Tag Archives: life

An Adult Snow Day and the Power of Wishful Thinking

21 Aug

On Friday, the most magical thing happened to me.  

Magical like unicorns.  Like leprechauns and Imaginationland and psychedelically-colored puppies.

It was epic and beautiful.

I was feeling strange Friday morning.   I didn’t feel like going to work, didn’t want to spend money on coffee to make it less bearable, and didn’t really want to do anything once I got there.

Let’s be clear: I never feel like going to work.  But most days I can just flick a switch in my brain that puts me on autopilot, which lets me skyrocket through my to-do list with such speed and strength that I entirely forget to take a lunch.  That usually lasts until about 4pm, when I realize I’m a human being, not a monster, and I have feelings and hopes and dreams and I shouldn’t be confined to a desk and walls and carpet and darkness.

But then I only have an hour to go before I’m liberated and an hour is quite palatable.

Friday, however, was an anomaly.   I showed up at work in the morning already completely uninterested.   By 9am I was working at a snail pace, by 10am I was annoyed by my list of to-do’s, and by 11am I went for lunch.  When I returned at 12, I mused online with a coworker over how I wished we could all just go home.  I talked of liberty – of  freedom – of glory.

By 12:15 I was back to staring at my to-do list, completely uninspired to-do any of them.  

As time dragged on, screeching to an almost-hault just before 1pm I honestly began to wonder if I would be a better use of company money by going outside and getting ice cream.  Because quite frankly, at least then I would’ve been doing something with a measurable outcome.  At almost 1:00 on the dot, a colleague popped in my office to let me know that due to the terrible storm we had earlier that day (I wouldn’t know – I’m held captive in a windowless cave), the building was flipping to the emergency generator and would have enough power for lights only.   Without a computer, I can do nothing.  Which meant I had to go home.

I singlehandedly was responsible for the shutdown of our building through the power of wishful thinking.

Well, that and thanks to Our Lord God and Savior, who obviously saw that I was on the verge of a stroke from stress and unhappiness and decided to make it overwhelmingly obvious to me that I needed to slow down and breathe.  Deeply.

And breathe deeply I did.  Because the power to the elevators was cut and I dwell on the top floor of a very tall building.  And because I was elated.  Absolutely, truly, elated.

Perhaps when I return on Monday, I shall scribble a few key words onto a post-it note to remind me of the experience and prominently display it on my monitor for times when I feel trapped in my windowless cave. ♣

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This Is Major Jackie to Ground Control

20 Aug

Okay now, everyone calm down.

I want you all to know that I love and cherish each of your squishy, loving, concerned brains and am thankful that you care enough to check in with me and make sure I’m alive and well.

Which indeed I am.

Yesterday’s post was meant to be lighthearted.  I really thought the whole “brushing my teeth with butt cream” would have driven that home, but it didn’t.  So allow me to reiterate that all is well.  I was a bit stressed at the time I wrote yesterday’s post and it seemed like a good time to sit down and write about how my brain just hasn’t been working lately and maybe it’s a sign of senility or an oncoming stroke.  And when I think of senility and strokes, I think of old people.  And when I think of old people, I think of death.

So you can see how it was just a natural progression for me.  Butt cream toothpaste = death.  It’s very clear to me, but apparently it didn’t land for all my readers.  Which is fine – I truly do appreciate your concern over whether or not I’m struggling with depression and it’s awesome to know that if I ever need a support system ya’ll are right there.  That’s pretty cool.

But I’m good.  Not ‘I’m good but I’m not really good and I’m in denial about my situation’ but ‘I’m good like I had no idea what you all were talking about and had to read it 10 times to try to understand how that was the takeaway people got’.

So know that I’m just holed up in my apartment as usual, trying my darndest to endure the stench of Lola’s fresh gift that she has unleashed from her buttocks and into the world to share with me this morning.  Seriously, I should get that cat checked because the amount of poo that escapes her is absolutely astounding. 

Sometimes I feel like if I squeeze her, some will come out.

Allow me once again to reiterate to you all that I am well.  Thank you for your loving support.  And  a thanks to “Big Al” (http://thecvillean.wordpress.com/), who coined the lovely eulogy below. 

Here lies Jackie
Taken from us early
She was only in her 20′s
So it sounds a little squirrely.

But she insisted it was true
So it must have been a hex
But to honor her request
We must all pay our respects

She’ll blog with us no more
Which will really be a shame
We’ll just read some other blogs
But they’ll never be the same.

I hope she’ll reconsider
And stay on a little while
We sure would miss her writing
And it’s captivating style

So if she’s still around
And happens on this rhyme
I hope she’ll spurn the reaper
Cause she still has lots of time.  ♣

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My Death Is Fast Approaching

19 Aug

I think I’m going to die soon.

Listen, I’ve thought that I would die before I hit 26 since I was young.  Really.  I’ve heard lots of people think this, but I really genuinely think it might all be over soon for me.  And when it is, I want you all to publish this post as a big, fat warning. So that other people who say “you know, I really think I’m going to die young” can shut up and look at the signs.  Because here they are.

As a general observation, my brain is simply shutting down.  I think it’s just tired.   Tired of thinking, tired of learning new words and procedures and rules and things.  Tired of figuring stuff out and explaining it to other people, tired of having people figure things out and explain them to me.  It’s just done.  It’s off.  It’s actively rebelling.  Every day is a struggle against its stubbornness.  More and more often I’m doing things like putting cereal in the fridge.  Or squirting conditioner all over my loofah and washing with it.

The other day, I almost brushed my teeth with hemorrhoid cream.

Listen.  I know you won’t believe me, but it’s a great way to reduce eye puffiness.  It’s just not a good idea to keep it in your medicine cabinet.  Because you might find that when you’re about to die, your brain shuts down and you’re more prone to try to clean your teeth with butt cream.

I’ve also seriously started to rely on talking myself through situations.  When things just aren’t connecting for me, I talk myself through it.  Out loud.  I usually call myself names and say terrible things.  I’m not incredibly patient or optimistic when faced with my own moronicness.  And whereas I used to crank through it like a champ – now I have to talk aloud.  I have to walk myself through it verbally.  “Click this.  Put the paper down.  Remember your keys. Take the cereal back out of the fridge.”  Sometimes I have to just have a conversation with myself in the mirror.  “I’ll just go there, pick that up, run over there, grab that unless it closes early, and then I might be able to do such and such”.  

In these last moments of life, it’s important to do a little self-coaching.  Else, I might accomplish nothing whatsoever and my cupboards will be chock full of curdled milk.

I’ve also become completely incapable of dealing with stress.  I don’t know how I’ve done it my entire life up until now.  It’s like I’ve just completely forgotten how to let things go and relax.  Or how to handle 15 different things at once.   Now I just come home, eat things that will make me die sooner, and rock myself to sleep as my body tries very, very hard to not have a stroke.

My motor skills are almost entirely deteriorated.  My hands write and type things I don’t intend and I can’t even control them enough to delete or rewrite them correctly.  I knock things over, crack my limbs on things, and sometimes stare at an object for several seconds sending a message to my body to do something to it but nothing happens.  I  just stare.  Sometimes I’m in the middle of a conversation and I just stop.  I just completely stop.  As if someone has sucked every thought out of my brain I don’t know what I’m talking about, why I’m with the person in front of me, or what the last thing they said was.  And even if I stand there for thirty seconds, it won’t come to me.  I have to just accept defeat and walk away baffled and how failure is humanly possible on such a blatant, epic scale.

It’s time to face the facts: my time is coming to an end.  I hit the 20’s and fast-forwarded straight to senility.  It’s only a matter of time before I start involuntarily relieving myself and shouting at strangers.

Remember friends: these were the signs of a swift approaching death. ♣

My untimely demise, courtesy of http://www.sp-studio.de

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Please Don’t Make Me Listen to You

18 Aug

What is it that compels people to tell the same story twice?

I don’t mean the people who forget they’ve told you before.    I mean the people who you tell they told you before and they still keep going.  Not even a general reminder of the story – just a straight up, detailed, almost verbatim retelling.  

It’s not even the annoyance anymore.  It’s just the fact that it’s a waste of my time.

I’m finding that in my older, more crotchety days, I’m placing a strong importance on whether or not something is worth my investment of time. This is a direct result of saying yes to everything and anything and subsequently balling myself up in the fetal position and crying until I pull myself up out of the puddle of stress I leak on the floor.  If I can cut out things in my life that stress me out, annoy me, and are superfluous, then I can make more time for sleep.  And happiness.

One thing I can definitely cut for time is story retellers.

I’m thinking of disengaging them entirely.  Perhaps it’s time to have a candid conversation with these offenders.  Something along the lines of “Hey, look.  I’m at a time in my life where I’m really trying to cut the metaphorical fat.  And while you are important to me, I don’t see any sense in rehearing something you’ve already told me and I’ve made an effort to remember.  As a result, if you have no new information to pass on, perhaps we should part ways for now.”

Too cold?

Far worse than the story retellers are the joke repeaters.  I can’t stand joke repeaters.  Not the folks who tell you a joke you’ve heard before; that’s basically unavoidable, though I would argue that one shouldn’t socialize with folks who “tell jokes”.   Instead, I’m referring to people who recall what they believe to be a funny story and regardless of whether or not people laugh, proceed to run through the same exact thing all over again. Example:

They  lay out the sequence of events, drag you through them again more slowly, and then recap when it’s over.  It’s like a bad episode of Dragonball Z. 

Too nerdy?

The worst cases repeat the tagline (see above) until they squeeze a chuckle out of someone.  Let’s be clear: repeating a bad joke but making it louder and laughing more at yourself does not make it funnier.

I thought we were all clear on this.

 Anyway I’m tired of it.  It’s a senseless waste of my time, not to mention I have absolutely no plan for avoiding the incredibly awkward space where someone tells the same joke over and over that I can’t even pretend to find funny.  I have no exit plan.  All I can do is make a strangely inhuman fake smile face.  Which, on my face, doesn’t come out as a fake smile face at all.  It just kind of looks like I have to go to the bathroom.

I can think of at least five people I know who do this.  I’m sure there are more.  And if I add up how many times I will listen to things I’ve already heard and don’t care to hear again over the course of the next year, (let’s say 5 offenses in a month at 5 minutes each times 12 months in a year), that’s 5 hours.  5 hours! That’s almost an entire day of sleep.  Or learning how to knit.  Or showering more frequently.

Any of them would be nice, really.

This is just the beginning.  I’m cutting the metaphorical fat, friends.  No more wasting time with obligations.  No more enduring double storytelling and repeated taglines.

After all, I’m being held back from being an excellent knitter. ♣

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A Bad Case of the Man Hands

17 Aug

Yesterday at work someone complimented me on how “feminine” I looked.

What, exactly, does that mean?

I would have brushed it off, but that’s the second time in a few short weeks that someone has emphasized how “feminine” something makes me look.  Not pretty, attractive, lovely, soft, or other stereotypical qualities associated with my sex, but simply “feminine”.  Of or pertaining to female.  I would say it’s someone trying to avoid a sexual harassment suit while complimenting my looks, but they’ve both been women.  And older women, at that.   How am I supposed to take “Hey! You look like a girl today!”

Because I’m not taking it well.

By pointing out the times I specifically look like a female, I’m led to believe that I typically do not.  Else why draw attention to the achievement?    The first time it was mentioned, I was wearing a dress to work so I get it.  Not that it’s particularly world-stopping when I wear a dress, but rather the dresses I own are all inappropriate for work based on the super cleavage, the short hemline, or the tight waste.   On the particular day I mention, I was actually worried that I’d be scolded for bringing this dress to the workplace, but it was my birthday and I ventured I could get away with it. 

And since it was my boss who commented thus, I’d say I did.

The second incident was yesterday, when I decided to wear a blouse with flowers on it.  Don’t get me wrong: I’m not typically a blouse-with-flowers-on-it kinda gal.  But it was one of those days when everything else I owned was dirty and I could either resolve to do laundry or to wear a flower blouse.   And since I have a long, sordid history of buying entire packs of new underwear before I’ll do laundry, the flower blouse certainly won.

And subsequently led to a new complex.

It's probably my hands. A close look at a 5th grade photo of me with brother, who was born a smiley face, reveals startlingly mannish hands.

I’m not sure what’s typically unfeminine about me.  I’ve really lightened up on my tomboyish ways.  These days I’m wearing makeup,

jewelry, headbands and – yes, from time to time – the occasional flower shirt.  And since I’m doing all of these stereotypically feminine things, I’m led to believe that it’s simply me.

It’s me.  I look like a man.

I must.  Why else would two people take the time to point out that I look like a female on these days in question?  It’s because I was doing something that detracted from my mannish features.  And thank heavens I let a little femininity shine through; I wonder if the office was starting to question my gender.

Maybe they always wondered and never asked because I work in Diversity. 

Oh dear.  What if they think I’m a transexual?  Are they wondering? Do they have questions?

I don’t know how to combat this.  Perhaps I’ll add a tagline to my signature in work emails: “Female since 1986!” or how about “Hey! Sometimes I wear skirts!” or “Nope, not a tranny!”  I could also plaster my corkboard with pictures of me and my boyfriend.  I’m typically  a no-nonsense-office-decorations kind of gal, but if it will straighten out a few lingering questions in the office, I might give it a go.  Maybe I could just go up to one of the male Summer Interns one day and sexually harass him in front of the cube farm. 

I suppose that would give me troubles of an entirely different sort. ♣

 

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Of Balls and Men

16 Aug

This week, adventure propositioned me while I was at a frozen yogurt shop.  As I rounded the corner to pay, I saw a stack of flyers that directed me to my destiny: The World Pinball Championships.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday Folks.

Thanks to a recent post about my overwhelming Facebook anxiety, it appears I have some noobs in the house.  Hey: thanks for reading another post.  I’m flattered.  So allow me to explain that Lollipop Tuesdays are a special series on my blog where every week I try something completely foreign to me and blog about my humiliation and learning experience for your entertainment.  For more information on this exciting day of the week , see the top of this page and click the link that says “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?” Now: onward!

So with flyer in hand and no idea what to expect, I took a day off work and drove out to explore the wonderful world of pinball.  I pulled into the parking lot of what looked like a warehouse, with middle-aged men sporting bandannas and their best game faces hopping out of trucks and piling into the place.

I opened the door and stepped right into a nerd’s wet dream. 

It was beautiful.  Nerdtastic, if you will.  There were rows upon rows of lit up, music-making, pinball machines.  They had doubles and triples of some of the more recent games and old school machines in great condition.  And every single one was plugged in and playable. But it wasn’t enough to just gawk; I had to register and compete.  Because what’s a Lollipop Tuesday without a chance for severe humiliation?

Glorious. Simply glorious.

I don’t know what I expected.  I guess in some small way I thought my life of video game rocking would somehow pay off here and I’d be able to at least spare myself embarrassment.  But as I was standing in line to play one of the four machines that would compose my ranking score, I was approached by a tall, pleasant gentleman who asked me what my story was.  I explained that I didn’t really have one, but that I was actually there representing a blog and learning about the underbelly of the pinball world as an active participant.  

He told me he was there to be the first Canadian World Pinball Champion.

No, seriously.  He was.  Because he flew in from Vancouver and up until the scrappy Canadian playing on the machine in front of us entered the picture, the guy I was talking to was the reigning Canadian Pinball Champion.    And I’m not sure if he dug the blog idea, he wanted me to get hooked on pinball, or I was one of the only five females in the room and the only one under 40, but he was kind enough to walk me over to another gentleman and introduce me and my blog.

That gentleman just happened to be the three-time, reigning World Pinball Champion.

He seemed thoroughly unimpressed with me, but I was definitely impressed with him.  Because even if I didn’t know a shred about the world of pinball before I walked in the door, I had taken some time to play on a few machines while I was there for fun and in one corner were a row of machines that were saved as relics, with little cards on them stating who won the World Pinball Championship on it in what year and what their score was.  I was staring at a guy who had his name etched on three of them, and the most astronomical scores I’d ever seen on a game.  Ever.

So after I’d had my moment to acknowledge the company I was among, I realized I was about to really suck some pretty awful rearend in front of these people.  

Allow me to further explain my relative suckness.  On the particular day of my arrival, the Classics tournament was underway. The Classics is a competition in itself where only machines made before 1987 are used and there is no skill division – it’s just one big pool of merciless competition.   On some of these old school machines, the score is not digital, but like the odometer on a car.  And as I stood in line to play one of my four games, the gentleman in front of me rolled over the score on his machine.

Twice.

These people weren’t messing around.  There’s a $10,000 prize at stake for the newly crowned World Champion and a trophy that would stand almost as tall as the winner.  There were folks walking around with gloves on, folks in the ready position at the front of the pinball machine as if they were playing hockey and not just flicking flippers.  And most average Joes walking that refurbished warehouse floor owned pinball machines that they had in their homes. 

Where the magic happens

The two people I spoke to had over ten.

So of course I played, and of course I sucked.  In fact, on one of the machines I had the absolute lowest score out of all the people who played that day.  But on another, 100 folks went at it and my score rested safely at twentieth position. And that ain’t so bad.  I know this because The World Pinball Championships are actually pretty darn organized.  And as soon as I signed off on my score, it was uploaded into a database that is searchable by anyone who wants to go to the Pinball Association website and check out scores for a particular player, machine, or tournament.

I must admit that I went online to check out the final standings at the end of the 4-day tournament and was sad not to see my Canadian friend’s name as the reigning champion.  But after a bit of networking, I found that there’s another tournament coming up in March.  And aside from the overwhelming suck I brought with me that day, I actually had a fantastic time.

Who knows: maybe I’ll brush up on my game, throw on a pair of gloves and a bandanna, and try to give my new friends a run for their money in the Spring. ♣

For more information on the World Pinball Championships and other Professional and Amateur Pinball Association tournaments, check out www.papa.org

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My Niece Is Out to Get Me

14 Aug

My throne is being usurped.

Right this moment, my brother’s newborn baby girl  is sleeping soundly and simultaneously assuming the position as the most beloved girl in the family without even the slightest effort on her part.

My glory days are over.

I’m the youngest of three and the only one of the female construction; I’m not really used to having any youngin’s up in my territory, most especially of the xx chromosome pairing.  I have lost the two key identifiers that made me relevant in the family set up.  Now with only a theater degree and, well, a theater degree… I have absolutely nothing to offer that hasn’t already been covered by other members of the family in light of the newest additions.

I do make a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies, but it’s mom’s recipe so I’m not really necessary for its execution. And unlike my newborn niece and nephew, I can walk, use the restroom on my own, and make myself food.  But it’s only a matter of time before they’re rockin the same skill set there as well.

I have been failing to make any contributions to the family tree even though I’m a ripe age for doing so.  I have offered up no husband and thus no mini Jackies.  And while I’m perfectly happy to keep it that way for quite a while longer, I’m beginning to realize that I’m going to have to come up with some other sacrifice for the family altar in the meantime.

I’m not sure that lambs and barley will be  sufficient.

I don’t know if I could come up with those two old school requirements even if they were the key to the family gods’ satisfaction.   Barley can’t be difficult to track down in PA, but I sense a moral dilemma coming on with the sacrifice of a lamb.

And so I must develop a new, crucial skill set.  I can no longer sit complacent in my position as only reigning young female, for it is no longer my crown to wear. 

Perhaps juggling.  Yes – juggling.  I’ll try my hand at it and become the family jester.

Looks like I’ll rope in their affection with that Theater degree after all. ♣

My bright future.

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How I Almost Engulfed My Father in Merciless Hellflames

13 Aug

Last night marked the single, most epic baking disaster of my life.

It is a rare and sad occasion when I set out to produce a batch of wholesome chocolate chip cookies and instead almost produce a body count.  I was a victim of my environment, really.

Having received an early morning phone call that my sister-in-law was having contractions, my family packed up and drove to my brother’s  house for the weekend to wait on the arrival of a soon-to-be-bundle of girly joy and sunshine sparkles.  But the labor was long and slow so instead of waiting it out at the hospital, my parents and I slept over at my brother’s house and anxiously awaited the real action.  

Long and late into the evening, my sister-in-law had not yet been officially admitted and my old folks (being old folks, after all), passed out.  My mother made it a conscious choice and retired in the upstairs bedroom.  My father, however, fought the urge and failed, passing out on the couch to a rerun of “Cow and Chicken”. 

Being designated the main line of communication for my brother’s updates and having a sudden urge to prove a wonderful aunt, I went about baking up a batch of chocolate chip cookies.  Entirely out of my element, I gathered all the necessary accoutrements and began relishing in my domestic prowess.   Halfway through, I realized I forgot to make sure my brother had baking soda and resorted instead to baking powder, which Google assured me was just as good as its soda-y counterpart so long as I tripled the measurement.

Lies.

As I repeated batch after batch of terribly flat, terribly depressing excuses for cookies, I started to lose hope.  The only solace I found was in my sister-in-law’s well-equipped kitchen, bursting with Pampered Chef delights.  I remembered earlier in the day my mother had found a square, rubber nondescript and wasn’t sure where to put it when we were cleaning.  Assuming it was a pot holder of some sort, I placed it in the appropriate drawer and went about the rest of my business.   And since said rubber nondescript was in the pot holder drawer, my brain later reminded me of it and I used it to house the baking pan as the cookies cooled between batches.  

When I was on my fourth batch of tears and resentment, I made my way over to the oven to pull out the disappointing fruits of my labor.  Before opening the oven, I shot a glance over to the counter to make sure the rubber-nondescript-assumed-potholder was still there, ready for cookie landing.  

It was not.

Knowing there could be no other answer, I jumped to the oven to confirm my fears: the rubber had stuck to the bottom of the baking pan and it was now a melty, smoky mess in the heart of the oven.  With the rubber dripping everywhere, my mother sound asleep upstairs, smoke filling the house quickly, and my father passed out on the couch, I had some quick decisions to make.  Unsure of the best solution, I instantly went to wake my father for his assistance.

But it occurred to me that I wasn’t sure how to wake him in the middle of a smoke-filled room without instilling a sense of panic.  

I stood over him, playing with the phrasing, wrapping my head around the syntax, and measuring which part of the explanation should come first.  What does one say when bringing another out of deep sleep for assistance in a fire?  Figuring there was no good way to do it, I resolved to let him sleep (and perhaps die a firey death) while I went solo.

I yoinked the rack out of the oven and put it in the sink, where the maroon rubber nondescript melted into the basin, serving a grueling death for being mistaken for a worthy potholder only hours before.  With the entire living room smelling like burnt rubber and smoke billowing from the oven, I ran around the house with real potholders in my hand, fanning the smoke away from my father’s head and the smoke alarm simultaneously.

I was a penguin, flapping silently and violently in an attempt to not disturb him.

After five minutes of pure freaking out, I was a sweating, heart-racing mess and thankful to the good Lord in Heaven for sparing me the lifelong burden of murdering my family.  I cleaned the oven, tossed the cursed cookies into the trash, and put my feet up to bask in my narrow victory.

Interrupted by his overwhelming urge to take a leak, my father stirred on the couch and rose slowly.  I calmly confirmed that my sister-in-law had officially been admitted to the hospital and he smiled.  Thinking this was as good a time as ever to drop the bomb of his almost-death, I casually mentioned that I almost burned the house down because I didn’t know what to say if I tried to wake him in the middle of a smoke-filled room.

He sleepily replied: “You say ‘Dad, don’t worry – we’re okay – but the house is burning down and I need your help'” – and chuckled on his way to the bathroom.

Surprisingly lighthearted reply from a man who narrowly avoided engulfment in cookie and rubber hellfire. ♣

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Remember the Important Things

12 Aug

Two days ago I went to work at 9am and left at 9pm.

I think when someone finds that they’ve been at work for 12 hours or more in a day, they should either quit or kill themselves, so at the moment, I’m at a bit of an impasse.

Do you have any idea how much it slays me that half of my day was spend in a place I don’t like doing something I don’t enjoy?  Every time I think about it, I can feel my soul leaking out me me drop by drop.  

The real pathetic, suicide-inducing part of it is that the reason I was there so late if because I was taking off yesterday and today.  What kind of a sad existence am I living when I have to work an extra four hours in order to take off for sixteen?  Why can’t we all just agree to stop making each other miserable and collectively decide to only work eight in a day and be done with it?  

My fifteen-year-old self would murder me right now if she saw me like this: a cog, fully assimilated into the corporate machine.  

I’ve been worrying that I wouldn’t be able to relax while I’m off work and spend all the time thinking about what I’m missing out on and what exactly I was going to do with all that free time.   But just moments ago I got a text from my brother letting me know he’s on his way to the hospital with my sister-in-law, who is going into labor.   Tomorrow my nephew turns one month old and today I get a brand new niece.

I’m headed to the hospital.

 Forget work? No problem, dude. ♣

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The Burden I Carry

11 Aug

Yesterday I found a banana in my purse.

I know I put it in here some time ago, I just don’t exactly know how long ago that was. 

I have a pretty big purse.  I’ve never wanted to be the kind of person who has a big purse – one that makes my shoulder ache if I’m on foot for any extended period of time. I never wanted to be someone who loses things when they’re actually right on my person all day long – or to find long lost, surprise bananas.

But I need things.  Lots of things.  Ibuprofen, pads, tampons – those are just gimmes because I was born with a woman.  I can’t help those.  They’re necessities until I get out the tail end of menopause, which I’m will come with its own set of supplements and a miniature battery-operated fan.  Then there are cards, keys, necessities of all shapes and sizes.  Allergy pills and asthma medicine to tend to my nerdier qualities.  A mini-umbrella just in case I’m caught in a pickle, a water bottle for health, body spray to freshen when needed.  A journal for sudden, life-haulting blog ideas, a pen, paper, and a paper or two with a list, a to-do, a phone number: whichever scrap of information I choose to carry at my side instead of in my brain.

Apparently, I also pack snacks.  That’s relatively new.

I should probably cut down.  I mean, on a typical day I only access the mini-purse inside and nothing else.   Oh yeah: I forgot to mention there’s a whole other purse in there too.  That’s where I keep the monies.  I should try to lose it all but the clutch, but I know the moment I do I’ll need something from that gloriously large saddle bag. 

Like a banana for instance.

A banana can’t fit in a clutch.  And I’m not about to downgrade to plantains.   What would I do in a sudden bout of cramps or starvation?   Perhaps that’s a chance I’ll have to take.  After all, I can look forward to hauling around a huge basket of belongings when I have kids with wounds to soothe and butts to wipe and band-aids to waste on invisible cuts. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take the plunge. 

…I hope I don’t get hungry. ♣

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