November 19, 2010
Riddle:
A sick, conjested, sneezing, coughing, feverish woman, a sick, conjested, sneezing, coughing, feverish man, a lively and vibrant 21 year old woman and a rosy-cheeked and lovely 16 year old adolescent are in the mall returning a coat. The 16 year old adolescent then goes to work. What do the other 3 people do?
Well, if the woman and the man were normal, they would haul their sick and miserable selves out of the mall, aided by their caring, loving and mature 21 year old woman.
But, since neither Stephen or I can be categorized as anywhere near the right side of normal, and Mer, while she can be caring, loving and mature sometimes, wasn't at this particular moment, we did not haul our sick and miserable selves out of the mall.
How come?
Because Meredyth works her first shift at the theater on Saturday, and she was in need of all black sneakers and a pair of black pants.
And because she was Mer, she was, as usual, under funded.
Actually no funded is closer to reality.
Therefore, instead of going home and crawling into my warm, inviting, please-come-and-rest-so-you-can-get-well-bed, we spent the following hour and a half wandering throughout the mall in search of the most elusive of species.
The all black, non-leather soled sneaker.
You would think at such a time in our history, a time when sneakers of every size, shape, colour, price exist, finding an all black non-leather soled sneaker would be a simple task.
It would have if you were a male wearing size nine shoes.
We hit every shoe store in the mall, save three.
Aldo, because they just don't seem to carry anything for a female foot that resembles a sneaker.
Spring, because they're just a far less expensive and "cheaper" version of Aldo.
Naturalizer, because Mer made it clear that she wasn't buying anything from a store that caters to people 80 and above. (Yes. I know. She's a brat).
But every other shoe store was graced by our Mer dragging her sick parents in to look for the rare and evasive black, non-leather soled sneakers.
Finally, an employee at an overpriced store suggested that we go to West 49, because they carry junior sizes.
In men's shoes.
Mer does not have big feet.
Not at all.
My careful analysis of women's sneakers from my trek through the mall last evening had lead to me conclude that an all black, non-leather soled sneaker has not yet been made for women.
But everything else has.
Neon colours, checked patterns, gold designs, black with all white soles and laces, black with neon coloured soles and laces, pinks, purples, greens, yellows. . . .
But no all black, non-leather soled sneakers.
At West 49, we were finally able to procure a pair of suitable sneakers.
Almost all black.
Definitely rubber soles.
Almost reasonably priced.
Just when I thought I was hearing strains of the Hallellujah chorus slipping through the raucous and obnoxious music piping into the mall, leading me to believe that we were walking towards the car which would then take me home, which would then lead to me putting on pjs and crawling my sick and miserable self into bed, I heard the words that made me contemplate throwing myself onto the floor of the newly renovated Food Court and having an all out, fist pounding, feet kicking, as much as my sore throat would allow screaming temper tantrum.
"Now I just need to get black pants."
I hate shopping with Meredyth.
She hates shopping with me.
The only reason we had made it this far was because I was simply too sick to put up any resistance.
And Stephen was with us.
I looked at her and said, "One store. I will go into one more store that happens to be on the way to the car. If you can't get black pants there, I am sure you have a pair of black pants, in fact I KNOW you have a pair of black pants that will suffice until I am in possession of all my faculties enough to manage another shopping foray with you. One. Store."
Thankfully, my monotone expression managed to permeate the membrane of shopping selfishness that surrounded Meredyth's brain, because she was able to find a reasonably priced pair of black pants at American Eagle.
I know, I know, overpriced American Eagle with the heavily scented air and equally heavily scented clothes.
But when you're operating at almost no capacity, you take whatever will get you into the car and home the fastest, with the least amount of resistance.
Cause Mer is all about resistance.
And I am all about paying Mum back, so I have the receipts for her two purchases.
Eventually, I will get my money back.
Eventually, we managed to get home.
And the first thing I did was to walk upstairs in search of pjs.
For reasons unknown to me at this time, I seem to be bereft of pajamas.
At least warm, winter ones.
My favourite zebra striped pjs and red long sleeve shirt were in the laundry.
I actually debated about whether or not I should burn them, given I lived in them for three, germ filled, fevered, coughing, sneezing days.
But, nostalgia and common sense combined to prevent such a rash move, and I put them in the laundry.
Laundry I will eventually get to.
This left me in a quandry.
What the hell am I going to wear to bed? until its time to go to bed.
Nothing came immediately to mind, which left me no choice but to scavenge through my closet in an attempt to locate something suitable and non-offensive to wear to bed.
I started in the pile of stuff located on the shelf in my closet.
The pile-of-things-that-still-have-some-wear-left-in-them-but-should-never-be-worn-outside-the-house.
Remember, I hate throwing anything away.
So this was a fairly substantial pile.
Standing on my tip toes, because the shelf is taller than I am, digging through the pile on the shelf I managed to locate bottoms that were neither holey or torn.
Just not necessarily the most attractive when called to cover my abundant ghetto bootie.
Gray tights.
Leggings is probably closer.
I paired my gray leggings with the top of my zebra striped pjs, threw on some wool socks to keep my feet warm, slipped into my slippers and went downstairs for supper.
As soon as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, providing Meredyth and Keith with a profile view of my evening attire, the chiding began.
Actually out and out laughter.
Even a facebook comment from one rotten, ungrateful child to the other rotten, ungrateful child.
I ignored them.
Had my chili.
Went to bed.
Because my bed doesn't give a damn what I wear when I am in.
Just that I wear something.
Because somethings, me especially, shouldn't even be contemplated naked.
It was a long day.
Two classes, an unplanned and painful trip to the mall, an errand downtown to pick up more pages of the never-ending-proofreading-of-my-manuscript-project, and home.
I am spending the next three days, until my presence in front of a classroom full of students is again required, sleeping.
To some extent, this saddens me.
No volunteering at the 10,000 Villages Sale tomorrow at Wilmot United Church.
No serving at the Community Kitchen this evening, because I can only imagine how excited people would be to see me serving them food, while sounding like I have tampons shoved up my nose, fighting, unsuccessfully to control he uncontrollable coughing and sneezing all over their food.
Cause sneeze guards are on the outside only.
Perhaps missing my usual Saturday evening fare of baked beans and homemade bread at the nursing home.
Nothing keeps you out of a nursing home faster than being sick.
Nurses transform instantly into bouncers who escort your sick and tired body out of range of the elderly residents.
In other words, I am in for a boring, uneventful weekend.
Well, boring.
Uneventful isn't a part of the vocabulary around here.
Title Lyric: Burning Down My Sanity by Moth
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