I arrived home tonight to an empty apartment reeking of all things freshly laundered and recently cleansed, and I opened my mail in the kitchen under the wattage of a single lonely stove bulb. In the silence I pondered my swollen belly and mild wine buzz as I simultaneously sorted through a weeks worth of bills, unsolicited tree carcasses and one letter from “home” - a life time I’m removed from by 3365 miles and nearly twenty years.

I thought about my waitress tonight, the spunky little blonde thing, and how she alternated between “ma’am”, “Ms.” and “sweetie” as she addressed me with each visit. Which was I? And did it really matter, because they all seem monikers of pity for the aged and alone? Granted, I dined in solitude, gazing not at a lover across the table but at the words in print in the pages in my hand….does that make me worthy of a strangers pity? Further, do I look old enough to be a “ma’am”? I ask with innocence because in my head I remain 18…and while I celebrate my grays (which are truly white, no gray to be had) I can’t imagine I look old enough for this girl to have considered me that far from her peer group.

This thought shatters me.

It might be observed that I’ve written a great deal about sleep of late, but that’s not a sign of age, it’s always been there. It’s a family trait.

So this girl, with her quiet contempt has me here, now, sitting on my couch spending too much time contemplating social graces and trying not to sneeze while imagining Kim telling me something about 60 miles per hour. I’ve let the fair haired youth creep into the spaces that Augusten Burroughs occupied not thirty minutes ago with his light hearted, beautifully sculpted stories of his life. “Ma’am” has me considering my mortality and if that isn’t over the top, I don’t know what is.

Is it too early for menopause?

Bah, fuck that. I’m thankful for the “ma’am”, because it reminds me that each day is a perfect gift – and that’s why it’s called the present.

Holla!