Death is in the room as one is coming to life. Always. For a few painful seconds, things could go either way.
Take my Mamaw. Willa Mae Wells.
She was born up a Kentucky holler in the nineteen-teens. No doctor present. No hospital to be found. No exceptional medical measures available.
I find myself in a Reading Funk, trolling through my "To Read" list on Goodreads, wondering how any of the books got there in the first place. I just thumbed through the NY Times Book Review, reading the paid advertisements disguised as reviews, and nothing grabbed me there, either.
The truth. When is it pleasant? Fun to hear? Especially from the One Who Knows You Like No Other.
"You've not been writing, Andra."
I show up here. Every dang day. With something.......amazing. Okay, mostly middling.
I have a confession to make. I'm a hairy person. This dreadful situation was particularly upsetting for me as a junior high school girl. Because I was (and still am) white as a sheet, hair really stood out on me, especially my natural chocolate brown color back then. Paper white legs plus inch-long blackish hairs equalled SCARY BOY REPELLANT.
When MTM has a REALLY CRAPPY DAY, we have an established routine.
1. Make reservations for a preposterous dinner outing.
2. Go out for night caps at our favorite watering hole.
3. Talk about inane, stupid, ridiculous things to keep from rehashing the REALLY CRAPPY DAY.
Our number three for Friday? Answering this question: WHO IS THE SEXIEST MAN/WOMAN ALIVE RIGHT NOW?