I tried to get my groove back. I really did. I spent twenty minutes batting a balloon around my office while trying to talk through the article. I took a walk. I took a shower. I meditated. It was gone. Whatever creative spark made me think it was a good idea was just plain dead.
When someone who shall be nameless tried to walk into my bathroom and hug me and tell me they were sorry while I was being all one with nature, I knew I needed some time to myself. I blame other people in the house for not being more vigilant about this. Being old, being a shih tzu, being old and a shih tzu are not excuses, y'all.
The thing that would make me feel better was...Popeye's Fried Chicken. No. I can't eat that. Chickens are living creatures who deserve happiness and long lives and that stuff would probably make all the Tennessee Right Wingers happy by shortening my life expectancy and I am staying alive just to spite them.
What I needed was retail therapy.
By retail therapy I don't mean going to a mall and coming out with huge bags full of stuff. No. This means digging through places like thrift stores to find the very thing that delights me at the moment and will possibly be the source of delight in the future just for being its own weird little self. There are a couple of other rules. It can't be edible, and it must be under a dollar but I can stretch it to five dollars if it's something I really want and getting it for five dollars is a great deal.
So I went out and I found the very thing and I put it in my car, In fact, I buckled it into the front passenger seat just because it seemed like the thing to do.
Then my Best Gay Boyfriend Kevin called and I went bluetooth and got into one of those zones where I'm watching the road but I also have this weird mindset that anything I do in the car is invisible to other drivers. You know, like those times when you sing along with the radio and... I know I'm not the only one who does that.
So Kevin is talking and I'm laughing and talking back and while I'm at a red light I get the feeling I'm being watched.
I was. The couple in the SUV next to me were staring with expressions that were about fifteen ticks between horror and bemusement. Let's be fair. I figured they were looking at a woman who appeared to be having a very animated conversation with herself. Then it occurred to me that they weren't thinking along those lines. I'm pretty sure they thought I was having some kind of moment with the very thing I just bought that was now sitting in the passenger seat.
copyright 2016 Jas Faulkner/Zen Dixie