The day has come.
I am officially 29 years old.
The message from everyone has been, of course, "Happy Birthday," and I've received wonderful cheerful wishes and lovely cards and gifts from my dear friends and family (I am truly a lucky gal). And, well, hysteria has finally set in.
Which for me is like, say, grocery shopping.
So as age 30 looms closer and closer, I'm thinking every day will be just like grocery shopping until I get to the point where I can click over to 31 and then, I don't know, is that the same as exiting the grocery store?
Am I taking simile too far?
In the spirit of grocery shopping - and edging closer to 30 - I have written this.
Hysteria (Morrisons,* lost list)
Little flat-footed me,
on the verge of un-
becoming.
Trailing loose like a glossy blue
ribbon untied.
Though I've tried - oh GOD how I've tried -
wallowing in coats and elbows and the pinball-blind trolleys*
of this Morrisons aisle.
(It takes a while, it takes a while
to re-learn how to smile
above the heavy growing pile
of food in this cart.)
But something bubbles,
a scream rising to the surface -
my vision doubles.
I'm stumbling through with a purpose,
the meaning of which I've lost
somewhere in the white and the gloss
of the toilet roll* aisle.
Bland music jangles through my brain:
I round an end of an aisle, upsetting bangles,*
and batteries and pale faces and baby sippy cups in green.
The shopping list is gone and I've been so long.
In the distance the tills* waver, like a distant oasis,
calling like pure siren song.
I'm run adrift, I've run ashore, I'm on the rocks and stranded.
Broken and marooned, with a debit card and a thirst for rum and
a quiet,
empty
room.
hys·te·ri·a/hiˈsterēə/
| Noun: |
|
So as age 30 looms closer and closer, I'm thinking every day will be just like grocery shopping until I get to the point where I can click over to 31 and then, I don't know, is that the same as exiting the grocery store?
Am I taking simile too far?
In the spirit of grocery shopping - and edging closer to 30 - I have written this.
Hysteria (Morrisons,* lost list)
Little flat-footed me,
on the verge of un-
becoming.
Trailing loose like a glossy blue
ribbon untied.
Though I've tried - oh GOD how I've tried -
wallowing in coats and elbows and the pinball-blind trolleys*
of this Morrisons aisle.
(It takes a while, it takes a while
to re-learn how to smile
above the heavy growing pile
of food in this cart.)
But something bubbles,
a scream rising to the surface -
my vision doubles.
I'm stumbling through with a purpose,
the meaning of which I've lost
somewhere in the white and the gloss
of the toilet roll* aisle.
Bland music jangles through my brain:
I round an end of an aisle, upsetting bangles,*
and batteries and pale faces and baby sippy cups in green.
The shopping list is gone and I've been so long.
In the distance the tills* waver, like a distant oasis,
calling like pure siren song.
I'm run adrift, I've run ashore, I'm on the rocks and stranded.
Broken and marooned, with a debit card and a thirst for rum and
a quiet,
empty
room.
*For my American or any non-British readers, Morrisons is a typical supermarket, like Marsh or a small Walmart
*trolleys = shopping carts
*toilet roll = toilet paper
*bangles = bracelets
*tills = cash registers
Enjoy your day everybody! ("Perhaps it's time for some cake..." she thinks, looking around wildly for something to distract her from the unending cycle of time.) Have fun!
*trolleys = shopping carts
*toilet roll = toilet paper
*bangles = bracelets
*tills = cash registers
Enjoy your day everybody! ("Perhaps it's time for some cake..." she thinks, looking around wildly for something to distract her from the unending cycle of time.) Have fun!
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