Playing for Time

An observation: When you don’t go anywhere you need far less personal crap. It bothers me a tiny bit – but only that much – that I’ve been schlepping the same little black bag around for years, barely looking at it, scarcely acknowledging its existence, and we’re not tired of each other yet. That’s unlike me, collector of kitschy stuff that follows me home because I make eye contact with it and then turns up as more stuff to place for adoption. That sort of thing is happening less and less because 1. I don’t shop, and 2. I want to haul away half of what’s already here. Sufficiency. That’s a quality word. Enough, plenty of, ample. Sounds like a warm fire and a good book…

Another one: After more than twelve years of marriage, Kim brought home a jar of Ovaltine the other day. I mean, why now, what triggered that? He doesn’t know, and I’d forgotten it existed, but it’s my new guilty (sorry, not sorry) pleasure. Hot chocolatey creamy goodness, get into my belly. I can’t believe I left you behind with my Baby Linda doll and vague aspirations of being a teacher.

Teaching what, dear?

I don’t know, maybe literature incorporated into grammar and language or vice versa.

Well, yes, that’s fairly vague…could be why it never happened…

Lost, by which I mean squandered, opportunities – how many have there been? No, don’t tell me, I can’t handle the truth – it might crush my soul to know.

And yet day after day I sit here squandering more. Letting the minutes tick by. Staring out the windows at the gray and cold. Or the sunshine – an attack of the morbs doesn’t care either way.

Buck up, little buckarette, nothing persists forever. Spring comes again. That thing that’s eating your lunch goes away or gets better. You remember that happiness is always an inside job, and you truck on.

Cheers to happy endings.