OK, to set the scene: I have been feeling kind of crappy tonight. Actually, the past several days. And, if you want to get technical about it, since I started this test-grading project. Not the work itself but the hours have taken a toll on my body. The combination of getting up early to work, not getting enough rest and/or sleep at night, and consuming copious of amount of caffeine to stay awake (including using coupons for mochas after work on Wednesday and today [Friday], the latter after getting off work early because we got done with the project early) has had me feeling sort of like a zombie during the evening -- pained chest, zoned-out concentration, not being quite "in the moment," so to speak.
For the past day or so it's been cold and snow, again. Punxsutawney Phil can kiss my ass. Anyway, the heat's been on. It's been on the whole winter, but when the season started My Father cranked the heat up so high it was too hot in my room. So hot, in fact, I regularly took off my clothes to cope. I even slept totally in the nude once. After I made a passing comment about that to Mother, I think My Father dropped the temperature on the thermostat down a couple degrees, and my need to shed clothes stopped ... until the past day or so, when I felt it all hot again. And around the time Vegas started, I stripped down to my long underpants.
So you can see why the heat, along with my zombie-like feeling, compelled me to go to the bathroom to take a shit wearing only said long underpants, although, to be modest, I did bring my shirt. After I did my business I was still so hot and out of it that I didn't even bother to put back on my t-shirt. (I took it off during my bowel movement because it is very big and baggy, and I figure I might as well just take it off while taking a shit, because I'm sweating anyway.)
But as I was leaving I heard footsteps coming up the stairs -- Father's late-night snack sojourn. I open up the door to see how far up the stairs he was. The hallway light was on, but I didn't see him. So, I was at a crossroads: Do I wait, or do I go for it?
In retrospect, I have no fucking idea why I thought I could just go and beat him to my room. I didn't, not even close. In fact, I was walking -- well, more like race-walking like that weird sport that happens to be in the Olympics -- right at the same time My Father reached the top step and was walking straight into the kitchen. We were abreast, he and I, and so he saw me. And if I'm not lucky enough that his eyesight is terrible, he looked to his right to see his son walking at an unnatural speed into his bedroom, even though it was only steps away, like he wanted to hide from him. And while I was failing to run away from him, he gazed at his misbegotten son showing off the contours of his legs and torso because he was only sporting long underwear, and showing off his middle-age gut because he didn't have either the energy or the good sense to put on the t-shirt that he was holding through one arm sleeve.
There is a chance, just a chance, that after he witnessed this pathetic tableau he shook his head and said to himself, "My fucking God, that is my son." And if he felt that way, because of the way I was (not) dressed and/or acting like I was trying to avoid him for some stupid reason, well, can't say I blame him.
No comments:
Post a Comment