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February 19, 2024

Tango 8

By Beate Sigriddaughter

Chapter 8: From Robin's Notebook

How did it get to be Monday again already? How did it get to be March again already? How did I ever manage to live this long and not feel as old as I am? How did I ever get to be sixty years old? How?

Yes, this is the year I have finally started using night cream on my face. I kept meaning to do so -- what, four, five years ago? -- but then never got around to it. Finally I got into the habit. Or so I hope. In preparation for who knows what. Whatever it is, it will be good. This much I know. This much I believe.

Unfortunately I never remember to take the time to study myself carefully enough to see if my wrinkles are reduced as advertised after the promised four weeks. Besides, how do you measure sixty percent of a wrinkle?

Anyway, my favorite thing these days is having Kevin's arm draped over my ribcage at night when I fall asleep. It makes me feel sheltered. We're lucky that neither one of us fidgets much in the night, so it is actually possible for him to hold me for long stretches of sleeping and dreaming.

I only weighed one hundred and five pounds when I got up this morning. Naked of course. I am so pleased with that. Wouldn't even be allowed to donate blood anymore. Too small -- the thing every woman absurdly dreams of. Being tiny.

I was born in winter, but I love spring. And I love Kevin's season, summer, too. I can't wait.

I still want to be enlightened enough to live with undiluted joy. I'm not quite there yet. But I still also always want to fall just a fraction short of total enlightenment. It's my insurance that I'll get to stick around some more before the gods consider me all done.

I really do want to wake up with pure joy every morning with a loud "Bring it on! Let's go!" in my spirit. "Yes!" on my lips. And then by the time my eyes open, some of the usual dread creeps in. Am I doing what I am supposed to do with my life? Is it all a waste?

I have to . . . forgot what I was going to write, staring into space, the beautiful trees outside putting on their first pale green patina for spring.

It isn't as though life forces me to do what I do, although I tell myself that it does. If it weren't for Kevin this, Kevin that. If it weren't for the weather forecast. If it weren't for the dishes needing to be done. Blah, blah, blah. I have so many excuses for not being myself.

But nobody -- nobody! -- can provide me with a map as to how exactly to be myself. And it looks like I didn't come equipped with a map when I was born.

Must pick up my dragon pants from the dry cleaner today so I can wear them to the milonga tomorrow. If I can't, then tomorrow after work. Today would be better, though. Anxiety prevention. Ducks lined up early.

I do feel new energy. Life is treating me well.

I feel so much tenderness for Kevin. He brought me a red rose yesterday. The kind I like most. No greenery, no baby's breath. Just a blessed rose. I didn't even prompt him. Not that I can remember anyway. I am so happy. Something is in the air. He really does love me. I can feel it. All will be well.

I wish I could explain to him how much that means to me. Apparently I can't. When I try, I sound sappy to myself and he looks confused, almost as though he's under attack. Like the time I praised him for doing something -- I can't even remember what -- and he blew up in the car in that more or less reasonable way he has of blowing up. He was driving at the time, so I backed off. Later he told me it was because he felt he should have done whatever I was praising him for all along, but he hadn't. So instead of feeling my praise, he felt it as an attack for prior negligence. So much for common sense magazine advice -- for that's where I had first read you're supposed to praise your guy for stuff you'd like him to do again.

Kevin, of course, is not your average guy. "I'm not like other men," he once said. That makes me smile now. And so it goes.

This will be the best spring of my life.

Might take Wendy out for coffee after lunch, or during the afternoon break. Oh, but the dragon pants. So, maybe Wendy on Wednesday. I love the sound of that: Wendy on Wednesday.

This will be a splendid day. I insist. Good morning, world.

Article © Beate Sigriddaughter. All rights reserved.
Published on 2020-09-21
Image(s) are public domain.
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