How, praytell, does a person get a sliver on her butt cheek while walking up the steps? It's not as though I was crawling up them, blindly lurching towards the second level. Not yet, at least.
And it's not like my jeans are made out of bamboo, although I understand they are making all kinds of things out of bamboo, whoever they are. Anyway, I'm pretty sure my mom jeans are made out of rubber bands or some other kind of weird, denim-colored stretchy stuff. I don't really like to think about it.
So, when I got to the bedroom, left bun a-stinging, I backed up to the closet mirror and took a gander. I had no idea how tricky it is to get a decent glance at one's backside. I'm just grateful Mark didn't walk into the room while I was hunched over, peering through my legs at my sobering reflection.
It's possible I cried myself to sleep that night--a snuffling, tiny cry, thank God.
Three months into my 56th year, I seem to be collecting these kinds of humiliating moments, each one hurling me closer to an eventual existential crisis, hilariously played out on an episode of "America's Funniest Home Videos." And these moments all have one thing in common--my body.
More than once this week, midway through a coughing attack, I peed myself just a bit.
And just this morning, I caught a glimpse of my elbow, with deep, evenly spaced lines stretched across it, like some kind of latitudinal markings on a sea-farer's map, only more depressing. I was stunned by the sight and wondered how many years it'd been since I'd last looked at my elbows and how long they'd had these horizontal crinkles on them. And then I wondered how many of those years I'd spent in short sleeves, horrifying those around me who could not avert their eyes in time.
Most mornings now, I spend the last five minutes before heading to work in the bathroom with a flashlight, inspecting my chin hairs, tweezers frantically pruning my own secret garden. And, with a cynical snort, I find myself recalling how none of my teenaged brothers could ever grown much of a decent beard, although Steve and Jack did have pretty good mustaches once, and isn't it ironic that their baby sister may end up winning that particular race?
And I almost forgot to mention Mondays--nose-hair trimming day!
Truth be told, the real reason I'm going to retire in a year is because I love the East High library too much to watch it all go to crap, simply because my body has become some sort of State Fair sideshow act and people can't bring themselves to keep watching it.
It's the right thing to do.
Plus, at this rate of decline, I'm not sure I would be able to get to school on time.
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