fixation

I don't know why we do it to ourselves.

I had an episode on Monday which illustrates this befuddlement at human behavior.

I was driving to St. Petersburg when the rain came.  CAME.  And kept coming.  I knew where I was going, but it was so heavy that visibility was limited to just a few feet ahead.

(Mom, you might want to skip this part.)

I am pretty good in these situations.  I grip the wheel a little tighter and lean forward, but I remember to breathe and I talk to myself to ease the tension.  Other drivers had pulled off to the side of the highway but we were on a bridge and it just didn't seem any safer.  Plus...

...although I don't mind bridges themselves, one of my most terrorizing thoughts is a car falling into water.  A car crash, I can handle.  And my body being hurtled into water, though not my favorite scenario, (I have a thing about water up the nose) is somehow bearable.  But no Car + Water Catastrophe.  It's unthinkable.

So, like most humans, I take the unthinkable and think about it.

Then I think about it some more.

I let my imagination take the unthinkable into laughable proportions.

Then, unlike other humans, I post these things in a public forum.

I don't so much like to think of an accident itself, although it's necessary sometimes in order to get to the good parts.  And who hasn't imagined their own funeral?  I know, it's morbid, I know... but it's irresistible to think about the individuals who could potentially be in the same room that would never have crossed paths otherwise.  (I know you know what I mean.  You can call me a freak if you want to, but I'm just being honest.)  The thing I like to fixate on (yes, I use "like" and "fixate" together all the time) is the Accident Scene, or better yet, the Crime Scene!

For the sake of this piece, we'll say that I am not dead.  (Mom, pick up reading here.)

It's a coma.

So, I'm in my coma (surrounded by a small but hopeful vigilant group.)  "No serious damage to the brain, as far as we can tell, but she might have trouble remembering things."  My husband's eyes show panic because I've always done the remembering for us both; and he knows places, faces, and facts will be a blur forever...   (For Mom:  I'm going to throw in a little twitch of and eyelid or elbow from time to time.  Keep reading.)  Meanwhile, the Scene of the Crime is telling its own story.  Now, could I speak, I could explain that "the guy came in through the window.  I was doing yoga in the living room.  No, there was nothing provocative about what I was wearing..." (this is not some trashy movie, not even S.V.U., my imagination operates more like E.R.- adult content, but tasteful.)  But I'm in a coma, (For Mom:  There is a very kind female doctor--think Diane Wiest-- who comes in regularly: "Vital signs are looking good.") so I can't tell them how I cleverly threw the TV at the guy.  HOWEVER... (this is where my fixation-imagination is at its best) they don't need my answers because a trail of obsessive -compulsive behaviors left all the clues they'll need!

• a calender on the wall shows every hour accounted for
• there's a to-do list on the fridge that could be for forty people
• the clothes I planned to wear after exercise are on the neatly on the bed
• the bed is made
• driving directions to my third appointment of the day are on the counter with my car keys
• and they could probably figure out the force by which I threw the TV by measuring the victim's (that's me) caffeine intake:  fluid remaining in pot, subtracted from used coffee grounds (easily salvageable from the garbage, because I've sealed them in a plastic bag first.)

The bullet and the TV must've taken flight at relatively the same time, because the bodies were found in a sort of butterfly-mirror image of one another, feet almost touching.  His fate was less hopeful, I'm afraid, but that's what you get when you climb through windows.  Then, of course, one particularly clever and inquisitive cop (a young whipper-snapper character with a real mouth on him, but also with such a gift for his job that he's won the begrudged respect of all... and he has two girlfriends, but we won't address that in this episode.)  Yeah, so, this guy- (I'd like Sheffield Chastain to play the role, but if we can't get him, Matt Damon would be good too) - he wanders off unnoticed from the shattered TV and within a few seconds we hear this seldom-heard bit of dialogue:

"Hey, fellas, come take a look at this!"

The elder two cops shuffle over, and the female investigator, who hates the mouthy whipper-snapper with blonde hair and a great ass.

My journal.

From here, we (meaning me and my imagination) could splice scenes from past and present, blending shots of Hot-Ass Whipper-Snapper pondering over the book with shots of the victim, a hair-flowing, open-mouthed-laughing me, but then this would be a program for Lifetime.

Or...

The hot young cop spends hours reading the pages and concludes nothing more than:

"That bitch had too much time on her hands."

Let's say I snap out of the coma after eight days.  I go home.  I recognize everything; there's a shot of me sadly taking in the vacant square where the TV used to be, but otherwise it looks as if life will resume as usual.  Except, that I know things have changed forever.  The to-do lists, the calender, the daily yoga routine add up to nothing, and I become totally spontaneous and messy from then on.  My husband, having believed for years that spontaneity was the single lacking quality that would make me the perfect wife, can't stand the chaos and divorces me.  (Door slams.  A moment passes.  Knock on door.)

Enter young whipper-snapper.

*The rain subsided.  I made it to my appointment with only 3 minutes to spare.  Then I went to the coffee shop.

mon 1-17  grand central perc; st. petersburg**3rd try.  in the rain.**tracy chapman singing "stand by me"**ceramic mug, good coffee**friendly counter-woman.**great interior.**free wifi!!!**and they invited me to stick around after closing time at 2:00.  :)

tues 1-18  whiteberry froz. yogurt place.**$2.50 for ultra-strong chicory coffee.**free internet.**music:  mmm, not lovin' it.  it's a little too techno in here.  the furniture was chosen by mrs. jetson.**it might be worth it for the organic chocolate frozen yogurt, but not for the coffee.