Words fail when…

In Current reading, Local projects, Music, Revision on October 19, 2013 at 8:48 am

A car would be nice.

If I owned one, I could accept an invitation for a drink, and enjoy the talk about A’s new trumpet, and whether or not the new musical group needs a trombonist or a few gigs, first. When the rum-enhanced discussions about the chromatic progression in so-and-so’s hit song became too passionate, I could smile, do a round of bye-bye and get myself to bed.

A car would be a  nice-to-have.

Words fail when you can’t say anything else but “I’m tired”. Saying you’re exhausted turns it into a literary pronouncement. Tired is the only word that fits, so you say “I’m tired”. Out loud. The person to whom  you say it stops talking for a split-second, as if trying to fit this into his running commentary about that film he’s been telling you about for the past twenty minutes. The gist of what he had to say about it occurred in the first thirty seconds.

Between the moment when I spoke the words “I’m tired” out loud and the moment the first car left the party, two hours went by. One of the kids crawled under the picnic table for a snooze. I envied and resented the kid. Had I been a kid, I could have settled in there myself.  But no, as the respectable and well-liked elder member of the group,  I had to wait two extra hours while keeping my body in an upright position. Kids take advantage,  you know. This is but one illustration of this fact.

All right. I passed on rehearsal, this morning, and slept in as much as the dog would allow. By eleven, I must rise up to the various challenges with what people consider to be my habitual good humor and enthusiasm (Registered Trademarks).

When I stopped for a break yesterday, I shouldn’t have started my fifteen-minute breather with the first pages of Alice Munro’s Hateship, Frienship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage (in French translation, it’s called Un peu, beaucoup … pas du tout). I shouldn’t have done that because I felt stuck with Johanna inside Milady‘s  choosing finery for an ill-fated journey out to Saskatchewan. Only so many evocations of Canadian Tire a body can weather without getting deflated as well as bone-weary.

allez…hop, slow crawl style.


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