My mother has this 6 year-old enormous blue-gray cat she named Shiloh (after her favorite Neil Diamond song, not the bloody Civil War battle ground or Angelina Jolie’s supposedly perfect offspring). When she first got this cat, she got him a harness so she could take him out for walks. (I think she secretly really wanted a dog, but lived in an apartment. Since then, she has gotten the dog). When she first put it on him, he would lay absolutely still for five or so minutes and then burst into a frenzy of movement and writhing in an attempt to get the thing off. Then he’d return to absolute stillness — apparently trying to trick the thing into thinking that he wasn’t paying attention to it so that he could sneak up and surprise it. Or perhaps hoping that if he didn’t move at all, it would forget about him and just go away. I wasn’t around for these gymnastics, but the image has really stuck with me.
It feels very apt today, especially. I’ve been in bed all day lying in utter stillness hoping that the nausea won’t find me. After a good couple of days, it hit yesterday afternoon with a vengeance. Of course, after running errands all morning, having lunch with Spousal Unit and talking to an old friend in the early afternoon, I had PLANNED on working yesterday afternoon and evening. So much for that. Instead, I went to bed. And stayed there.
I think I could deal with this whole thing much better if I knew that at 3:48 p.m. every Tuesday I would get sick. Nice and predictable, like. And, yes, I know that this is a good lesson for parenting — nothing that your kid does is predictable, my life is never going to be predictable from now on — I know — I can hear all the well-meaning and all-knowing advice in my head.
But right now, I just want to not move and hope that that nausea harness won’t see me and will go away. Without a frantic, frenzied gymnastic fight.
Overheard Tidbit from the Mall:
Woman on Cell Phone: “I don’t know. I guess I just live my life like a French Film.”
Don’t we all, sister. Don’t we all.