I lie on my back in the dark, defeated and, seemingly, baked.
And before you believe I’ve gone misty-eyed and
confessional in my old age, we’re talking about “baked” in the traditional
sense, wherein one’s eyes are, perhaps bloodshot, maybe a bag of Doritos on the
coffee table, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on the
turntable for the 11th time, but baked in the heated,
suffocating, why-hast-though-forsaken-me sense.
I roll over, check the bedside clock.
Two o’clock.
Nothing has changed in the last three hours but the
time.
And there will be a repeat of that for the next three.
Life is hard, peoples, and don’t let anyone tell you
differently. One moment you’re just your
above-average woman, fighting evil-doers and the creeping cellulite, and the
next moment you’re that same above-average woman fighting the urge to stick
your head in the freezer whilst weeping.
And then there’s still that cellulite to fight.
I call my friend Pat after work, on my way to yoga.
“I have to tell you about hot flashes, Pat. I have to warn you.”
Pat laughs at me, as Pat is wont to do. “Oh, you don’t have to tell me, darlin’.”
“What am I going to do?” I whine. “I’m uncomfortable! I’m moody!
I have a headache! And I’m
uncomfortable!”
“You already said that.”
“And I’m repetitious, okay?” I stop at a red light, wait for the chance to
be just another Ped Xing. “ARGH!” I
groan, frightening the young man next to me.
I show him my teeth, and he takes a careful step to the left. “Remember how annoying I was a teenager?”
Pat laughs. “No,
but I believe you.”
“Well you’re not going to believe this, but I’m annoying
again.”
“Again?”
I know Pat is smiling.
She has to be. We’re
friends. “Yes,” I say, “again.” The light turns green, and the young man next
to me bolts. “Coward,” I hiss.
“Pearl,” Pat says.
“Hmmm?” A car
passes within feet of me, and I show it, too, my teeth.
“You need to calm down.”
“Calm down? CALM
DOWN? Me? Why do you hate me? Why are you being so mean?”
Pat laughs. “You
just keep that sense of humor,” she says.
“Hey, Pat,” I say.
I am smiling, and I know she knows.
“What?”
“I’m burnin’ up, baby.”
Pat laughs at me, with me. “Ain’t nobody hotter,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say, heading into the yoga studio.
“Any time,” she says.