On all the things I don't have to write about.
|It’s that time of the month.
Another meeting of my writers group.
I never have anything to write about.
At this stage of my life the odds are against me becoming a literary legend, a wicked wordsmith, a titillating tome-ologist.
Perhaps I can leave my mark on this world in some other way. Maybe someone somewhere will name something after me.
It can’t be a bridge, park, or a slow rural highway riddled with potholes; the veterans have all of those already. Don’t get me wrong, the veterans deserve these things. It’s not entirely my fault. I was born 40 years too late to play chicken with Hitler. I barely recall news footage of the jungles upon which Creedence built an entire career. I never survived on dehydrated rations in the deserts of Iraq. I wanted to. It seemed like a lot of work.
You will have to take my word for this, the future of democracy is dependent upon me staying put.
It probably won’t be any kind of haircut. Remember Dorothy Hamill? Famous for her haircut and her camel? Like most girls of that time, I had her haircut. Here’s what the hairdresser forgot to mention; it only looks right while twirling dervishly on ice skates. To expect a human body to do tricks on two thin blades of metal is unnatural. I’ve yet to master remaining upright on them.
Farrah Fawcett had her own haircut, too. She looked like an Angel. I looked like Lassie.
I have come to grips with the fact I will never be famous for my haircut.
Occasionally I worry about it being a bill or a law. The problem with that is something really bad has to happen first. Once in a while when the guy who cleans the floors at work locks eyes with me, I get a vision of being locked in a Caddy trunk in Lowell, secreted under a heap of rotting squirrel corpses, praying for The End. If parts of my dismembered corpse are found in seven different counties, the new law it takes decades to get through congress against such behavior can be called ‘Cindi’s Law’. It wouldbe tragic if there wasn’t a law against this already.
With my luck that would be how I spend my 15 minutes.
Let’s hope it’s not a bill or a law.
I’m never going to enjoy having a museum, library or wing of a hospital bear my name. I don’t have that kind of money.
That probably goes double for a grant, scholarship or financial institution.
I have a shot at a disease. Once you have a disease named after you nobody forgets you. (Or at least how you died). In order to fit into this distinctive category you have to:
1.) Have an interesting disorder, that is
2.) Unusual, and,
3.) Leaves the medical community scratching their heads.
Your name wields more fear if your disease is degenerative and fatal. (See also: Lou Gehrig, poor guy. This is the mark he left on the world. Does anybody remember what he was famous for before his health started to decline?) There’s another one named after some guy known as ‘Tourette’ (I’m convinced this is a clever way of telling your co workers off while maintaining your employment status. Mr. Tourette must have worked retail.) and Mr. Parkinson.
Now that I’m on the subject my options seem grim. Besides, naming something after me might cause more problems than it solves. Would they name it after my first name? My last name is technically my husbands and not mine. (Typical! I do all the work and he gets all the credit.) Then there’s my birth name and my adopted name, neither of which is poetic. They both roll off the tongue like a cement block rolling off the assembly line.
Should I change my name??
Maybe I will just get this infernal, chronic and persistent knack I have of never having anything to write about named after me. Oh, forget that, we’ll just call it ‘Writers Block’ since I seem to be so unclever at everything else.
Another hour wasted at my computer.
Sorry to disappoint.