I sat at my makeshift writing desk staring at the words, trying to fathom them, hoping to rise to the challenge.
A comedy? Seriously?
Pain, incessant pain. Sharp, numbing, fades for a while only to come back with a vengeance pain, keeps me from hitting the high notes of humor sometimes. Staying lightheaded, I mean lighthearted, is a daily challenge and now they want me to write funny? Hah!
But then I remembered, I could write about that amusing lady I keep running into around here. She is comical. She's darn sure she balanced her checkbook but can't figure out how a goblin tiptoed into her register and rearranged the numbers. Fumbling through her day she's like a real Lucille Ball, treading the wine grapes and chasing chocolate candies on a conveyor belt, completely bewildered how she got herself so muddled and crying for R-I-C-K-Y!!!!
And that woman has a hilarious acquaintance that places her many reading glasses in strategic places all over her house: next to the bed, over the kitchen sink, on her desk... in the bathroom. It makes sense if she doesn't want to wear them perpetually on her head or on a granny chain around her neck. She's so smart that way.
Until she forgets and wears the kitchen pair into the bedroom and takes them off to look out the window as her obsessive neighbor drives his golf cart up and down the narrow, steep lane. She chuckles, and then snorts, when he actually starts burning rubber. Yes, it is somewhat possible to burn rubber in a golf cart, if you can call lurching forward at off-kilter intervals burning anything -except his pride. She's so overtaken with laughter that she leaves the pair of glasses there on the nightstand next to her bed.
This scene is repeated enough times that she can't read her recipes, type on her computer or discern the words in her favorite bathroom reading material; all of her glasses have migrated to her bedroom and are cohabitating with her hand lotion, her eye mask and her ear plugs. She relocates them to their proper places only to start the whole process over again upon the next neighborhood shenanigans.
That gal's prayer partner has live-in in-laws (try saying that three times fast) that are a riot. She tries to gather them together like a square dance caller assembling her troupe, only to see them spin off into their own self-choreographed belly dances. Her father-in-law expounds a daily diatribe of the entire world's ills and explains why being Portuguese makes him far more superior than say, everybody. When he's done telling one-and-all what's wrong with them he retreats back to his chair and regroups for the next go round.
Her mother-in-law is lost in a world inside of her head and circles around in conversation until both she and her companion are dazed, dizzy and confused. Her dosey-doe days are done for good.
Of course, the dizziness could also be from the noxious fumes expelled from her neighbor's truck now wafting into her house from his 10th time up the driveway today. Poor guy must be dizzy too. He can't seem to stop speaking loudly at the top of his lungs. His mother and children getting the brunt of his verbose projectile exuberance. Reality T.V. would love this chap. He could star in his own show - "How I Drive My Neighbors Crazy and Love It!" It would be a hit, for sure.
And me? I navigate the daily waters of pain with push, rest, try, rest, give up, rest and try again. Sounds a little like aerobics class, doesn't it? That's what we'll call it: Zumba for Zombies, uh, I mean Zealot's. The definition being: "a zealous supporter of a cause, especially a religious cause." Ask a few of my most avid detractors, I mean readers. They can tell you that I'm definitely a Zealot on some days. Only, they don't mean it as a compliment. I can be a real bummer when I get my "Z" on.
We ladies, we all come together like a cast of characters in the tragicomedy tradition. A little bit of fire, a dash of brimstone, add some guffaws and a few chuckles and snorts. We're off-off-Broadway to be sure, but we are entertaining nonetheless. Yeah, me and my friends have a lot of laughs.
That is, until someone walks in the room and asks me why I'm talking to myself.
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