March 2, 2010

Deterioration


My birthday is next week. I'm not saying I'm anxious about it. But I will admit that I've gotten old enough to be less than excited about my birthday. And I have a fear that I will end up being one of those grizzled women with bleach blond hair that work in the convenience store of a gas station and roll their eyes at customers when they have to stub their cigarette out and go inside to ring up a diet coke and a pack of gum. I told my friend Sam this once and he thought it was ridiculous.
Do you smoke?
No.
And you don't have blond hair.
No, but I will. . . . I will if I work at a gas station.

Probably I will be nothing like this. It is far more likely that I will end up being dumpy and wear wrinkled linen and clogs and organic cotton socks. I'm not sure what's more depressing. And there's a new twist to my aging fears. I've always loved dogs and am looking forward to having one when I am very settled and not secretly planning on running away and having an adventure in the near future. But I did some house-sitting recently and this involved taking care of a cat named Tuntses. And I really liked it. It was nice to have his company. I sat around and played the accordion and he meowed at me and sat in my accordion case and slept on my bed and ran up to greet me when I walked up to the front door at night. And on the last night that I was house-sitting I left a bar thinking that there was no one in there worth talking to and I found myself looking forward to seeing Tuntses. So there's that. I'm probably going to end up being a cat lady.

3 comments:

Tony said...

Happy 23rd birthday!

Caitlin said...

Hahaha, oh man. Can I throw something out there? I can relate to this "looking forward to hanging out with someone else's cat" situation. On new year's eve nonetheless. First of all, I hate NYE with passion because there are so many hyped up expectations about how wonderful and debaucherous the last day of the old year will be, so instead of caving into the pressure of imagined extravagance, I volunteered to stay late to countdown with a few random Winterhawks fans and families at the game. Secondly, I was house-sitting for Shola who was off having the time of her life in New York. And I was taking care of the damn cat. But after the game, I found myself smirking as I parked at the Plaid Pantry to pick up a frozen personal pan pizza and one strong beer. No matter how lame my life is, Reva the cat will still accept me. In fact, that fluffy fatass can't WAIT until I walk in that door and fill her little bowl with cat food, NYE be damned.

Rachel Wrong said...

Yeah. I feel okay about liking cats. But have you noticed the growing trend of men who love their cats? And tell stories about them? And recount all their little quirks? It weirds me out.