O.K. Two nights ago there was a full moon. I thought the cycle would end, but yesterday morning, walking through my bedroom, I hit my toes on the leg of a chair that has been sitting there forever. There is plenty of room around it. To hit my toe, I had to walk right into it. I did. And I broke my toe. It is purple and points in the opposite direction that it did before I hit it. It hurts. It is swollen and ugly. As much as it hurts, though, it doesn't hurt as bad as my daily pains--knees, hips, back. It makes me realize something.
Many people must have it.
I am underwater at the factory. There is a new union contract that I thought I would be cool with since I was one of the people who instigated the union drive before they made me management. I am a proletariate. I was happy about the contract. What could go wrong.
Nothing. Except being on the wrong side of the line. It doesn't matter how much I don't care. It is nothing but a pain in my ass. It is more work. Much more work. And I. . . I am that other thing.
Jesus Christ with a popsicle. What can you do?
Today begins my short little weekend stint. I just slept ten hours. I am beat. Somehow, I have missed the summer. I didn't go anywhere. I didn't even go to the beach. Not once. Everywhere I look (in the N.Y. Times), there is nothing but summer fun.
Sorry, but I love that sort of thing. I want beautiful days and dinners on the beach. What I have is a weedy jasmine bed and dead plants in the pot garden on my patio. I have, however, been wearing seersucker pants. That, at least, is something.
No comments:
Post a Comment