A bloody Shakespearean day

A bit of fun with today's Shakespeare-inspired free write prompt (thank you Jena Schwartz). Comedy can make the bleakest crap seem light. Read for amusement. For extra-credit, see how many references you can connect to the Bard. 

This Wednesday eve finds me an awfully sorry sight.
Clad in purple gym shorts and an old tee that once was white.
I’ve made jam, chauffeured kids, wiped noses and fed.
I’ve scooped poop, painted walls, and given til I bled.

In the labyrinthine carpool, a random yelled at me with rage.
What had I done but try to fetch my eldest babe?
My body and mind and teeth set on edge,
I flipped meanie off before dismounting the ledge.

Two playdates to attend, in opposite ends of town.
Of course, naturally, I must drive round and round.
A full circle, oh I wish, for that sounds so tidy.
As if closure, or peace, would then be nigh(dy).

My migraine an albatross, the rain a threat,
For goodness’ sake, there’s still dinner, baths and bed to be met.
“Knock, knock! Who’s there?” My youngest doth ask.
Dear me, I gasped, could this breath be my last?

For who, after such a day, could endure a bad joke?
Not me, not this girl strangled by a maternal yoke.
They say love is blind; for the SAHM that’s often true.
But knock, knocks, and farty hoo-ha will make the brightest one blue.

As my soul threatened to vanish, right into thin air,
Husband’s key in the lock brought me back from despair.
The naked truth, dearest T, is that I really must go.
Upstairs, with a crossword and some wine, this I know.

Out of death’s jaws, you’ve certainly sprung me,
While you’re at it, come what may, the laundry is ready.
So fold, kiss and tuck, or I’ll send you packing.
Day’s done, crappish Wednesday, you were sorely lacking. 

Youth

I find myself, tonight, envious of youth. Not of being younger but of feeling that way. Of looking that way.

Today at the beach, I watched teens and twenty-somethings stroll up and down the sandy runway in front of me. Their bodies, regardless of size really, are still taut and solid. The vagaries of aging, childbirth, stress and life lived don't yet show themselves atop such fledgling canvasses. 

Tan girls with perky breasts and butts peeking from tiny, brightly-colored bikinis walked with confidence as their windswept hair blew around their sunglasses. No stretchmarks criss-cross their lower abdomens. Age-spots and rising veins don't interrupt the smooth expanses of hands and legs. Sag isn't yet a word in their self-descriptive vocabulary. 

Equally bronzed guys swaggered with confidence. Their necks slope into shoulders whose defined muscles are newly minted. Their torsos are taut like a drum, lean stretches that draw eyes southward. These bucks can still drink beer daily without the gut that will start to grow in another ten years. They can jump in the air and crash into the ground to catch a ball and be no worse for the wear. 

You can sense the vibrant spark of sex and newness all around. The life in young people is palpable. Intoxicating. Lusty. I covet it.

I had the strange sensation of being surrounded by ripe peaches, dripping their sugary juices everywhere but where I sat.

I have never wished to be a teen or twenty-something again. Not once, for I found those years to ask more than they gave in return. I love being 39 and am grateful every day for the growing self-acceptance and assurance I feel, for being settled in so many ways.

But when I see pictures of myself now, I sometimes gasp a bit. When did my skin start to look so...well, old? I like my laugh lines and crow's feet because they symbolize happiness, but when did they become so...well, pronounced?

When did my stomach start to so assertively resist all manner of toning exercise? When did my hair begin to frizz and require mousse? Mousse! Why do I never, despite lathering on bottle after bottle of moisturizer, feel, well, moisturized? The circles under my eyes are not going anywhere. I think I'd best accept them and stock up on concealer. 

My hands are looking ever more like my mom's and grandmother's: prominent veins, slightly ridged fingernails, skin that looks to me like micro-scales or finely-grained leather. Unlike the other evidence of decline, this I don't mind.

I always loved their hands and can still feel Nanny's in mine, even though she's been gone for nearly two years. In her later life, her skin was paper-thin but so soft. Unbelievably so. Her uneven fingernails were like a New Orleans sidewalk: on not a one can you walk two feet without encountering a break in the concrete due to uppity Oak tree roots. 

My mother's hands always seemed so capable. Strong yet tender, large but feminine. I like to think I have a combination of their hands, and so it feels traitorous not to embrace the fact that mine are aging in similar ways. 

As I watched the boys bury each other in the sand and Tom walk aimlessly while reading his Kindle (yet never hit a thing) and all the hotness of youth swarming around, I found myself glancing self-consciously toward my lap and my poochy stomach. I looked admiringly at my still-lovely legs and at my hands which, like my mother's and grandmother's have done and can do so much, and I felt a poignant peace. 

"It's coming this way"

The kids are watching Looney Tunes during their quiet time. We adults have snuck away to various bedrooms and porches, much more in need of rest and silence than the children are. Like the best children's books (the Frances books and pretty much all of William Steig's works), rest time strikes me as a brilliant example of parents creating things as much for our benefit as our babies'. 

I am sitting on a rocking bench on the covered balcony off our room, feet propped on a side table. Across the street, just beyond the few homes over there, the inland bay starts. It's a lovely body of water, always calmer than the ocean on the flip side of our home. There, the waves slap the beach, minute after minute, during high tide and low. It's wonderful in a more tumultuous way.

This inlet though is largely waveless. Its movement is uni-planar, first sliding one way and then back from whence it came.

The sky over our house is blue and dotted with puffy white clouds. But they are hurrying away from something, and when I look across the little bay, I see a quickly-advancing wall of ominous gray. I can literally see it moving towards me, the wisps of black seeming to rush more quickly than the heavier charcoal shroud behind them. 

Zig-zags of lightning sizzle through the sky, slicing it cleanly before dissipating. The thunder is ear-splitting. I wait for it eagerly, but jump a little in my seat each time it erupts. My heart jumps a little too. 

The black wisps are circling now. They suggest a tornado, or for Harry Potter fans, dementors.  Gulls glide lazily atop the whimsical air currents, seemingly unconcerned about the storm that is definitely coming.

There is no rain yet, not even a drop.  I glance at the bay and see tiny whitecaps racing toward the shore. The lightning is striking as wide as my periphery will allow- one zig, three!

The boy on the porch across the street yells, "The storm is comin'! It's comin' this way!" The neighbors next door are on their porch too, chatting and laughing and periodically saying, "Ooh, look at that one." One of the women there has the craziest fake-red hair and is always ringing her arms with hula hoops. Is she exercising? Is she a performer? She's heading down the stairs in an orange bikini and a purple, crushed velour jumper. It's backless and teensy. Wher e is she going now??

The winds are gusting with wild abandon, and the temperature must have dropped ten degrees. My hair is blowing across my face and into my eyes; I either need to pin it back or give up. 

The flag next door has wrapped itself tightly around its pole. Is it readying itself for what we all know is coming? One last gull flies away, and now I see no more birds. It is downright cold now, and still, no rain. The trees are blowing this way and that, beach towels hung out to dry are whipping the posts and rockers on which they perch. 

The clouds are still though, and it's eerie. How can my hair by flying back like I'm a supermodel on a shoot but the clouds are still?

Here it comes. The rain is spattering my legs, the can of selzter I had on the ground next to me is rolling away. Everyone is out watching. And waiting. Our anticipation is as palpable and electric as the lightning. 

I love thunderstorms. This promises to be a good one.