“The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated” Mark Twain
Well I fell off the grid. Wandered out into the weeds, went on walkabout. Haven’t been much inclined to be on the computer, check email, send text messages, write stuff, or talk on the phone. I went off on another reading, daydreaming, introspective trip through my own private universe. What happened to February, anyway?
It’s a reasonable assumption that “news” has occurred. I know because a woman at an adjoining table in a restaurant last night announced to her companions at the top of her lungs, “did you hear that five people were shot in Ohio.” Lord spare me such charming company. No offense to Ohioans who lost their lives.
How did people survive before they had such things to scare themselves beyond the normal day-to-day goings on? Is this a just a natural development when people live relatively secure lives in middle class suburbia? No threat of imminent starvation, low chances of attack by wild animals, invasion by a foreign country is probably not in the immediate future. If I was a woman alone in Iraq I’m sure that 5 people dead in Ohio would be the farthest thing from my mind in the daily struggle of life.
Is this dropping off the face of the earth, figuratively, a normal thing? I’ve given up trying to be normal, but is this abnormal even for those who are abnormal? Mr. Husband seems to think that coming back to “reality” consists of playing computer games with him and would indicate a return to the here and now.
My grandmother used to say “never speak unless you have something to say.” Well for the last month I haven’t had anything to say. I sit there and listen to other people talk and hear “blah blah, and then he yada yada, and then she stomped off and did blah blah blah.” I know they are speaking English, I sort of understand it, but it doesn’t induce me to add to the conversations. Thoughts galore, questions out the ying yang, but nothing to put into words. I think I’ve been struggling with the that thing that happens to everyone occasionally…my own mortality.
I’ve been blessed with a healthy constitution overall. The incidence of illness in January that lasted a month took the wind out of my sails. I started thinking, so Miss Self… is this the slow decline? You’re in your 50s and it’s downhill from here. You can’t do splits anymore. You can’t stand on you head and meditate. Jogging is right out of the question. Kick boxing? Nah. I hate, hate, HATE going to the smelly, clangy, rubbery, noisy gym. Yuck!
I absolutely and fundamentally refuse to believe that doing penance in a gym is the only way to be fit. But the thought did occur to me in an anticlimatical type of way while I was lying there in bed. “You know there are people who get really sick, and then they get sicker, and then they go in the hospital, get poked and prodded. Perhaps they are subjected to further indignities, invasive procedures and then they may even…die. Maybe it’s my turn” Yikes. Enough of this, I say!
So it wasn’t my turn. But it got me to thinking. Do I really need to be at everyone’s beck and call every minute of every day? I thought I didn’t believe that and that life is too short. But some part of me must still think so because I feel guilty when I pull the plug and float free for few weeks or months. I’m going to devise some kind of hat with a visor that I can pull down with a “gone fishing” sign on the front of it. Or maybe tattoo the message on my eyelids.