It’s raining! It’s pouring!
The old man is snoring!
Went to bed, and he bumped his head
and he couldn’t get up in the moooorning!
What in the world does that little song mean, anyway? THE old man? Like there’s only one? Who the heck is this old fart, and why can’t he get up? Does he have a concussion? Does he need medical attention? Is he dead? He can’t be dead if he’s snoring. But still! He’s obviously damaged in some way, and instead of helping, somebody made up a little song about it.
It’s just wrong.The Old Man (whoever he is) and I have a lot in common this morning. It’s pouring in our little corner of the world. It’s dark and dismal. I didn’t bump my head last night, and I DID get up this morning, but only by Sheer Force Of Will. If I had been as footloose and fancy free as an old man with a dented noggin, I would definitely still be in bed, preferably with the covers pulled up over my head.
There were these small people, however, that got up whilst it was still pitch black and demanded this thing called “food.” And “clothing.” And then one of them needed “a new diaper.” Twice. I KNOW! Ridiculous, right?
I have no energy to get the approximately six hundred eleventy-four things done around here that I feel must be done. I have a nebulous ache in my nether regions and a low grade dragging nausea. I keep breathing like a rhinocerous because my heart can’t seem to handle any excessive activity. Like, you know…moving. Today I am not enjoying the journey in any way at all. I just want to Arrive.
Yes, I know. I’m headed straight for a bona fide pity party. I really shouldn’t. But the invitation is all made up and mailed. My place is reserved. I wouldn’t like to appear rude. I wonder who else will be there?
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