The Vagrant in Me

That's right. . . It's not uncommon for certain persons (namely my spouse) to compare me to an old vagrant woman, or, more precisely, a little old homeless lady. I think this has a lot to do with some of my personal habits (which you may have already read about). And while I have gotten much better about showering every day or two (. . or three or four) it seems to have done little to alleviate this brutal labeling which I've been subjected to. Still, I can't help but feel this is not entirely my fault. Yes, it isn't abnormal for me to eat the old cheerios/fruit loops/cheez-its from off the floor instead of just picking them up and carrying them to the garbage (and no, it's not because I'm hungry, but rather I'm just a wee bit lazy. . .look, when the vast majority of your day is spent cleaning up, you learn to cut corners!). But sometimes I feel I'm more a victim of my vagrant personification than I am so much a creator of it.

This morning, for example, Jim decides he wants to make eggs for breakfast. OK - whatever floats his boat. So, as I'm attempting to drink my first cup of coffee and clean-up and get ready for the day, he feeds the kids. By the time I make it to the table, I'm served a single egg on a paper plate that has already been used by one of the kids. As I observed the table covered in various odds and ends (a screwdriver, toy cookware, empty plates and crumbs etc) I couldn't overlook the feeling that I'm more a product of 'nurture' than 'nature.' In other words, I've been made into the freak that I am by being around my family(imagine the effects this will have on the children - still so young and formative!). Really, it just seems that the old homeless lady lifestyle just comes so naturally to me in this environment.

Another notation Jim has commented on (which has less to do with the homeless thing and more to do with the little-old-lady thing) is my unending infatuation with the heating pad. I heart the heating pad. I just crawl into bed, push a button, and no sooner does that puppy heat right up than I drift effortlessly off to sleep. Living in Florida, and using this item year-round, Jim seems to find perturbing. Still, I hold resolute to my opinion: hats off to the inventor of the heating pad!

The commentary which I've endured on this subject in recent months has caused me to do a little introspection. I've wondered to myself: "If this is what I'm like at 28, what will I be like at 78?". . . Hmmm. It should be interesting to observe the digression and deterioration I'm bound to experience as the result of the ticking clock. . Time will tell!