We are expecting our 4th sizable snowstorm in just over a week. So, in order to prepare I went out to look for various items which may or may not be important to my survival. I would read you my list, but I stopped making grocery lists three storms ago. I just wander around the towering shelves of the local market waif-like amongst the bright aisles of shiny objects and fresh produce. I close my eyes in the exotic fruit section and imagine myself on a beach in a country where I don’t know what anyone is saying, especially the weather reporter.
Anyway, on my way to said market, I stood on the stoop ready to lock my door when I realized there were only long johns on my bottom half reaching down to my oversized Sorel boots—it was then that a thought bubble-cartoon popped into my head of just my long underwear between me and the fishmonger. At that moment I noticed a dark blue object peeking out from a snowdrift. It was my lost gym bag from two storms ago. New thought bubble: Me at the gym. I left it in place and went inside to put on pants.
Winter in Maine is a writer’s season to be sure. New material, edits, and revision on long forgotten projects. But it’s also awards season. A time when famous people congratulate each other for being themselves. And my favorite among the praise-of-self honors, the Grammy’s, snapped me out of a recent funk. After watching Queen Bey et al strut their stuff in everything from Ming Dynasty headdresses, green satin capes and Jimmy Choos, I began to think about my long underwear episode. I had been wearing them for three days. Am I becoming one of those writers? I hate to be cliché, but If there were awards for cliché writers, I would get one for most authentically dressed. Thought bubble-cartoon: Me wearing my 1970’s pink chenille bathrobe with a pack of smokes sticking out of the pocket for my jacket flap photo.
Back to storm preparations. The last straw on my nomadic supermarket visit was when the cashier/bagger reached into one of my multi-functional cloth bags I pride myself on and pulled out a pair of underwear (the short-regular kind) as well as a stray sock I had never noticed was missing. The look I gave this man was so desperate, so pleading that he simply placed my under-items in with the bourbon and my copy of Prevention Magazine. Mercifully, any further eye contact was averted.
Last thought bubble: Me accepting an award for being myself from my igloo in Maine. I am wearing my Alaskan headdress, fur-lined Jimmy Choos and my long underwear.
What’s your thought-bubble?