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Take Me Back to Table Dancing…

Still at home laughing at my own jokes and asking the cat what he’d like for lunch. I want to go back to work.

It’s not that I haven’t been working–I’ve been working from home making the daily decision on makeup application, which in turn determines whether Zoom calls feature audio and video or just audio. As the girl who applied fresh foundation and mascara to travel to the hospital for the purpose of childbirth, I blame the virus for my new lack.

Pre virus, I could count on one hand the number of days logged minus a painted face. Post virus, the number will prove humiliating. I do believe it’s contributing to bouts of sadness.

And questions: Is my face really that white? Where did that wrinkle come from? Is that a pimple? And answers: Sorry to say, doll, you’re getting older. I swear that wrinkle wasn’t there yesterday. And, the latest, stop looking in the mirror. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

I want to go back to work. I want to rise an hour early to ensure legs are falsely tanned, every hair is in place and my mascara is as black as my heart. I want to talk Netflix with a colleague at the Keurig. Six feet apart of course. I want to coordinate masks with sheath dresses.

Take the time, they say. Do a spa day. This past Sunday, colored my own hair, took a detox bath, slathered on two face masks, applied facial oil, self tanned and lit the condo ablaze with candles. BTW-girls need a trip to Anthro for candles. No, we can’t order online. We don’t have smell-o-vision. Results? Became intimately acquainted with Corona weight gain across the middle and thighs, unearthed enormous pores and stared at un-pedicured toes for an inordinate amount of time deciding they are man-sized and also showing signs of age.

I have to go back to work. Nothing is left unwatched on Netflix, Hulu, HBO Go or Amazon. Even the classics aren’t helping. Shaking our fists in the air, Scarlett and I can only shout of injustice and never going hungry again so many times before we realize Rhett’s really not coming and tomorrow is, indeed, another day. And another after that.

Read, they say. Lost in the words of others, anger rises. Four books in and I’m feeling for villains and understanding their angst. A romance novel finds itself flung across the room when the virginal heroine says no one more time and this girl says, “Oh for God sake, just do it.”

Write, they say. A block as I’ve never known has descended upon moi. Never at a loss for opinions, the blog, the books, the short stories just won’t come. I have no muse–my beautiful, beloved Dale, the ladies with fake line-less faces and boobs, the men at the steak house sure the twenty somethings are after their minds and not their wallets, and the dive country bar where there’s always a cowboy to cheer a girl. In short, I have no one to laugh at, laugh with, or hoist me atop a table to sing tribute to the Southland with Lynrd Skynrd.

Two months ago, I believed my little life dull, staid and same old. Today, I yearn for my personal brand of excitement, connection and shoe judging. Bottom line…some old broads should not be caged.

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