Even when she shouldn’t have been,
She often felt like she was running on empty.
One among her friends over a certain age,
Who had frequently chosen freedom over security.
In moments of fear, the messy life behind
Flashed like a strobe light, glaring and
Reminding her of nothing prospective ahead
That would lead to a future success.
Between body droop, sagging smile lines,
Thinning hair and more than a love handle,
Choices in men had thus become limited.
A hat-trick, magic wand or miracle pill was needed.
There was a point where the comfortable mode routine
Seemed to narrow and deepen at the same time.
Before any recognition of its having changed,
The rut she’d slipped into had almost suffocated her.
Moving to a new place, setting up a new routine helps.
Yet time itself digs down another layer, in every repeated scenario.
Do everything different every time you do it, is that the hat-trick?
Trade offs can make you crazy, if you aren’t already.
It was a claustrophobic rut – not different than the casket beneath.
She was akin to running out of time, before running out of living.
Still 20 minutes of wonderful, rather than 20 years of routine,
Was the preferred choice on the menu she chose from that day.
Alice Parker © 2010