It’s always the little things

Allow me to share a few of my fantasies with you…no! Not those kinds of fantasies! Sheesh. But not to worry. Everybody is a bit squirrelly these days, myself included, which is probably why I’m resorting to impossible-to-realize-fantasies. So…here they are, not necessarily in order of significance: I’m on my way to get a haircut! No more self-cuts, thank goodness, though I did manage eventually to do a fairly decent job. Those first two cuts, though, were frightening. I tried to convince myself that since I wasn’t going anywhere it didn’t matter how I looked. But I saw myself in the bathroom mirror, which takes up half a wall. It’s true: We are our own worst critics. Guess there are no mirrors in the White House. So…next fantasy: Off I go to get a mani-pedi! Can I do my own nails? Sure I can. Is it better when someone else does them, especially the toes? Absolutely! But again I tell myself that since I’ve got nowhere to go and nobody to see, as long as the nails are neat and clean, all is well. My mother would be proud. She’d also tell me to stop trippin’ about getting a facial, which is another of my fantasies, though she’d never, ever, say trippin’–not my mother the librarian. She’d tell me to keep my face clean and moisturized, which is what I do, so when I peer into that ridiculously large bathroom mirror I see a clean, healthy-looking face. If I did go somewhere other than the grocery store and the drug store I’d be quite presentable, although given the mask, who could tell? Anyway, I don’t have “mask face” as do those wonderful people who stock the shelves and work the registers in the stores, and who deliver the food and the mail and the packages, and who care for those of us who become ill, and who tried in vain to save 175,000 of us who lost the Covid fight. No…I’m fortunate enough to be able to stay at home and indulge my fantasies. I share them with my friends and learn that we all have the same ones, including the one that we can’t do for ourselves. Sigh. I want a full-body massage, the deep tissue kind. The one that elicits groans of delight on the massage table. The one that kinda makes one sound like she was indulging in that other kind of fantasy.

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