Where I use my tattoo as a reminder
I lie in bed, reveling in the fact that it’s “just me” there, for once. After a mad scramble, I find the remote, and, wouldn’t you know, there’s no shortage of cheesy horror movies on.
A smile crosses my face as I close my eyes and think of beer & pizza and of chips & salsa – a whole day of just me – no work issues to bother me, no kids to play with and read to and take care of (and because of that, no Caillou on my TV). No, today is a zone-out day – maybe with a nap thrown in for good measure.
I catch a glimpse outside – with the sun shining, just a hint of a breeze. It’d be a great day to be outside, if it weren’t better to be inside.
But my leg is sticking out from the covers, and I see it. Suddenly, I need to sweat. I need to breathe hard. I need to push up against that breeze, turning into a gale, pressing back against me. I need salt crusting at the corners of my eyes. I need to ache from my toes to my shoulders. I need a defining pain.
Beer and pizza and chips and wine and horror movies and a nap will wait.
I need to be me.