On the bright side, the other driver (a man ten years my senior), got lost, drove in circles, almost crashed his car, and upon arrival at what he thought was the correct house, led his two passengers up some steps and through an unlocked door into a stranger's house—clearly not the correct destination. Quick exit, stage right! This week I have prayed the party of three were not caught on security cameras. Just in case, I've planned my defense: We plead early onset dementia, Your Honor! The busy weekend is over. No one was jailed or killed.After two days of above average temperatures, by Saturday my limited wardrobe was exhausted, forcing me to stuff myself into a pair of old Levis jeans I have been saving should I ever lose ten pounds. Luckily, the groaning seams on my authentic (not knock-off) non-stretchy, faded blue denim jeans did not fail me as I diligently played tour guide, chauffeur, host, and organizer. Added bonus: My jeans made me sit up straighter in my chair and eat somewhat less at the restaurants we seemed to patronize every two hours.
The sun is shining today. I finished editing a paper early (misread the deadline, argh). That means I have some extra time to get some things done: change the sheets, do some laundry, and write a blog post. Spring is finally really here. Baby birds are nesting in a flowerpot at the care center. Brilliant leaves have burst out everywhere, glowing a color of green I spent my childhood desperately trying to mimic with yellow and blue tempera paint.
As a former fashion designer—well, okay, seamstress—I know a bit about seams. When I think of seams, I usually think of clothing and the thousands of seams have I sewn in my lifetime, trying to cajole other people's poorly sketched ideas of style into something real they could display to their envious church friends. Governments have seams too, I think. I don't notice seams much except when things fall apart. Then I realize how some poorly sewn policies leave us naked and undone. For example, we are now seeing the seamier side of healthcare.
I notice that the seams on many of my clothes are failing. When I fold my long-sleeve t-shirts, besides the occasional broken seam, I see stretched necklines, unraveled hemlines, faded colors, and frayed edges. I don't mind. These butter-soft remnants remind me I used to have a job that required me to think about clothing. I am glad that job is gone while these old t-shirts just seem to get better.
As I get older, in every way conceivable, I seem to have less stretch. In obviously visible ways, gravity drags everything south, but in my mind, too, I perceive less flex, less give. My brain seems to be coming apart at the seams. Maybe it's just stress pulling my mojo down with my butt and boobs. A friend told me I would gain 10 IQ points after my mother dies. She spoke from experience. I fear I'm sloughing off brain cells at an increasing rate. Where do they go, I wonder. Into the same void that disappears my socks, I suppose. If I ever find the gravity well that is hoovering my neurons, no doubt I'll find the mates to the socks I now wear in mismatched sets because I refuse to buy new socks. Ponder this: Socks have no seams. Unless I count the ridge across the toe that produces blisters if my shoes are too tight.
