Terminal
Just now, I exited Osco Drug with a purchase typical of my juvenile mindset: Brachs Dessert Mints (the meltaway kind), Bazooka bubble gum and Diet Pepsi. As I exited the automatic door -- a door, might I add, that lets you get WAY too close to the actual door before opening so you're not sure if it actually WILL open or if you're going to smack your nose into it, causing you to do a weird stutter step that infuriates anyone behind you -- I swung to my right to head north back to the office and got phenomenally dizzy. Rather than sit down and wait it out, I did what thousands of other of my lineage, stubborn Germans all, have done throughout the years...I kept fucking walking.
When I was 18 and moving in to college, my newly diabetic father suffered some kind of attack. He was driving our car along the student-congested street that bordered the campus to the south when his body began to violently jerk. "DAD!" I said, "PULL THE FUCK OVER!" Dad, between jerks, looked back at me and said "I am FINE." I lept out of the still moving car and ran up to a very convenient fraternity guy who was passing out Kool-Aide to the new students. Too politely for the situation, I inquired as to the availability of said Kool-Aide and brought it back to the car, which had continued on more than half a block since my exit. I forced it upon Dad, a la "Steel Magnolias,": Drink the juice, Shelby! Dad wasn't happy with me then. Come to think of it, I believe he still brings it up on holidays; "You know, I really WAS fine, Amy."
That's how we are, my people, my family. We just keep soldiering on, come hell or high blood pressure. So, I staggered the next few blocks back to the office, weaving like a drunk after last call as my head swam and tinny rings sounded in my ears. "This is finally it," I thought. "I'm terminal." You see, my father's side of the family insists on insisting that everything is OK despite obvious clues to the contrary while my mother's family believes that they are, at any given time, about to die of an undiagnosed illness. So far, I have believed myself to be dying of leukemia, ovarian cancer, pancreatic cancer, lymphoma, an aneurism, phlebitis, diabetes, cardio myopathy, and several insidious forms of brain tumor. Yet, I haven't been to a doctor in years. I embody the best of both sides: the outward insistance that I am fine, but an inner belief that I am doomed.
This makes me think, though. What if I WAS terminally ill? What would I do then? And, more importantly, who would I marry? There are those boys, past, present and perhaps future, whom I would consider spending the rest of my life with, if the rest of my life were somewhere in the realm of 6 months to a year. The best example is the Ex Who Swears He Will Never Love Again. I would love to be married to him if I was terminal. He was attentive and thoughtful and he made me laugh really hard. I wouldn't have to worry about his irresponsibility with money, because I wouldn't CARE if he blew $500 on video games. We wouldn't have to worry about putting money away for a house or our kids' education, so why the fuck not? Also, that trait would likely play out to mean that he'd be spending $500 on dessert mints and Bazooka for me, attentively thoughtful man that he is. Yeah, he'd probably get evicted for REAL that time, but he could just live in my hospital room, holding my hand and feeding me ice chips.
I feel much better now. Much less likely to marry, anyway.
When I was 18 and moving in to college, my newly diabetic father suffered some kind of attack. He was driving our car along the student-congested street that bordered the campus to the south when his body began to violently jerk. "DAD!" I said, "PULL THE FUCK OVER!" Dad, between jerks, looked back at me and said "I am FINE." I lept out of the still moving car and ran up to a very convenient fraternity guy who was passing out Kool-Aide to the new students. Too politely for the situation, I inquired as to the availability of said Kool-Aide and brought it back to the car, which had continued on more than half a block since my exit. I forced it upon Dad, a la "Steel Magnolias,": Drink the juice, Shelby! Dad wasn't happy with me then. Come to think of it, I believe he still brings it up on holidays; "You know, I really WAS fine, Amy."
That's how we are, my people, my family. We just keep soldiering on, come hell or high blood pressure. So, I staggered the next few blocks back to the office, weaving like a drunk after last call as my head swam and tinny rings sounded in my ears. "This is finally it," I thought. "I'm terminal." You see, my father's side of the family insists on insisting that everything is OK despite obvious clues to the contrary while my mother's family believes that they are, at any given time, about to die of an undiagnosed illness. So far, I have believed myself to be dying of leukemia, ovarian cancer, pancreatic cancer, lymphoma, an aneurism, phlebitis, diabetes, cardio myopathy, and several insidious forms of brain tumor. Yet, I haven't been to a doctor in years. I embody the best of both sides: the outward insistance that I am fine, but an inner belief that I am doomed.
This makes me think, though. What if I WAS terminally ill? What would I do then? And, more importantly, who would I marry? There are those boys, past, present and perhaps future, whom I would consider spending the rest of my life with, if the rest of my life were somewhere in the realm of 6 months to a year. The best example is the Ex Who Swears He Will Never Love Again. I would love to be married to him if I was terminal. He was attentive and thoughtful and he made me laugh really hard. I wouldn't have to worry about his irresponsibility with money, because I wouldn't CARE if he blew $500 on video games. We wouldn't have to worry about putting money away for a house or our kids' education, so why the fuck not? Also, that trait would likely play out to mean that he'd be spending $500 on dessert mints and Bazooka for me, attentively thoughtful man that he is. Yeah, he'd probably get evicted for REAL that time, but he could just live in my hospital room, holding my hand and feeding me ice chips.
I feel much better now. Much less likely to marry, anyway.
posted by Unknown at 2:59 PM
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