SOLITUDE SATURDAY

My alarm clock goes off at 7am. I forgot to switch it off.
Before you get up, ever visualize the day ahead of you? This morning, I told myself I'm going to have a good day. It's Saturday, I have (a little bit) money in my pocket and half and tank of gas. I'm up earlier than usual and I have the whole day to do whatever I please. What's on schedule, Chubby?

I stay in bed dwelling on this until 11am. I have no reason to get up. Today, there's nothing that can motivate me to move. No nice breakfast, no shopping, no estate sales...NOTHING. I finally peeled myself out of bed to pee. To ensure that I didn't go back, I got in the shower. "By the time I get out of the shower, I'm going to have an agenda for the day." I took a very long shower.

I dried off and put my pajamas back on. I get on the scale. I lost 12 pounds. The gym is working. That's something to celebrate. I head to the kitchen and ate a big bowl of Trix cereal. I grab my book and hop back in the bed. "By the time I complete this chapter, I'll get out of bed and start the day."

I'm now half way through the book and it's a little after 2pm. I turned off the ringer on my phones, so I have no idea if anyone has called. I don't even care. I just want to spend time alone...Just me and my cat. The soy milk has kicked in and I'm dropping thunderous fart bombs, rattling my mattress. The scent transforms into sleeping gas and I take a nap.

I wake up after 6pm. I go to the bathroom. "By the time I get off the toilet, I will have a place to go." I go back to my room and put some clothes on. I'll take a drive and listen to my new cd's. I get in the car and start driving with no destination. One hour later, I end up at an outlet mall. I don't get out of the car. My cell phone starts vibrating in my purse. It's Dr. J. I don't answer. I don't feel like talking. I just want to spend time alone. I drive for another hour and end up in Berkeley.

I go to Rasputins and head downstairs to the jazz section. My new hobby is collecting old jazz albums. This came about when my 85 year old neighbor told me his music collection was insured for over $50k. The jazz sextion (did I just type sextion? Freudian slip...) was empty except for three sloppy dressed white men in a nerd huddle (comparing Coltrane's, Love Supreme Album prices) and a Black guy sifting through the used jazz cd section. He sees me and does a double-take. He's medium toned, with a small fro' and has thick rimmed black glasses. I head to the album section and hunt for Ella and Louis, 1956. I find a used one and it's $70. Shit. I slowly place it back in the stack. I buy three albums (Solo Monk, Gil Scott-Herron and Bird and Diz) and head to the donut shop. The streets are busy with Alumns for the evening game. They're all decked out in Blue and Gold and most of them are drunk.

I get back in the car and drive back home. I get back into my pajamas and bed and read the rest of my book until I fell asleep.

The only thing that came out of my mouth today was, "Debit", "Thank you" and "maple bar, please".

I'm converting to hibernation mode.