal will be.
I need to become adept at surprising the people I live with. I have a good teacher.
I need to get a lipstick exactly the colour of these roses. Two bunches. One from my eldest, one from her father. There’s privilege.
Time isn’t my friend, mocking my splashes on the calendar. I didn’t cry when I put my youngest on a plane to New Jersey to visit a camp friend for the weekend. I walked back to my car and tried to remember when she grew up exactly. I need to look that up.
I need to practice new tricks.
I need to arm the posse with time shields when they show up tonight to dish once again. I’ve got a movie to make us laugh waiting and the couch is free of teenagers.
Screw you, time.
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