There is nothing to do with a bad haircut but suffer through it. I didn't end up with anything I imagined. Selavy. Life doesn't love me anymore.
There are worse things in life than bad haircuts. I know. No, I mean I KNOW. Every day I KNOW.
But mostly at night.
I keep putting one foot in front of the other. That's what people do. But my stride is getting shorter all the time, and really, now, one foot goes halfway in front of the other. It's a shuffle. It's hard. I don't feel I'm getting anywhere anymore.
Last night, my friends went out, first to Octoberfest, then to an outdoor jazz festival in a nearby village's downtown. The night was pretty. I'll bet they had fun. I've been before. It is a lovely time of year. People are excited, happy. . . pretty. There is electric in the air.
I made dinner for my mother and had the cocktails I keep saying I will avoid. We watched t.v. My mother went to bed around nine. I feel asleep on the couch. I don't remember if the television was on.
In bed, it was a different story. I don't sleep anymore. At home, I didn't worry so much about that. I had a rule. If I wasn't sleeping, I could get up after four a.m. I knew I could take a nap later on. It wasn't so stressful. But if I get up at four here, I have a fuck all time until my mother gets up and I prep her meds and fix her breakfast. So I force myself to stay in bed and nightmare think. That's the only way I know how to describe it. I try to stay in bed until six, but it is torturous. I have a few hours away during the day, and I don't want to spend the time napping. And so. . . perpetual fatigue.
And now a bad haircut, too.
I will miss more of the autumn. I will miss the season. We are already scheduled to eat with my mother's across the street neighbors for Thanksgiving. Christmas will be a desultory thing.
But I needn't look any further than the day. One foot in front of the other.
"Hey, at least you are above ground!"
People say that to me all the time. Are they serious? Is that really enough for them?
"You're lucky to still have your mom."
You can have her for awhile, I think but don't say. O.K. I do say it sometimes. How about every other week? Or weekends? Just weekends.
Next week we have a bunch of appointments, some days two, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. I will get up, prep meds, make breakfast, clean up, get my mother to her first appointment, bring her home, make lunch, clean up, sit for a bit, then take her to the next appointment, bring her home, go to the grocery store, come back and fix dinner, clean up. . . oh. . . and prep her four a day meds.
And drink. And watch t.v.
"Just think of all the people who have it worse,"
I do. I do that a lot. And it makes me think about what a shit show most people's existence is. It doesn't make me feel any better. It makes me feel worse. People, by and large, in the main, across the globe, throughout the ages, are just paramecium looking for something to eat and a place to shit.
Except for everyone I know. They were out last night having fun. They were laughing and eating and drinking and feeling the cool night breeze, flirting and later making love. They are waking this morning to brioche with jam and champagne. Music is playing. They are wearing silk pajamas, her the top, him the bottom. Why that is true is a cosmic mystery, but I know it is true. They will shower and dress and later go to lunch and eat lobster or pressed duck sandwiches, and there will be more flirting and more laughing, and everyone will tell tales of what went on the night before.
"What? She was with him?! Oh, Christ. Is it possible?"
"I saw it with my own eyes. Right?"
Don't try to talk me out of this. I used to live life, too. It was fun. It was exciting. I couldn't wait for the very next chapter. There were trips to the mountains, trips to the sea. I have photographs. I know.
"Well, at least you have your memories."
I am one of the paramecium now. The only difference between a paramecium and me is fear. Paramecium don't experience fear. Maybe they do. They will move away from danger. That is a fact. Trust me. I have a degree in zoology. It is old. It is ancient. Maybe things have changed. Science has advanced faster than anything else we know. Nobody can keep up.
I have to fix my mother's breakfast now. All I have to do is change my attitude. Change my language. Everything is linguistic. I look forward to preparing a lovely meal for my mother. I will do it with artistry and care. It will be a beautiful experience, one I will treasure. . . .
"Did you put red pepper in this? Wow. That's too hot. I'll just have some toast."
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