It’s not hard to guess what I like. I surround myself with the trinkets which please me, such as angels and small coffee mugs with large handles. Books occupy low shelves. Two-handled soup cups and mismatched pieces of Limoges flank the breakfast nook in which I sit to drink my morning brew.
Those who know me accept that I buy my clothes second-hand and don’t wear traditional girl shoes with pointy toes and spiked heels. I like baggy dresses, the color blue, and layers of sweaters and shawls. I wear flannel pajamas, thick socks, and hats. I cry at Hallmark commercials and know the words to a plethora of songs from Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Browne, and Emmy Lou Harris which I load into Spotify and sing off-key. While most people scoot their chairs under the table, I find it easier to pull the table toward me. I drink Earl Grey, hot, plain, in a crystal cup. I read dark, Scandinavian crime fiction (no, not that series with the girl; think Henning Mankell) and read the daily round-up from the New York Times. I don’t go to church except the occasional volunteer session with my friend Katrina’s Meals on Wheels, but I believe in God, angels, and some sort of after-life in which I damn well expect to see my mother, my little brother, and a few friends with whom I have unfinished business.
When I think of my life as a whole, I realize that I have very little about which to complain. I don’t make a lot of money but I have a house, lights, heat, and fresh running water. I live alone but my old dog keeps me company even if she’s kind of annoying. I have some phenomenal neighbors who check on me, a son who texts or calls every day, and money in the bank enough to buy groceries and pay for cable. My health leaves something to be desired but hey! Eighteen years ago, a doctor gave me six months to live! So, I figure myself to be 17.5 years to the good.
It’s the eighteenth day of the thirty-sixth month of My EVERLASTING Year Without Complaining. Life continues.