The Scream, Edvard Munch
Why do we scream at inanimate objects? (Or maybe you don’t, but I know I am not the only one.) This morning I picked up a cotton ball from my little blue glass cotton ball vase that I keep handy on my bathroom counter. Two came, I only wanted one. The second one fell on to the counter top so I picked it up and put it back in the blue vase. As I pulled my hand away it was still attached and then fell on to the counter again. It happened a third time so then I said “STAY THE FUCK IN THERE DAMMIT.” It did. It seemed to work. Then I realized if someone were watching me they would think I was psycho, or at the very least in a really shitty mood. Which I am not. (Was Edvard Munch irritated by dropping things over and over, when he painted The Scream, above?) I just find these little things disturbing. Maybe I am acting out. Probably. Possibly because between the second and third recovery of the dropped cotton ball I got a glance in the way-too-large bathroom mirror at my knees. The horror. When did they go? A slow, day by day, minute by minute, gravitational pull has completely destroyed what were once pretty nice well-defined knees. And the thighs. When did they start resting on the surface of my knees? And the skin, all liney and soft and just laying there like there is nothing else to do. Reduced expectations? Is this my punishment for not working out, walking? Well, yes. And for getting old. I am not old dammit. I am, true, in my sixth decade, but isn’t it the case that sixty is the new fifty? How come men get to keep their legs? How come LR’s legs (which are ten years older than mine) look so great? Could be that she walks and bikes all over the universe. I prefer interior intellectual pursuits, like sitting in my over-stuffed chair with a bag of m&ms and a good murder mystery. I’m going to go take a walk. Dammit.
