Writing a book, car shopping, pining for Vermont and hoping to get there for Halloween. (I longed for a house and trick-or-treaters all those--"these"--apartment years.) Vaguely planning my birthday, too. In the meantime, nothing new. Well, yes, I thought of something recently, when I felt trapped here with D. who was in something like a bad mood, only so much worse.
I remembered wishing the years away in childhood. How long before I could graduate high school, go to college, move out? It occurs to me that time is like money. Five thousand dollars in '70s cash would have the buying power of how much today? Four years in childhood time equals what in middle age?
That was all I got--so I dug up this post I wrote a while ago, about how long I dreamed of a place just for me. To my disgrace, it's shorter than the intro.
The Trap Door Beneath My Pillow
Often during junior high school, I'd lie in bed before falling asleep, and imagine that my pillow hid a trap door. Unbeknown to my stepsister, Mia, in the other bunk, I'd slip through it into my own apartment, where I'd eat macaroni and cheese--as much as I wanted. Here, there were no calories.
There was no gravity, either, so I wouldn't get hurt when I floated from the door in the ceiling to the modern chrome-and-glass table and sunflower-yellow vinyl-padded chairs in the kitchen below.