It’s really noisy in here. I have on headphones, and I can here too much noise for my liking. I’m not sure why people think they need to yell when they work in food service. I think all the restaurant clang makes the workers temporarily hard of hearing. I know it made me that way. So, I sit and listen to the Indigo Girls punctuated by loud utterances of laughter and food industry slang. I like it here. It’s real.
Tomorrow morning I will run 7 miles. I am shooting for 13-minute miles, so I plan to get up around 5 to run because it is too fucking hot otherwise. I don’t say that lightly, that it’s fucking hot. It is. This morning as I walked the dogs, the sweat puddled around my neck and in the small of my back. My shirt was drenched by the time I made it the slow, two-mile jaunt. The dogs were panting. I was panting. We relished the cool, air-conditioned house.
We are supposed to go move Grams’s stuff from Norwood to Warren Home tomorrow, too. I hope this move goes smoothly for her. It’s strange, really, how we move old people about from place to place either by force or by desire. There is much to be said for cultures who keep the old ones in their homes with them. I think it brings less fear of death and less fear of aging to see it happen right before your eyes. I have never seen anyone die. I have never seen the sloppy parts of getting old, except the time when Mrs. Rhine, our across the street neighbor, pooped on the floor when I went to visit her one time. She said, “Oh, excuse me,” and made a bee-line for the bathroom. A little poop fell out right there on the floor. It dropped in slow motion from the hem of her house dress to the floor while I sat there, a small child, not knowing what to do. “I’ll be back next week!” I shouted as I ran out the front door. I wasn’t sure what to do with the little poop staring at me, so I ran.
In fact, I think that could be a metaphor for my life. When there is a little poop staring me in the face, I want to run.