“Why are you naked?”
That’s a good question, to be asked in elevators, restaurants, planes, and churches. NOT to be asked by your hubby when you’re standing in your own bedroom.
Another good question, to be asked when you didn’t hear what someone said, or you’re trying to get through a crowd, or when you’ve just seen Chris Pine and have followed him into the men’s bathroom to ask for his autograph and also if you can bear his children. NOT good when asked by a wife to a hubby who has now realized he’s royally screwed the hooch.
“… what I mean… goddess who I love… ageless wonder of beauty and light… is that you should have left for work 30 minutes ago, but instead your just standing in front of a full closet… naked.”
Okay that goddess and ageless wonder thing was good, so I’m going to give him a reprieve, just this once.
“Nothing fits, and I mean nothing, not my super elastic skinny jeans or my always baggy fat pants. In a last ditch effort I grabbed my yoga pants, and I swear I heard them cry out; “Namaste away from that ass”.”
After laughing at my own hilarious joke for a good two minutes, I sat my naked, yoga pant nightmare, ass down and considered how I’d come to this point. Well I know how, it started one week after my mom died.
I had just gotten some artwork that I wanted to put up on a completely blank wall in my apartment. Having no artistic vision whatsoever, I grabbed my phone and called mom. It actually took 2 rings before I realized what I had done. My mom wasn’t going to pick up that call, she was never going to pick up a call, I was never going to talk to her again. I “handled” this realization with a cake… not some cake… A cake. And it kind of went down the pastry hill from there.
But now it HAS to come to an end. It’s time to actually handle the grief and, per my therapist, writing is my answer. So here we go, time to come home to my blog, to return to the silly and fun and ridiculous.
When I get sad and want donuts, I’ll instead write about my honeymoon in Ireland and our encounter with the sheep from hell…
When I get depressed and want cookies, I’ll write about the time I accidentally drove my dad’s truck off a cliff, then back home, and he never found out…
When I get to the point where I can’t take another breath, because the pain of not having my mom in my life is so unbearable. I’ll reach for my laptop and write about the first time she and I went to Paris, and we accidentally flashed our hoo haws to a crowd of unsuspecting tourists at the Louvre…
… but that’s for another blog.