June '25 Blog Entries For Bard's Hall

My Younger Room Mate

         My six-year old room mate came to live with me, well, let me think, six years ago. Whew, where has the time gone? Is it kept in a large glass bottle, or a dusty, ceramic candy dish like spare change? Sigh, wouldn't it be grand if we could cash in that accumulated time? Sorry, my mind wandered into free range territory.

         Sometimes, my train or thread of thought chugs along, fluttering in the breeze without me. As I have mentioned at risk of repeating myself and thus becoming an older person cliche, I am currently of retirement age. Sure, the weariness weighs heavy at times. My live-in companion, younger than myself, doesn't understand this.

         She, yes, she is most assuredly a female and oblivious to the modern choices re pronouns, clashes with my living style. Did I mention she is persistent, stubborn and opinionated? The word no is not in her vocabulary. She wants what she wants when she wants it.

         After a long often productive day I anticipate succumbing to the sweet bliss of sleep. I have learned to recharge my batteries 'cause there's always another day waiting to be addressed. This is when the six-year old digs in her heels and makes a stand. Why should she go to bed? Why should I got to bed when she is wide awake? What is bed time exactly? She doesn't feel the least bit sleepy.

         She wheedles. She bargains. Let's read just one more chapter. That was it? Just one more, but slowly. She throws out questions and engages in conversation. I think we need a drink.

         Even once she is tucked into bed, she twitches. She tosses and turns. She wrestles with the blanket.

         In the morning, my room mate is often cantankerous, probably even curmudgeonly. I realize that particular word is associated with the elderly, but it fits. Slow to get moving, she attempts to malinger. Who said we had to get dressed? What's the hurry? Why don't we drink another cup of tea? Can't we just sit for a while?

         Throughout the day she never lets me out of her sight. Where I meander, she meanders. She follows me as if she cannot bear to be apart.

         Descending or ascending the nineteen steps to our apartment she grumbles. I am well aware that she does not like or appreciate stairs. Once outside, if she so feels inclined, she trips me without warning. During our walks she whinges about their length and drags her heels. I am tempted to call her a Debbie Downer, but why bother. She tunes me out.

         Have I mentioned her brilliant technicolour bruises? Where does she pick them up? As far as she's concerned they just appear, all blue and purple.

         Sigh. I am resigned to this living arrangement. She has grown on me and I don't believe I could enjoy life without her and her quirks. This total knee replacement has wormed its way under my skin.          495 words

         

         

         

         Attention StephBee and Ẃeβ࿚Ẃỉtcĥ

         "The Bard's Hall Contest"