I could complain of the weather, sunlight having only been available on a limited basis lately in this meteorologically contrarian burg. But I shan’t. Wouldn’t be wise, not in terms of tempting fate and so on. On this our globally warmed planet, what’s to worry about a little fog? What’s to worry about in general, being 72 years of age and too far down the road of life to justifiably concern oneself with much of anything. But worry I do. Especially at night. Especially when Jane is off doing something else.
She had a teaching gig out of town and one that was most enjoyable and even paid. One cannot quibble with such a thing. A friend was staying here, but she is of my own age and, therefore, general debilitude. So my confidence was not necessarily high, which may account for my lack of sleep. For truth to tell, I am always waiting for the geriatric foot to drop, as it were. I expect it to drop right on my carotid artery or some other essential. And I await its ghoulish advent with something less than enthusiasm.
Things get off on the wrong nocturnal foot with the unpleasant admission that I need help getting into bed and getting myself positioned. Our friend did this. Which was okay. But really wasn’t. I don’t like having someone shift my torso around like a sack of onions. Note that I didn’t say potatoes. Because those are something I grow, and they rarely enter our house in a sack.
Onions are another matter. And it must be admitted that they are currently on my mind, forming the heart of the chicken vindaloo currently simmering in the kitchen. I do take pride in having assembled this repast. Cooking might be a slight overstatement, relying as I have on Patak Curry Base, peeled garlic cloves and so on. Nonetheless it is simmering, Jane is driving home as I write, and for once the preparation of dinner can be accurately laid at my feet.
Speaking of feet, while I digress, for some strange reason it is there that our redoubtable Nutmeg sleeps when Jane is away. In fact, the cat sleeps there whenever she damn well feels like it, except that with Jane at home I barely play second fiddle, so she sleeps on Jane. But by sheer process of elimination, with cat mommy gone overnight to teach, it was my feet or no feet. Not that I minded terribly, because I was mostly worried. And about precisely what? Oh, what surprising incapacity might rear its head in the course of the night, or the morning.
I often describe such sleeplessness as anxious. But that may not entirely be the case. Angry, might be another word. Why do I have to age prematurely? That’s what it amounts to. I didn’t sign up for this, after all. And the logical answer, that the only other mortal alternative is generally unattractive, well, that’s the logical answer. Fuck logic. I want it all. Instead, I got a bad night’s sleep. In the morning, I got up, tended to bathroom activities on my own and without mishap. The latter is everything. And at 72, and still quadriplegic after all these years, maybe it’s time to say something like…yippee.