Where Are You At?

I have just finished from an afternoon of mending and napping. The nap is quotidian and of no import here. At least not today. I screwed up on getting medication down at the right time. This was not earth shattering but if I’d paid better attention, I wouldn’t feel the need for my own Dr. Feelgood upon awakening. (I want Aretha’s Dr. Feelgood, but he I’m not sure even he could have made all the bad stuff go bye, bye. You know, I just may not be giving him enough credit. Fool, that Dr. Feelgood is everybody’s salvation and amen. Helloooo Dr. Feelgood.) By the way, I’m fully aware that I have Dr. Feelgood in my apartment 24/7. This is not to provoke an, “Awe, how cute.” I got him. I just have to make better use of him. I don’t think he’d mind.

The mending is comforting. While you may not think that sewing holes in underwear and tee shirts one hell of a good time, it strangely provides me with a real feeling of accomplishment. Another Port Washington Union Free School District disappointment.

It was still the day where girls were required to take a year of home ec and the boys, a year of shop. For all the power tucked up in my great brain, I was lost when it came to the sewing machine and patterns for swell looking items that never looked as good as the illustration of the lovely young thing, all decked out in something you thought you we making.

I loved my sewing home ec teacher. That’s not true. I loved the idea of her. I’d go to her with a problem (which was all the time) and she’d always say, sounding like the Baleboosteh that she was even though she most certainly wasn’t Jewish, had blond bouncy hair, and a vague southern accent, “Where are you at?” (With strong emphasis on the “at. ”) She’d come to my machine that was a complete mess, she righted the ship, and I couldn’t understand a word that that honey bun said. I didn’t mind floundering too much because there was always, “Where are you at?”

This was progress. Girls no longer had to take sewing classes. (As my mother recalls, “Ten stitches to an inch, ladies!”) Now this is a skill I’d love to have. I was never going to get a sewing machine. Was I ever going to make my own clothes? Not a chance. Being able to neatly mend or hem, that’s a different story. I have the children of the Depression disease. Why throw away a perfectly fine pair of underwear if all you have to do to make them perfect, is to sew a seam? Or darn a hole? (If you don’t, the open seam takes over and strangles you in the night. Or the hole envelops you and your family, and you can never climb out. Even though, for chrissakes, it’s just a hole in my underwear. You think it would be easy. Guess again. (I think my ARDS may very well have been a warning from the Sewing Gods. “Where are you at?” I shudder at the thought)

So far, this has been a productive day. Next is working out and walking the hall. These are all very unpleasant things for me to do and hang over me every fucking day like it did my buddy Anne Boleyn. (Except it was a goddamned axe that was hanging over her head. Sometimes I wish I had that problem. Then I wouldn’t have to work out any more.) I am now waiting for the oxycodone to kick in. Then, I won’t feel quite like I’m about to go to my execution. Every fucking day, this crap hangs over my head. And I can’t make myself chill about it.

I need serious drugs for that to happen. (You all think I’m already taking serious drugs? Nah, this is just kid’s stuff.) And I’m always afraid that if I give myself the night off, one night will become two then three…I don’t trust myself. My motivation. The truth comes out. The raison d‘etre for a lifetime of “high achievement.” I’m just petrified I’ll bolt. So I mend. And darn. Takes the edge off. Like a nightcap.