It's hard to be outraged or witty when you are bogged down with antiobotics, a hacking cough and a lack of sleep. I've quit smoking (again) for the final time. That rattling in my chest this morning - and the subsequent vision I had - scared the living crap out of me.
I imagined a future me, rolling down the aisles of Target in my moveable chair thing that I bought on QVC, my dutiful husband lugging my oxygen tank, trying to keep up with me. I'd be a menace in those aisles, screeching my tires and popping wheelies while the other old ladies recoiled in horror.
"More oxygen, damn it!" And my poor husband, once so young and full of hope, now relegated to being my breath regulator, would run after me and turn the dial up on the tank. We'd leave the store and I'd light up a cigarette, mindless of the wheezing in my throat.
It all sounds like so much fun, but I think I'll pass. Bad enough that my poor husband, being 20 somewhat years
younger than me old, will someday suffer the humility (or my humility) of having to change my Depends. I don't need him chasing me down the aisles of a department store, waving my oxygen tank after me.
So what was I saying?
Yes, I've quit smoking for good and that only means more vitriol, rage and misdirected anger from me. This may qualify me yet for the new position Bill is holding elections for.
I'm headed for the couch soon. Me, the tv, and some NyQuil. I have to find something to watch that will get that vision of the future out of my head.