In celebrating yet another year, let's hope all things fall into place.
by Jane D.
Thirty-two. The numbers kind of jangle in my head like disbelief. I spent the birthday on the pool deck, screaming orders at the poor students who couldn't understand my wrath. One of them said that the whole thing felt very disorganized, and I couldn't help but feel the same way.
The pool people are a mess too, having scheduled things that they didn't even put on my calendar. They would call and ring, and be like, "Where are you now?" and I’d be like, “Well it's not on the schedule,” and I wanted to strangle them.
The pscyh man who leads the guinea-pig posse theorizes that we hate the things in others that we hate most about ourselves. It’s like looking in a mirror and saying I hate it, I hate that I’m discombobulated, late, disorganized, and, it got me thinking that I wished I could get rid of all of these warts.
The doctor who has taken an interest in me once again showed up at the crack of dawn to swim with me only to discover that indeed I am anything but a morning person. Once again I showed up 50 minutes late rushing in like a bat out of hell. However, I grinned and pointed out that I was five minutes earlier than last time.
I wonder if it's because I no longer take the magic pills on the weekend, giving myself a break from big pharma—and also saving a few dollars.
Later that night I took the train, returning to suburbia and the family, and celebrating yet another year. Thirty-two. Let's hope all things fall into place.