A Fond Farewell

It’s time to go home. The escape-away has been successful and I’ve actually completed a few projects. Kind of. I’m beginning to wonder if I have some adult form of ADD. I have to reward myself with a food item or crappy TV show every two hours just to get anything done. In the old days I could sit for hours and hours and work or read or write. Working now on a bed or in a chair just makes my back hurt.

And speaking of hurting, this break has slowly melted away some of my anxiety. My arms aren’t itching all the time, and I can move my head from side to side. Useful when you’re trying to drive. Before, the muscles in my neck wouldn’t allow me to turn my head.

I’ve decided that I almost like the beach. I haven’t minded the cold, rainy weather at all. I’ve enjoyed my routine of combing around barefooted in 55-degree weather. I walk in the water because it’s actually warmer than the sand. It would’ve helped to bring some sort of coat or sweater, but the “briskness” has kept me alert. And you should see my biscuits! My sea biscuits. They’re a thicker form of the sand dollar. I’ve gotten greedy about my treasures. I go scouring at least twice a day to snatch them out of the hands of dog walkers. Usually my only competition are the metal detector people.

So, I’m ready to leave and see my family. I miss watching Scooby Doo with my son and arguing with my daughter. Nobody’s missed me though. Jordan’s only called me once. My husband has called me three times. He wins the prize. Every time I phone home my various family members are visiting with my mother in rehab. They put me on speaker, but I know they don’t want to talk to me. They’re deep in conversation and preoccupied with Mom’s health and they ignore me. How cavalier. The only thing worse than me not getting attention, is me not being needed. I didn’t realize how needy I was about needing to be needed. But I must admit that I’ve appreciated just being by myself. Last night the waiter felt so sorry for me when I walked into the restaurant and said, “Just one,” that he gave me an extra nice table near the window and winked at me all night. Funny how people assume you’re kind of pathetic when you’re eating alone. One is not the loneliest number.

Anyway, with just a few hours left I’m going to really, really concentrate on writing. And I will not snack in front of the TV. Speaking of, I’ve discovered yet another show. It’s so awful and fake and ridiculous that I’ve become addicted. It’s called, Botched, and it’s about a bunch of really screwed up people who go to a pair of media hungry plastic surgeons who can fix their screwed-up screw-ups. (I’ve learned not to eat when they show the actual surgeries.) I realized when I observed these people—most of them look like they’ve been made out of clay–that it might not be such a good idea to get work done up the road. Dammit. Something to ponder on the long ride back home.

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