We all have them. At least, I think we do. Cuz I’ve talked to some people about this and it seems like a thing.
Family is sick. Husband and child. Once they bedded down, I got into the shower. And, for me, that’s thinking time. So this internal narrative happened.
Upon drying my legs:
Where did that bruise come from? Oh yeah. Lucy kicked me in the shin yesterday. By the fridge. She wasn’t even mad. Just out-of-nowhere shin kick. Awesome.
Upon embarking to the bathmat from the shower:
I need lotion. All of my stuff is upstairs. I know I brought a tiny tube of Crabtree & Evelyn hand lotion in here that I could use on my whole body. Where is it? It’s not in the basket. But there’s a tampon there. There are never tampons down here. Good to know. Note to self.
Upon stomach rumblings:
I’m hungry. You’re not hungry. That’s the beginning of food poisoning. You shouldn’t have made those tamales you bought for Super Bowl. Sure, the date said 2/23, but they had chicken in them for Chrissake. What chicken lasts 3 weeks? Nuclear chicken? Your family is screwed and you’re going to have to take care of them, which means crapping on old sheets on the floor of your room and getting down the stairs for apple juice for everyone while your guts run down your legs. Nice job.
Upon looking in the unforgiving light in the bathroom mirror:
What are those bumps on your face? What happened to you? That’s not even acne. You wish you could claim hormones. Your hormones deserted you like a spurned lover. You can’t pop that. You can’t fix that. Time for the dermatologist, which you can’t afford. Welcome, bumps.
Relaxing ritual, to be sure!