Unable to sleep with the “little green machine” making its brew inside my head, (remember I’ve got a bad cold), feeling pretty miserable, I got up from bed and walked into the bathroom. I stared at my image in the mirror. An excruciating sense of ordinariness made me feel invisible. Except for those hips. Darn that vanilla ice cream — my favorite dessert. Even that was boring. Gretchen, a Norwegian and the only person plainer than I, admitted ice was her favorite flavor.
I walked back downstairs and played Zuma’s Revenge on the computer until 4 a.m. Only because it sounded like the condition I have.
I sneaked into the room where the grandkids are spending the night. The blankets were strewn in disarray. One had a chubby thigh sticky from out of the covers. He could still get away with it. When does missing a tooth here and there lose its prestige? When do slobbery kisses quit sounding inviting? They still had it going for them, with their whole lives ahead of them — to be whatever they wanted.
Funny how being sick makes you think fondly of all those days when you aren’t. With quiet except for the gentle rhythm of the rain falling outside, I thought of warm milk toast and Mom’s mustard plasters, of Vick’s VapoRub under my nose. I remembered Dad at the foot of my bed trying to make me laugh. (And he always succeeded.)
I guess nights remembering good times, friends, and family aren’t so bad. It’s just the next day that’s gonna be the death of me. (If the cold doesn’t get me first.)
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Remembering is almost as good as dreaming!