Day 34 of school vacation. 50 days more until the house stays clean for a few hours of each day. I check my math. Twice. Unable to comprehend not being at the halfway mark.
I escape to the quiet room of the library. To write. The sounds of an old woman irritate me. The way she chews on her tongue while reading. And the way her phone clicks each time she taps a letter.
I clank the ice in my iced coffee. Like a downstairs tenant knocks a broom handle against the ceiling. To silence the sounds of her upstairs neighbor.
She catches me peeking out from under my red sox cap. And smiles. I reciprocate. To hide my ugly. What the hell has gotten into me.
Am I a curmudgeon? Have I been infected with old age? I did get stuck in a yogibo yesterday.
I call my mom from the parking lot. I tell her I’m frustrated with my writing. She says “do you think you should take a class?” A response suggesting my feelings of inadequacy are justified.
I blare the car stereo. Pump up the volume of Vanilla Ice. To silence the rant of the old woman with squatter’s rights to my head. My pre-arthritic fingers snap to the tempo. Rolling in my minivan, knowing the kids are on standby waiting for a drive by.
Inspired by the music, I say “fuck it all”. I’ve gotta save my sanity from the claws of the mundane. To hell with another trip to Shaws. I’m going to Trader Joe’s. Where the interesting people shop.
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