I often hate my pajamas. You would think a person of my age and stature ought to have a closet full of perfect pajamas but it isn’t true. It’s the crotch, it’s the sleeves, it’s something riding up or twisting so I have to wake up and rearrange myself. It’s not all my pajamas, just some of them. I should just hurl them into the street but I don’t, thinking there might be a time when I can’t afford pajamas and I’ll be sorry I threw them out.
I went to a big meeting without make-up. I sat, watching people testify in front of a Common Council committee, minding my own business when my hands flew to my face with the realization that I had no make-up on. I wanted to take out my phone and flip the camera like I was taking a selfie to see how terrible I looked but I thought that excessive and self-absorbed, as if my own vanity was more important than paying attention to a public hearing about homelessness, for heaven’s sake. So I suffered in silence and then decided to wear my face like I borrowed it from a mean old lady.
I enjoy Donald Trump’s guilty face. His forlorn self wandering around the G20, pretending he’s just too cool for school is a dream come true. For those of us who knew from the jump that Trump was a lying sack of shit, this is redemption that can only get better and richer like whipped cream on top of hot fudge on top of ice cream on top of a double chocolate brownie with extra chocolate chips. And a shot.
Tomorrow, I’m going to be in a parade. The weather forecast says 100% chance of rain so I might rethink this plan although the pull is pretty strong. I’ve never been in a parade and I’m 70 so, shit, how many more chances are there going to be? It’s a Christmas parade and Street Angels, my homeless outreach comrades, will be driving our rickety bus and acting out all along the route. I can do this. I’ll wear make-up.
It takes practice to be carefree. You can’t just wake up one morning and have no cares. You know why? Because stress and worry and dread are implanted in your brain even after the external source of those things goes away, either permanently or for a good while. I realized that this morning, driving down the highway, feeling my ganglia waving around looking some trouble to latch on to. It’s like the phantom limb syndrome. No, I had to say to myself, there’s nothing out there to dread. There’s just this day to have, so have it.