Popsicles for Dinner

In my hand is a plastic Hideway Pizza cup. In it is red wine from a box, about six ice cubes, because that’s what you do when you are pretending to be fancy and just need to chill the wine a bit, and to top it all off, I have a cherry popsicle sticking out of the top, used a stir stick, but it is actually my dinner. The television in front of me is off, because let’s face it, if I were to turn it on, I would find nothing good, and in fact, I would probably find the news, which would make me wish I had a bottle of tequila rather than the makeshift cherry/wine daiquiri I have. My child, oh my precious and lovely {sarcasm} child is in the other room sleeping, or at least he is quiet and not disturbing my dinner. I really don’t care at this point of the day what he is doing in his room, he could be cooking meth, and I would at least be proud of his chemistry skills and his desire to start his own business. I have not sunk to a new low, I have just come to not judge myself and the choices I have just made. This is the year 2020, and perhaps this is my new normal.

My stomach sticks out more than it did, not by much, I can still see my toes, but not sure if I could see my ankles last year. Normally this would cause some sort of internal alarm to go off, signaling my inner runner to kick  into high gear and my inner DJ to start up the “Eye of the Tiger” music. But that bitch Carol Baskin danced to the Eye of the Tiger the other night, pretty much ruining all motivation that song would elicit at this time, yet again, dropping me down into the fiery pit of the “who cares”. So far I have not had to resort to buying new clothes, but with the new technology of stretching jeans these days, I feel like I have a good 20 lbs window before I need to make that decision. My only saving grace is my sinuses have been just bad enough that nothing really sounds good to eat, other than a glass of wine with a popsicle in it, so I will not be needing the number to Weight Watches soon, although the Hideaway cup is really encouraging me to call and have a Big Country delivered. The fight continues.

Oh, and as I look into the bathroom mirror, the one I have to clean off first because my loving child has forgotten how to spit into the sink while brushing his teeth, I notice some other reminders of my lovely state of being. My hair has a bit more gray to it, and that’s the good news. Apparently men look more distinguished with gray hair, and I am hoping that is the case, I could use all the distinguishing I can get, for someone that is walking around shirtless just so I can shame myself into not calling the pizza delivery guy. The wrinkles don’t bother me too bad, I figure if Tommy Lee Jones can still work in Hollywood with that face, I can make it through life with a bit more crows feet. But the zits, the covid mask zits. What am I, in high school again? I have yet to resort to having to buy Clearasil, and to be honest, do they even still sell that stuff? You remember the tinted kind that you thought was covering up the zit and making it invisible, but was actually just acting like a bad makeup job and bringing more attention to the problem. I am a man with gray hair, wrinkles and zits. #winning.

Now my child, the sweet one {sarcasm} is now up, stating he had a bad dream. Normally the inner loving parent I think still exists in me, would be wonderful and go and sleep with him for a while, comforting him and stroking his hair until he falls back asleep. Not tonight. I am able to convince him that the saline nasal spray, that I am currently using on the daily, is somehow this magic potion that will protect him from monsters. After we spray the closet, under the bed, and yes, up his nose, he is convinced he is protected from the evil monsters, and I am convinced I am the smartest man alive, an idea that will only last a few minutes until I return back to the couch and my book and I realize I have been eating a popsicle dressed in red wine for dinner. 

I decide to call it a night, it is 9:25pm, I am not sure if I am tired or if I am defeated, whatever the case, I know that staying up much longer will only cause me to question if I should break into my child’s breakfast cereal and start watching Cobra Kai on Netflix for the second time. I crawl into the warmth of my bed, settle cozily into my spot, and begin my lone prayer for the night: Dear God, please let the nasal spray/monster medicine work, Daddy needs some sleep!!!. Amen.