Thursday, January 19, 2006


I have never been in therapy. I know some people who have. Maybe I should have been too. As it is I have high hopes of total insanity for myself. I can just see myself in my twilight years. Small, hunched over with age, wisps of gray hair escaping the bun at the nape of my neck to frame my wrinkled face. I walk with faltering steps. Suddenly I stop and look up at my companion. He is a nice young man. Always dressed in white. Always polite, walking me to my room. Sometimes I suspect he doesn’t want me wandering around too much. I screw up my face, concentrating. Something I meant to do. Oh yes. I remember. My face brightens with happiness. I remembered. There are giant swallows under my bed. He will take care of them for me won’t he, I ask, anxiety starting to cloud my face again. They keep me up at night. Of course, he says reassuringly. Such a nice young man. Always dressed in white.

There is no insanity in my family. None that has been diagnosed anyway. But I wouldn’t be so quick to call them sane either.

My mother thinks the solution to aches and pains is to throw herself into increased physical labor. One day her knee was bothering her. So she hopped on a ladder and started to take down the curtains for washing. What do you think happened? She fell down and broke her leg.

My brother went to buy potatoes. Normally groceries were my mom’s department but she was busy planning a party so she sent him off with some money. He came home with a bunch of rock hard tubers at 10 cents more per lb than they normally sell for. Turns out having reached the store he politely asked the grocer whether the best potatoes were hard or soft. The grocer said hard so he carefully picked out the hardest he could find. Then, in a fit of inspiration, he decided to haggle for the best price. The grocer wanted $1.40/lb but my brother, not having completely mastered the metric system yet, mistook 40 to be the same as 40 on the time scale where 40 minutes comes after half hour. He shrewdly offered one and a half instead. Needless to say the offer was gleefully accepted.

And then there’s my dad who has these days taken to walking around the house with his glasses perched on top of his head looking for his quite unsurprisingly missing glasses. This one time my father and mother both got into the spirit of the search. I came upon them walking around in a circle in the middle of the room. "They were here a moment ago." "How strange. Nobody will believe this."

And me? I went to work wearing two different colored nylons today. I put on a skirt, my little blue sweater, slipped on a pair of black pumps over stockinged feet. Everyone seemed to really notice me today. Then around midday I looked down and realized why. I had one black and one brown leg.

I blame the furnace guy. He distracted me.

But then, I’d rather be a little crazy than have nothing to laugh about at the end of the day.


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