I know, I’ll go to The Corner Bookshop, sit on the floor and read self-help books for three hours.
I always try to support the independent book seller, even if I’m only crying and not buying.
According to one author, gluten is ruining my life while another claims masturbating three times a day will change it. Yeah, I’ll bet. I’d earn a black belt along with chronic carpel tunnel syndrome.
Marianne Williamson claims meditation is the way to go and I try to om once a day, but just not very excited about it. She also suggests talking to God like a pal.
Trouble with that is, since I blame him for practically everything, I’m worried he’ll retaliate even more. Catholicism dies hard people…and even then guilt comes back around for one more pass.
Another cheerful soul said to ban all black and wear color…orange, yellow…red. I like that idea, except with my Italian hair, brights make me look like a fortune-teller. The one with the sign in the window…Spee-cial Pam Raeding…10 boo-ks.
Hale kale didn’t do much for me nor did playing Gregorian chants while I cleaned.
I like the idea of sexy underwear when I’m alone to show I don’t need validation from a lover to wear my overpriced thongs. But they didn’t mention justifying the price. It’s why they stay wrapped in protective tissue for that special occasion.
Then I found a little book by an old lady down south who said, what do you like? Doesn’t matter what it is…figure it out and just do it…a lot.
A rather loaded suggestion, but the best yet.
I thought and thought and all the standards came up…writing, reading, running…making me even more depressed, like telling me to drink water or take hot baths. Shopping is out since I’m still on what’s turning into an eternal fucking budget.
Then it hit me…
eating cereal outta the box, that’s it.
It’s been one of my favorite things since I was a kid. My mother would yell at me, tell me it was barbaric while drinking tall boys in the middle of the afternoon wearing pearls. I’d still sneak a box of Frosted Flakes into my room spending quality time with Tony the Tiger, neat…no milk.
I left The Corner Bookshop heading to the nearest market to buy organic honey and oat cereal that even had a decent iron count, went home…put on my holy pajamas (see Can These Pajamas Be Saved) and devoured half the box.
When I was finished there were oats everywhere…the floor, my hair…stuck to my pajamas. It all had a welfare flavor to it, like I had just cashed my check.
But I did feel surprisingly better, and younger too reminding myself, I can still act like a kid even if that ship has pretty much sailed around the world several times.
Next I’m going to tie-dye a couple of T-shirts and iron my hair.
Just the front.