At Least They're Committed

AND GO . . .

Tired, washed, pressed and dressed to impress, listening to oldies on the radio and singing along badly on my drive to work.

SWITCH!

Self-quarantined, I’m mouthing the words to Michelle Branch’s “All You Wanted” and Regina Spektor’s “The Call” and BNL’s “Jane” under my breath (“Jane, desired by the people at her school and work. Jane is tired, cuz every man becomes a love-sick jerk. Jaaaaaane . . . Jaaaane”) and under the earphones while editing pages upon pages of minutes.

SWITCH!

Out and about, people have been quite nice — several ladies complimented me on my colorful attire and pledged to make their wardrobe more colorful. I got razzed by one of the guys for not having my photo on the site, another for not having to attend the upcoming event with state dignitaries (although I will, of course, forward his Bloody Mary suggestion) and I made a date to learn more photo tricks.

SWITCH!

The top is down on the ride home, but instead of soaring, wind blowing in my hair like yesterday, traffic is bullish. Fortunately Journey is playing and some Aretha and, oh yeah, Def Leppard. Yes, a middle-aged rocker embracing her roots.

SWITCH!

Traffic breaks up, Stabbing Westward comes on the metal station, “I know your life is empty and you hate to face the world alone!” I bellow, my hair whipping around me. “You’re looking for an angel, someone who can make you whole. . . I cannot save you, I can’t even save myself! So just SAVE YOURSELF!” Sadly, as I’m singing, badly, and cruising, finally, the wind shifts and begins ripping pages out of a folder in the back seat that I didn’t even know was there. “Shit.” But hey, Halestorm comes on and, “Oooooh! I miss the misery!” Now I’m a middle aged, bleach-blond rocker . . . with roots. “I miss the bad things, the way you haaate me! I hate the screaming, the way that you blame me!”

SWITCH! 

I walk quietly into the house, just in case. I peer around the corner to see if he’s asleep and instead I see his dark brown eyes peering back at me. A smile lights his face and, undoubtedly, mine and I say, “Hiiiii!” and he says “Hiiii” back and toddles toward me with his arms in the air. Soon it’s just the two of us and we get him bundled (I zip, he unzips, I rezip, he reunzips) and walk for a bit, him holding my hand, me holding his harness. Then we sit on the front porch a bit and I sing “Dream a Little Dream” and “All You Wanted” to him and he sings along in his own tune and his own language.

SWITCH!

Bugaboo and Demon Spawn are home and Bug is reading through her philosophy assignment and asking for suggestions. I’m interpreting and defining and giving her examples of what they’re philosophizing about. She has to watch a recent movie on how one’s philosophy is formed through experience, she wants the Hunger Games, we lend her Captain Phillips in case she can’t get the former because it’s pretty much what it’s all about, which is why I hated it.

SWITCH!

In my bedroom, folding laundry, sipping wine. Listening to America’s “Sister Golden Hair,” Avenged Sevenfold and Lady Gaga. My face is washed, my coat is brushed, my shoes are clean and neat. I need to head to bed. I need to be up very early to edit whatever report Bug comes up with before she heads to class at 8 a.m.

“So, what you’re saying is that you have a bit of an identity crisis?” He’s running on the treadmill, but it’s not turned on.

“I think not,” I reply. “I believe identity crises are for those who don’t seem to have one. I believe I have more identities than Inspector Clouseau.”

He stops and, pretending to have worked up a sweat, dramatically wipes his arm across his forehead. “Touche.”

I strip down and head to bed. . . . AND STOP!