Everything exhausts me. I’ve lost my zip and moxie, so I’m surrendering control and giving you my proxy. You can handle matters––earthshaking or mundane. Having to make up my mind has grown to be a pain. Today began my countdown for withdrawing from my life. I’m hiding from decisions, the news and other strife, compressing the world’s problems into a tiny ball and hiding it someplace obscure that I will not recall. I’ll binge-watch old TV shows like Dynasty and Friends from their initial episodes right up to their ends. I’m sleeping in ‘til ten o’clock, going to sleep at eight, throwing away my calendar. I need not know the date. Here are my credit cards and checkbook. Do with them what you will. Run away to the Bahamas or pay my water bill.
I’m relying on your character and inborn need to please. If you don’t pay the light bill, I guess that I’ll just freeze. Please don’t report your payments. Don’t bother me at all. Do not text or Facebook. Don’t tweet or Skype or call. From here on in my life, as planned, is going to be a breeze. No cooking or dish-washing. I’ll eat takeout Chinese for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’ll just do what I please–– I’ll rock for hours in rockers, my cat upon my knees. I’ll have no need for intercourse. I’m cancelling the phone. I’ll fill my life with pastimes that I can do alone: Sudoku and Solitaire, crosswords and jigsaw puzzles–– no lady friends, no social sites. No kisses and no nuzzles. Type two Agoraphobia is what they’ll say I’m suffering. But only you and I will know that I am simply buffering.
I’ve been without phone and internet for two days.I’m posting this at a local restaurant.
If I’m not mistaken, you are caught there in your bubble in your torn old housecoat with your legs covered in stubble. Your pupils are dilated and your eyes are blank and glassy. The air in this closed room has turned stale and dank and gassy.
I’m going to turn the light on now. You’ve been here in the dark too long, so I am taking you outside to the park.
You’ve mourned enough. It’s time that you returned to the living. It’s true years take away, but it’s also true they’re giving.
We’ll buy pistachio ice cream, feed your favorite duck and talk about how fortunate we are to have such luck
to be alive and free and here in this glorious place with ice cream in our tummies and sunlight on our face.
Go and take a shower and put on your best duds. Wipe away your dolor with water and with suds.
Blow dry your hair until it looks casual and sporty. I think that even you can survive this turning forty!!
My future is amorphous. It has no shape or plan. Up the creek without a paddle, I have no job or man. My freedom? It is ludicrous. I’m well out of the chase. All my time is leisure time. I live a slower pace. Who named this phase re-tirement? There’s nothing that is tiring. If they want to tire me out again, they’d best replace my wiring.
My memory’s in jeopardy of growing rather fuzzy. I can’t remember punch lines like “He wasn’t fuzzy, wuzzy?” Quips like “Betty Botter bought a bit of bitter butter” used to fly right off my tongue, but now they sit and flutter.
It’s true my thoughts surround me but they won’t assume an order. It is as though instead I have become a memory hoarder with stacks of memories piled up in my halls of memory where perhaps I could still find them—if I had the energy.
But as is, names aren’t stacked near where my face recall is kept, so when I meet acquaintances, I’m chillingly inept at sorting out the names to go with their familiar faces. This trying to put face with name sure puts me through my paces!
Somehow the very minute I recognize a face,
its name flies out the window, so I hasten up my pace to scurry ’round the corner before they might see me. It’s not my heart avoiding them. Just blame my memory!
The only reassurance in all this memory Hell is that lately I have noticed others scrambling as well, so perhaps it isn’t only me who’s exercising guile trying to avoid my friends in the grocery aisle.
I admit I’m taking sanctuary, waiting for the rain. I really cannot help it that I’m foolish and I’m vain. It’s lack of all humidity causing my hibernation. This dryness is my scapegoat. I am needing rain’s hydration.
Once there’s water in the air, my cavities will out, and all these ugly wrinkles are destined to fill out. I’m praying to the rain gods, though I don’t like to beg, for the wrinkles on my torso are spreading to my leg.
My hand backs are so furrowed they’re impervious to lotions. My crepey neck defies even my most expensive potions. I’m succumbing to my wrinkles. I’ve barely a smooth patch. I think I’d be the winner in a “most wrinkled” match.
In the aging Olympics, I would surely win the gold. I’ve passed from young to middle-aged and ended up at “old.” I’ve given up on vagueness and modesty and pride. I’m bluntly revealing the condition of my hide.
Yes, I’ve succumbed to wrinkles. and my only hope’s the rain. Surely with humidity, I’ll plump right up again!!!!