Illumination Writing Challenge
My Pants Aren’t Holey but I Really Need to Alter Them
What to do when they don’t flipping fit any more
I’m flapping around akin to an old woman in response to this writing challenge.
(It’s not impostor syndrome — I AM an old woman).
Sherry McGuinn and Joe Luca have been pressing me — with their Italian links they should be pressing grapes.
Look, I want to smooth out any wrinkles (excluding those on my face which are permanent) that may emerge from my delaying tactics.
Here I was switching off for a while, sick (not literally) and tired of 103 days of lock down.
On the 100th day, I rose and visited my stylist for the first time in five months!
My temperature was 35.6. I qualified for a cut and blow. Good thinking — I took a spare mask in case the first one got wet with the hair washing ritual. It did. Damp elastic round your ears is not a pleasant sensation.
Two days later I read that going to a hair salon is labelled moderate/high risk!
My initial excitement at looking presentable to the public (not that I go out much) dissipated as I sneezed and wondered,
“Is this it? Am I doomed?”
That’s what life has become since the viral tides of March.
Where a sneeze, a light cough, sweat on the brow or a runny nose previously engendered nonchalance, now they evoke extreme paranoia! My other turns 82 this year and I’ve reached 70 — according to the experts our age puts us in the high- risk category.
I reassure myself we live in a rural province with minimal cases.
I mask up and carry sanitizer in my bag on my weekly shopping trip. Hubby drives the neighbor’s borrowed car and remains in the vehicle while I venture out into the unknown. However, I admonish him to pull up his mask to cover nose and mouth if anyone comes near the window.
I worry more for him.
We’ve lived isolated and alone for three years, let alone three months, but this year is different. Thought initially I was thrilled that everyone in the whole wide world was confined to quarters, not just me, as economies open up again, I wonder how I’ll react. Will I envy their freedom?
I doubt it.
South Africa currently has more cases than France and Germany — 264,184 today 12 July (215,805 on 8 July when I began this draft).
Though I’ve taught myself to disregard my Medium stats, I cannot ignore what’s happening in my country.
Will our State hospitals cope with the oncoming flood? They’re buckling right now. There’s a shortage of oxygen for fuck’s sake. It’s freaking me out because the people succumbing are mainly from the townships and inner city.
Living in seclusion is a godsend.
To settle my spirit and whirling thoughts, some days I make a conscious choice to avoid any newscast or article on the subject of the villain of my peace.
However, our President is giving a national broadcast to the nation tonight (Sunday).
Much though I’d prefer not to watch, I know I will.
On a lighter note.
I don’t possess any black or holey pants but I’ve created a black hole where I can throw my negative rants and anxieties.
I meditate more. Write, laugh, listen to music. Escape valves. My comfort and sanctuary.
Thank God I discovered the joy of writing.
The act of connecting with others around the world — sharing emotions, thoughts, desires and laughter — helps override the frustrations and fears that threaten my equilibrium.
But what do when my pants don’t fit?
Oh, for the days when I could glide into my 34’s without an uphill struggle over the hips. It’s become an exercise (for lack thereof) in futility. I have a back-up plan of a pair of Size 36 denims. The day is drawing nigh when I won’t be able to wheedle my way into those either if I continue sitting around moping.
It began with the ban on the sale of tobacco products in March. Suited me fine as I’d planned to stop smoking, anyway.
“Sooner or later everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.” — Robert Louis Stevenson.
I’m feasting on that now. A solid tube of adipose tissue now encompasses my middle kingdom and refuses to budge. If I fell into a pool of water (preferably heated as it’s bitter here) I’d bob around in the same way as a kid with a swimming ring.
The pundits reckon that one cause for weight gain is you eat more to counter the nicotine craving. I didn’t do that. Another reason is your metabolism slows so you burn fewer kilojoules.
That’s me.
Storing more fat!
I have only myself to blame because I stopped doing my yoga when winter arrived. This ramshackle cottage where we hang out in the bushveld is freezing; being on the southern slope of a mountain there’s little sun to warm the days.
In the past, I dropped yoga during the chilly months, gained a kilo, then shed it as I became active again in Spring.
But that’s when I was a smoker.
I should stop making excuses, get off my fattening ass and embrace those asanas again.
Next time I’m readying myself for the weekly shopping trip, I may not be lying when I say “I’ve got nothing to wear.”
Those 36 denims were getting tight on Thursday’s shopping trip.
Guess I must freeze to ease my way back into my pants and stop my universe expanding.
There are other rants I’ve thrown into the black hole.
Last week was a personal hell with two days of slow and intermittent broadband reception (the only internet option outside urban areas) followed by three days of power outages, the final assault on my equanimity being ten hours without electricity yesterday when I wanted to finish this story.
At last it is complete, and I thank you for reading!
Thank you to these writers who hooked me in:
