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Been a bit ill since Monday. Intestinal something-or-other.
My library books arrived from Woodstock yesterday, so I spent the evening reading Holroyd’s Lytton Strachey bio, which is nowhere as good as I thought it was 40-something years ago. Too many sentences; too many words: Volume II clocks in at 650 pages! That could easily have been halved.
But Lytton still dies of stomach cancer eventually.
So naturally, I’m now convinced that I have stomach cancer.
Will I go to a doctor?
No, I will not!
Like many people who put in some time on the medical frontlines in a professional capacity, I absolutely loathe doctors.
I am practicing the farewell speech that a patient gives Neela in one of the concluding episodes of ER: “I have lived a rich, full life, and I am ready to go, and by the way – about that morphine drip? Make it double strength, willya?”
###
Else? Yesterday, I stuck pretty close to home, and did absolutely nothing, and felt guilty about it. It was supposed to rain, and it didn’t; the humidity, when I finally ventured out to water the garden, was absolutely unbearable. The marigolds are keeping the insects off all my veggies except the cucumbers, the eggplants, and the melons. Must be some some glucose differential in the leaves, yes?
I’ve been processing the latest romantic failure. The now-debunked prospective swain sent me a photo of himself yesterday posing with one of his “collaborators” – comedy gold! I am telling you – and I thought, ICK!
Ghosting is the best strategy there.
Amanda-from-Hudson, who is approximately my own age, does visualizations every morning: I deserve a relationship, and I shall have one! I am an intelligent, capable, ambitious woman who deserves success, and I shall achieve it!
Amanda-from-Hudson is a Brit, hence her reliance upon future tense auxiliaries outside the standard American repertoire.
Amanda-from-Hudson also owns a large house and all its furnishings. Presumably, there’s money in bank and stock accounts! She brings a dowry to whatever prospective romantic adventures she embarks upon. That makes her attractive both to ax murderers and to gentlemen of a certain age who want to guarantee that they’ll die in relative comfort, right?
I, on the other hand, am poor as the proverbial church mouse. No one is going to want to hook up with me for my money, and while I’m attractive for my age, on the open market of women of a “certain age”, I’m in competition for the attention of the increasingly elusive male with women who are ten years, fifteen years, younger than me. Oversupply. Under-demand.
That being the case, I should really give up looking.
Most men who are not partnered off at my age are men who don’t want to be partnered off. Or total whack jobs.
###
BB made an interesting observation the other day.
Rattling on about something, he said I was still in love with Ben.
“I don’t think it’s that,” I said, frowning thoughtfully.
“Well, no. Let me rephrase. You’re still in love with the bond you think you had with Ben –“
And that, of course, is true.
###
I’m gonna try to go out running in a few minutes. Despite the stomach cancer and the humidity.
My library books arrived from Woodstock yesterday, so I spent the evening reading Holroyd’s Lytton Strachey bio, which is nowhere as good as I thought it was 40-something years ago. Too many sentences; too many words: Volume II clocks in at 650 pages! That could easily have been halved.
But Lytton still dies of stomach cancer eventually.
So naturally, I’m now convinced that I have stomach cancer.
Will I go to a doctor?
No, I will not!
Like many people who put in some time on the medical frontlines in a professional capacity, I absolutely loathe doctors.
I am practicing the farewell speech that a patient gives Neela in one of the concluding episodes of ER: “I have lived a rich, full life, and I am ready to go, and by the way – about that morphine drip? Make it double strength, willya?”
###
Else? Yesterday, I stuck pretty close to home, and did absolutely nothing, and felt guilty about it. It was supposed to rain, and it didn’t; the humidity, when I finally ventured out to water the garden, was absolutely unbearable. The marigolds are keeping the insects off all my veggies except the cucumbers, the eggplants, and the melons. Must be some some glucose differential in the leaves, yes?
I’ve been processing the latest romantic failure. The now-debunked prospective swain sent me a photo of himself yesterday posing with one of his “collaborators” – comedy gold! I am telling you – and I thought, ICK!
Ghosting is the best strategy there.
Amanda-from-Hudson, who is approximately my own age, does visualizations every morning: I deserve a relationship, and I shall have one! I am an intelligent, capable, ambitious woman who deserves success, and I shall achieve it!
Amanda-from-Hudson is a Brit, hence her reliance upon future tense auxiliaries outside the standard American repertoire.
Amanda-from-Hudson also owns a large house and all its furnishings. Presumably, there’s money in bank and stock accounts! She brings a dowry to whatever prospective romantic adventures she embarks upon. That makes her attractive both to ax murderers and to gentlemen of a certain age who want to guarantee that they’ll die in relative comfort, right?
I, on the other hand, am poor as the proverbial church mouse. No one is going to want to hook up with me for my money, and while I’m attractive for my age, on the open market of women of a “certain age”, I’m in competition for the attention of the increasingly elusive male with women who are ten years, fifteen years, younger than me. Oversupply. Under-demand.
That being the case, I should really give up looking.
Most men who are not partnered off at my age are men who don’t want to be partnered off. Or total whack jobs.
###
BB made an interesting observation the other day.
Rattling on about something, he said I was still in love with Ben.
“I don’t think it’s that,” I said, frowning thoughtfully.
“Well, no. Let me rephrase. You’re still in love with the bond you think you had with Ben –“
And that, of course, is true.
###
I’m gonna try to go out running in a few minutes. Despite the stomach cancer and the humidity.
