This morning I reached an important point in Time Travel Research. I consider it to the be the Point of No Return. I dont’ know whether to be happy about it or to slit my wrinkled wrists.
It went like this…
The usual get out of bed at an ungodly hour and prepare the hide for a day in front of a class full of people who don’t want to be taught anything. It’s hard to drag yourself out of a nice warm bed to do that, but half drowning oneself in a shower of boiling water, usually wakes up the senses and gets one moving.
There had been no food partaken of at home except for a couple of cups of tea and then the chomping and grazing from the Tub of McShyte Avoidance Sustenance for most of the way to work in the car. As I neared McShytes I started wondering if I should actually stop and buy something to ensure I had enough in my stomach to get me through to lunchtime. I had hardly eaten anything yesterday, and last night just a very small slice of a bought pizza that HWLWM bought home and I was full. I logically thought that standing in front of a class, being stressed, doing all the other things I have to do with my job as well as teach, and not having anything in my stomach other than some grass seeds, might provoke some strange noises from my abdomen and cause embarrassment in front of the students. After my experience with Michael Jackson a few weeks ago, I didn’t want any more untoward noises coming from my pants.
I listened to my Biafran Scale of Diet Torture for advice and it registerd a #1. I didn’t feel in the slightest bit hungry and felt sorry for all starving nations, not just Biafra. Yet my brain was telling me that based on past experience, if I didn’t get something down my oesophagus and buried into my stomach, I might have noise problems before lunch.
So I swung into the drive-thru and ordered the what-once-was-usual breakfast roll and orange juice. Ordering it just didn’t give me any real pleasure, taking it from the disembodied arm that held it out of Window #2 didn’t make me want to stop and abuse the arm owner for rudeness, in fact, I was rather apathetic to the whole experience to that point.
Now I really begin to wonder if I really am sick.
I opened it up and took a bite and thought that it tasted a bit rubbery, a bit over-cooked, and actually, quite tasteless.
I chewed relentlessly down to the halfway mark on the roll and swallowed quite energetically each time. I didn’t really enjoy it at all. Was it because I just wasn’t hungry because I’m sick, or was it because my stomach has actually shrunk and can’t fit it in, or was it because I’m getting so used to eating healthy food that pouring in a large bucket of cholesterol and BBQ sauce makes me quite nauseous?
No matter what the cause, I couldn’t finish it. That is the first time in my entire life, other than during pregnancy morning sickness periods, that I haven’t been able to finish something that is not good for you.
I really couldn’t get it all down. I left half of it and soldiered on with the orange juice. I would hate to see the orchard this supposed orange juice comes from. It’s not orange juice, it’s some mixture of orange cordial, street sweepings, ice cubes and gasoline. I left half of that too, and I only had a small cup.
My boobs have shrunk even more today. I can’t find them anymore. I had a feel last night for them and I found one hiding behind a freckle while the other slipped silently around my fourth rib to keep it warm but not noticeable to the papparazzi.
I still have pubic hair.
I think I’ve reached the Point of No Return. If Time Travel has made my stomach shrink to some size that only accepts nuts and grasses, my tastebuds reject fats and oils and my bra is empty enough to hold my groceries in and my pubic hair is now visible, then possibly the rocket has unobtrusively made me diet. Dieting wasn’t on my agenda, remember? Have I dieted? No, I don’t think I have. Changing what I eat, but still stuffing my face full of food isn’t dieting, is it? No, it’s not.
But it’s having the same effect as dieting. Is that something to do with the time warp I’m apparently entering?
These and so many other questions are starting to fill my brain each day. I’m full of questions, full of answers to non existent questions and full of grass seeds.
Just thought I’d share that. I’m not sure where I’m heading with this but it’s been interesting getting it down on paper anyway.
Lying in bed this morning, having a bit of a sleep in and I felt ‘thinner’. I dont’ know what it was that made that happen but I just felt like there wasn’t as much of me in the bed. Did something drop off in the middle of the night? Did the back half of me sink into the bedsprings andget ripped from my hide while I snored the hours away? I was a little afraid to look, so I gathered my courage and did a quick feel from top to toe to see what the problem may have been. I was lying on my side and didn’t dare roll onto my back incase my arse had fallen off and I hurt my tailbone on the bedsprings.
Boobs have disintegrated recently but the flappy bits that fell off them landed on my hips so the quick wobble of them didn’t really give me any new knowledge.
Moving down a bit I was a little alarmed to feel something slightly resembling a rib. Fear took hold of me but I allayed it by remembering that I was indeed lying on my side and it was probably undigested food from last night poking out of the fat… or was it? I pinched and squeezed around the area and was rewarded with more little floppy bits, but they seemed a bit hollower than before. Gingerly I went back to the scary spot and pressed again. My God, it was a rib. I haven’t felt a rib for ages! OK…time to move further down…
I found my navel, tucked away in my pouch and it was at an obtuse angle to my body which meant that my stomach was still flopping around waiting for the hide-all undies to take it back to it’s anatomically correct position. That meant that the mid-section hadn’t disintegrated, or so I thought. I breathed a little easier.
Arsemaster was holding the sheets up forming a tent that allowed my cat, Crumpet, to sit upright and lick her crutch in the warmth of the electric blanket and in privacy, but when I went a bit further down there seemed to be less hills and valleys towards my knees. Now the fear really set in.
Maybe I’m sick. Maybe I have a disease. Maybe all those media releases about how everything you eat, breathe, think, hold or desire can kill you are actually true.
Now I was worried. I rolled onto my back and took a deep breath, dived out of bed in one sylphlike movement, ripped off my clothes and closed my eyes in front of the mirror. I had to have a game plan before I looked. I mentioned once before that it’s been a while since I have seen if I’ve got pubic hair so I decided, standing there with my eyes shut, that if I put my head down, opened my eyes and couldn’t see my pubic hair I would still be healthy.
One, two, three… oh shit! It’s there. I’ve got pubic hair!! Christ, now what do I do???!!! It’s all those bloody grass seeds I’ve been eating…they are making me sick!!! Absolute terror was in my heart as I stared at that horrendous body part. What more could go wrong? I might as well look in the mirror.
It was true. My stomach had shrunk overnight. It’s floppy, as was evidenced during the on-my-side-inspection in the bed, but it’s shrunk. And bugger me if the cellulite around my ribs isn’t slightly less obvious, hence, the damn rib poking out.
I haven’t been exercising lately so I can’t blame Skinny Bitch. I have swapped all my heavy breakfasts and snack foods for dried fruit, nuts and cow fodder, but I haven’t changed much else.
Could it be that I’m actually losing a bit of weight? Maybe I’m not sick after all, maybe this is what healthier is all about. Maybe I have stepped back a little in time. Not a lot, but a little.
I wonder…
There are some days when the world just ambles along around you for most of the day, and you get up, go to work, go home, go to bed, and just let it amble along onwards to the next day without actually taking any notice of the world at all.
Then there are some days when you get up and amble with the world and let it take you where it wants to take you without putting up any fights about it, and at the end of the day all that ambling leads you to some very special place where you stand still, smile and just know that life is showing you what it’s really all about.
That happened to me yesterday. I got up and I ambled for the day, relaxing myself as much as I could, taking a big imaginary step back from everything that was happening in the world of work, and treating it all like a science experiment that I was watching through a test tube. Nothing really bothered me, even when it was designed to. I just ambled, did what was necessary regardless of what pain and torture it caused to anyone, and then walked away from it all with the Could I Care Any Less? attitude.
When I got home I was visited by 2 of my 3 beautiful daughters and both beautiful granddaughters, Corey Flufferfly and Milly Blue Eyes Forget Me Not. That in itself was lovely but what happened when they were here really made me appreciate life.
Corey Flufferfly loves to play chasings. Milly Blue Eyes has just learnt to stand up but isn’t walking just yet. Milly certainly could be an Olympic Crawling Champion though, so when the Chasings game starts and Corey Flufferfly runs through my house, Milly is never far behind her.
Yesterday Chasings were initiated by Corey Flufferfly who instructed Nanny to run after her up my hallway and into my bedroom. I, always one to obey the law, did as I was told. I let the Flufferfly get a headstart which I know is big of me seeing as how she’s all of not-yet-two-years-old and my legs are only about 12 inches longer than hers, and off she went calling Milly to Come behind her.
When I reached the bedroom there was no sign of the Flufferfly but Milly was sitting on the floor of the bedroom laughing. I called for Corey Flufferfly but no answer. To be honest, I couldn’t find her. I looked at Milly, she looked back at me with her giant blue eyes and we both just were perplexed. I took a couple of steps out of the room and listened carefully. The next thing I heard was Corey Flufferfly saying “Meely, come, Meely Come” and I watched Milly crawl towards my built in wardrobe. The door opened slightly, in crawled Milly, and then the door shut again. Now, please understand, these little creatures are 23 months and 9 months old and shouldn’t really have worked out how to play hide and seek that well yet.
So I naturally called out to their Mums pretending that we couldn’t find them. You can’t begin to imagine how big the grins on our faces were while we waited to see them come out of the cupboard…but they didn’t. Those little buggers sat in there and kept as quiet as mice thinking that we really didn’t know where they were.
I knocked on the cupboard door and said “I wonder if they are in here”… still no response. I turned the light on in the cupboard before opening it and said “surely they wouldn’t be in the cupboard!’. Within seconds the door moved open and two beautiful, angelic, mischievious little faces poked out laughing and then shut the door again. We feigned total surprise and pretended we couldn’t find them again. This time when the door opened the Flufferfly said “Come Nanny”.
So in I went and sat behind the cupboard door with 2 little presents from heaven and I watched them peek out and cuddle each other and felt them hold me and play the greatest game on earth, and I cried.
What more could anyone ask for at the end of a working day?
Yes, I’ve had my children, but as any parent knows, no matter how much time you try to give your children there are always other things you must do and the responsibility of discipline and the giving involved in parenting is so demanding that at times, the enjoyment can fade into the background.
As a grandparent though, you have all the time to give all the love and the cuddles and the silly childish games that children need. You have no restrictions anymore. You can be totally selfish and indulge the children and yourself with every fun and happy moment you can muster.
And they give back to you your youth. You can play chasings and hidings in the cupboard and you can stop and smell the flowers and roll in the grass and they don’t care what you look like or what you are wearing or if your hair is messed up or your nails not done or if you don’t know the latest trendy outfit or if you fit the acceptable size and weight ratio that magazines demand. They love you for being their grandparent and for being there for them. It’s as unconditional as your love for them.
Can you do that if you aren’t old enough to be a grandparent?
Do I really need to travel back in time? I would miss out on this part of life…and let me tell you, THIS part of life is what it really is all about.
Driving to work this morning, chewing consistently on my grasses, grains and other cow fodder, I found myself quite content with the fact that I had foregone breakfast at home to savour the delights of bird seed and monkey food in the car. To be honest, it wasn’t as bad as it has been and I really hoed into the dried apricots and raisins as my “lollies” between the tasteless walnuts and pepitas.
On went the radio as I sat at the first of #3, 926 sets of traffic lights between home and work and who should be singing to me but Michael Jackson. He’s still out there you know, trying desperately to come back and settle down to a life of domestic bliss and one-glovedness with me. Anyway, he was singing his little heart out telling me to Blame it on the Boogie and I sung along with him, much to the amusement apparently of the fluoro vested workmen in the ute beside me. The middle finger of joy sat silently at attention inside my drivers window as I discoed and boogied and sung with Michael.
I had so much fun singing along that I shoved in my favourite Michael Jackson Oldies CD instead of listening to my usual radio programme and continued down the hill to work chewing, singing, boogie-ing, moo-ing, munching, baa-ing and moonwalking in my mind at every opportunity. It was fun and I was in fine voice.
It was fun until I hit traffic lights #1, 658 at Glenbrook. Here was I, in a stream of traffic at the stop light, Beat It on the CD, and I took the time to look into the Tub of McShyte Avoidance Sustenance rather than just feeling my way through it’s contents before shovelling into my mouth. I was digging for raisins and singing Beat It when I heard a car horn toot at me.
Yes, it tooted.
At me.
I looked up to see that the lights had changed and I hadn’t moved and the cars ahead of me were about 100 metres down the road, and the one behind me had actually Tooted me.
Well.
At that moment I revelled in the fact that I am now over 50 years of age. When you reach 50 years of age you suddenly think to yourself “I’m going to do whatever I damn well want to do and no one is going to stop me”. When you get to OVER 50 years of age and someone Toots at you, you lift your chin slightly, you take a long slow breath of meditation, and you smile… slowly, as you bring your eyebrows downwards a little.
It’s uncontrollable usually but at this time, at the moment of The Toot, you would normally raise your Middle Finger of Joy at the Toot-er, but once you are over 50 you don’t raise your finger when you smile, instead you turn your entire body to the Toot-er, you smile with your eyebrows lowered, and you raise your shoulders and both hands in a gesture of “oh goodness, is there something wrong, dear?”
Inwardly you are calm, collected and determined to make the Toot-er suffer terminal anger. When The Toot-er starts tooting again, you open your mouth in a large o-shape and raise your lowered eyebrows like “oh! now I understand!” but you keep your foot planted firmly on the brake. The next movement consists of you sucking in your lips and raising your eyebrows and then covering your mouth with one hand in an expression of “OH! Silly me!! Look! I forgot to move when you tooted!!”
By this time, the traffic is about 500 metres ahead of you.
Slowly you turn back to your music and as Beat It has finished, you allow the radio to come on, only to find it’s Freddie Mercury singing “I Want to Break Free” which is the anthem of the Gay Divorcee.
Off you go, as fast as your car will accelerate, singing with Freddie, and leaving the Toot-er far behind. Only then do you wind your window down and allow the Middle Finger of Joy free reign. There ya go Toot-er, now you really can blame it on the Toot-ee.
Now, who would want to be younger than 50? Does life get any better than that??
…now I’m going to have to try and figure out how to add a penis into my rocket because it appears I have a penis and need it enlarged according to my daily emails and comments on this blog.
I didn’t know I had one but there you go.
Someone knows I do and knows it is so small that it needs enlarging.
Well let me tell you this… there is NOTHING on my body that needs enlarging thank you very much. The ENTIRE idea of trying to turn 40 is to MINIMISE body parts, not ENLARGE them.
So you can keep your penis enlargement pills, potions and lotions and I will go blithely about my way ignoring all reference to the non-existent body part.
Really, why the hell would I want one of them? I already have a brain.
