Lookie Loos

Saturday, February 16, 2019

Old Youth

It never occurred to me when I was younger that I would ever need to personally worry about pain and illness the way my grandparents did.  I used to hold my Granny's hand and ask her why there was so much loose thin skin and little brown spots.  And why was Papa always rubbing his knees and taking such a long time to stand up.  But here I am with those same uncooperative knees...and not even 40 years old yet.  Daddy died when he was 40.  Life is short and a cruel bitch.

First they said I had one thing, then another, then another, explaining why treatments were failing miserably.  The pain is unbearable.  I keep a straight face like I have always done.  My Clark Kent sees through it with his xray vision.  The stairs are difficult to navigate.  One step at a time most days.  The medicine is a compromising battle of pain relief verses cognitive function.  I chose pain.

I'm about five minutes away from 'fuck it! we're goin' live!'  But I needed my moment to reflect on my own mortality.  It appears to be a necessity when life shoves it in your face.  Thanks Obama!

Well, fuck me!  Okay what's next?  Where do I go from here?  How about career change?  We'll see how that goes.  You know they ask in my field if you are over 40.  Like, what are you trying to say ya little whipper snapper!  I loved being a waitress.  It was my favorite job by far.  But that was nearly two decades ago and my deteriorating body will not let me return to the glory days.  Stupid body.

How about a hobby?  I want to stitch lovely little tea towels with flowers and profanity, like 'how bout a nice cup of shut the fuck up.'  Adorable.  Maybe I'll paint my dreams.  I tend to be leading some rebellion into battle or out running tornadoes or being sucked out of the atmosphere into outer space.  You know, the regular type stuff.

No comments:

Post a Comment