It might be too early in this Daily routine thing I signed up to participate in to want to opt out now, but today’s prompt is … well, … not interesting at all. At least not for me, anyway.
The last (and usually only) person I saw was my mother, and she’s entering the early stages of age-related dementia. To pin-point any one aspect of the inner workings of her mind is like asking me to … read her … mind.
Okay, fine. I’m going to be the bratty kid who throws a hissie fit when she doesn’t get her way, accuses everyone of being a jerk, and then stomps off in a protruding-lower-lip huff.
Like the picture I chose for this post? Me, too. Now, THIS kind of attempt at reading ones mind appeals to me. It’s dastardly goodness at its turn-of-the-century best, eh?
Maybe I’ve reached an age now where reading minds isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and that half the time I can do it without trying, or even wanting to go there. It’s not that difficult anymore to figure out what someone else is thinking, feeling, wanting, needing, or even when they’re not doing any of those things.
My emotional side has toned down to the point of it not being as invasive, all-encompassing, and loathsome as it once was, and anymore, I just don’t care what they’re thinking – about me or about anything else.
On the other side of the coin, though, I do find myself asking in a whiny voice – What Were They Thinking? – more and more, which becomes instantly irrelevant yet no less intriguing to a mind such as my own.
Then I slowly come to realize that, more and more, it’s because the person in question actually WASN’T thinking. This would open a whole new playing field for today’s prompt, yes?
To be fair, though, I’ll answer today’s prompt by saying that this morning my mother and I watched a segment on our local Fox News channel here in the Detroit area, and the three hosts (two women and a man) were chatting. The blond asks the brunette, “Is he like this at home?” and the brunette responds with, “You know, I get that question a lot, and the answer is no.” To which I remarked, “What? Wait. He’s married to her? The brunette?”
(recall the earlier informative remark about mom’s dwindling mind above)
Even before she got old, she was always right and everyone else was “…an idiot”, and that aspect of her personality hasn’t changed one bit. She’s also going deaf, too, and with said TV blaring up close to volume 30, I can barely get a word in edge-wise before she cuts me off with something completely irrelevant or argumentative.
Just prior to reading this prompt, she burst into the den here and accused me of being WRONG.
“He’s not married to the blond,” she sneered. “He’s married to that other one. The one with the big breasts. The pretty one with brown hair.” (because she’s a brunette and I’m a blond, but whatever)
So, I sighed, nodded in agreement, and said, “Yes, mom. You’re right. I asked if he was married to the blond and not the brunette.”
The door closed and … here I am.
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