… but it feels like an eternity.
The hair color is schlepped on, and what to do? As I wear glasses, it is not possible to read, play a game, or watch television. As I type this, I am squinting and hoping to keep the typos to a minimum as I cannot clearly see the text wrapping across the screen before me.
And so, I muse on time management while thusly frustrated (while simultaneously thrilled with my iPhone for yet another wonderful feature: the time is in large type).
Time slips away from me. It is my mortal enemy, this tick of the timepiece toward the Final Eventuality. And yet, what is it that I do to combat this evil force of nature? How am I arming myself against its tyranny, and reassert myself as The Great Goddess of All Things Good?
These questions, and many more, arise in part as a consequence of beginning the process of cleaning my attic today. I moved the storage boxes, swept the floor, bumped my head, hammered over a nail spike that was precariously close to ensnaring the hair I am now coloring, labeled all the storage boxes (with the second best item I own: my Brother P-Touch model PT-1830 labeler), cleaned out an old filing cabinet, bumped my head again, and made piles for shredding, filing, recycling, donating and trashing.
In the process I found an old (and by old I mean ancient) mouse, a keyboard, a snugly wrapped but probably dust infested motherboard, a bunch of old lyric sheets, promo shots, and four expired credit cards.
On one of the credit cards, a photograph of myself taken in 1998. The hope, the sweetness, the energy and fragility, and the intellectual capacity of that young thing is a memory only. Whenever I look back to those Days Before a Mortgage, I see a life that was uncomplicated and immersed in charms. It is the purview of the one who grows older and wiser to become foolish now and again in fond though incorrect reminiscences.
And so, I color my hair, and plot for plastic surgery, and otherwise while away the time this winter evening.