So this morning, before leaving the house in a hurry with my coffee in one hand and my keys somewhere I'm pretty sure I did not leave them the night before but still somewhere fairly normal so I'm feeling quite confident about the amount of brain cells left, I was also busy formulating a cracking little thing about the pros and cons of golfing with an elderly lawyer (I'm sorry, I do believe you mean advocate, young lady) complete with such highly patronizing goodness as, "that's a nice little shot right there," in referral to my with-all-my-might-and-ability, powerful 7-iron swing, and "You don't have to hit it from the bunker, you can just lift it onto the grass. We won't tell."
But then I left the house. And drove to where I was supposed to be.
And somehow, after listening to some high quality argumentation about dress shopping, and how difficult it can be to find just the right dress for the occasion (like taking your dog to the vet), I jumped on the bee-atch wagon and decided to lash out against my own - the proud, mostly undeservingly so, tribe of trophy wives. In my mind I was combining all sorts of evils in the world with ladies who lunch, and possibly branching out all the way to the possible connections between getting one's nails done religiously, opposing the legalization of marijuana, and having voted for Bush.
But then I drove into the township.
Where there was a protest going on.
With taxis blocking the roads behind us.
Sealing us in.
Which should have made me scared, and leave well enough alone and brewing for a later date the budding hypothesis on the potential correlation between the intricateness of designs on a person's nails and how much time you actually spend thinking "REALLY?...SHE DID NOT JUST SAY THAT?!?! WHAT'S WITH THE HIGH HEELS?...REALLY?...GO AWAY SO I CAN STOP SCREAMING IN MY MIND," and wanting to generally claw off anything on your body to do with perception. You know: eyes, ears, and such. Completely hypothetically of course.
Having the police escort you out of the township means something's up. Something scary. I should have been scared.
It's just that I have a hard time being scared of something real. Something that I can see coming (which excludes epic Jaws-sharks, murderous clowns, chick lit, vampires [unless we're talking the Cullen clan in which case the gag-reflex better describes my true reaction], Godzilla-esque lizards, excess facial hair on women, and having to cook). And today, although I do realize that shooting, which is what took place a few weeks ago in the same township between the police and the protesters, could have broken out any moment, the people just looked like people. The woman you sat next to at the traffic lights not 30 minutes earlier. The guy who pumps your gas. That person who showed you your house. The people you just had over for a braai. Those kids you teach.
They were just a bunch of people. Sad and dissatisfied people. And I just couldn't be scared.
Instead, my biggest headache today constitutes of the kitchen sink being clogged up with something, and me having to deal with it. With my own too hands. with dirty, disgustingly greasy water seeping into the cupboard below the sink.
Now, having to unclog a drain horrifies me.
And makes me very, very scared.
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1 year ago