No one bothers me at the grocery store. I’m invisible there, just another overweight, frumpy looking mom wandering the aisles with my cart, telling myself that 33 is still a tender age.
I’ll spend ten minutes in the can aisle, picking up tins of peas and green beans in slime even though I would never buy them, because I’m an adult now and know that Steam Fresh is the only way to go.
Picking up cans and putting them down is a perfectly acceptable way for me to spend my free time.
At home I know the dogs are pacing the kitchen and I’ll dread their barking when I open the door. I’ll have to push past them with my bags and pray that none of them fall. The last thing I need is a dog shitting from one end of the house to the other because my clumsy ass dropped the butter.
I’ll put the groceries away, empty the dishwasher, stand around the kitchen and reach for the coffee pot, pause, and then the bottle of wine.
Five o’clock on a Tuesday is the perfect time to slowly die.
It’s five o’clock somewhere, I always used to joke.
It’ll be five o’clock now.
It’ll be five o’clock whenever I damn well want it to be.
It’ll be five o’clock when the dogs are barking and the kid is whining and when the hormones are making me want to scream and cry.
It’ll be five o’clock when I check out, slide into the recliner and put up my feet.
I’m right here, honey.
I’ll let you out in a minute.
Dinner will be at 6:30.
It’ll be five o’clock when I start to lie.