Slipping into Toothlessness
It’s midwinter, you’re at the desolate tundra called the Jersey shore and you’re quietly slipping into toothlessness.
It all starts with a missed shower or two. Too damn cold to peel off all of those precious layers of clothing. Besides, you’re not going to see anyone anyway. Bathe tomorrow. (That can be your big “Tuesday” plan! Yippee!)
You could comb your hair at least, but grooming seems like wasted movement. Sure, you shave your legs once in a blue moon, because you never know who you’ll meet at the local dive bar on Friday night. (Oh wait you do know who you’ll meet: a big, fat nobody. Because if there was a big, fat someone here for you, you would have stumbled across him long ago.)
No, the locals don’t even like you much let alone hang with you. They find you suspicious (“What’s her deal anyway?). And that’s just fine with you. Let them think you’re weird lest you wind up tied to a rusty pipe in one of their basements or worse yet, engaged in a conversation about politics with them.
You own 2 robes. One is pretty damn ugly but dangerously cozy. A pale green, the color of bored soul. The other one is a silky red robe for sexy occasions, like walking a dashing young date to the door after a steamy night of raucous sex. You don’t wear the dressy robe often.
Going to bed at 9 seems reasonable because sleep is where the real action is anyway — but you can’t go to sleep any earlier because then your ass is getting up at the cold crack of dawn — something you definitely don’t want. Because you’re not a farmer. Are you a fucking farmer? No, you are not a fucking farmer.
Matching socks, a thing of the past (again, who’s checking?). Folding clothes, pretty unnecessary if you think about it. Come on, a balled up t-shirt is going to look the same after you put it on, give or take an hour. Same with jeans. Why have we been folding clothes all these years anyway? Screw the establishment and its rules.
You eye up the UPS man in a way that makes both of you uncomfortable. It’s not that sexy come hither look but more of a mouth-breathing, schoolyard pervy stare. Maybe you should have put your sexy robe on before answering the door…damnit. Next time.
Late one night, you teach yourself how to pee like a guy so you don’t have to sit on a cold toilet seat. After several unsuccessful attempts, you think you’ve nailed it. You’re surprised by the pride you feel about this very minor accomplishment.
You sweep the front step while reliving an argument you had with a bank teller a few days ago. “Yeah, well I don’t like your attitude either missy,” you mutter. The local cops drive by and see you mid-conversation with self. You get over the embarrassment in 3.5 seconds.
While changing your sheets (because wine in bed and all), you discover chocolate chips from god-knows-when. You eat them, tentatively at first. But then oh yeah, still delicious. Yet another quiet victory.
Brush your teeth twice a day? Once, if you’re lucky mouth. Your hair grows longer than the nights. You wear gloves with the tips cut off, and not for the sake of boheme irony. There’s always sand on you somewhere, in your ears, between your toes. You’re weather worn, an actual beach bum.
How hobo will you go? Maybe you’ll lose a front tooth like the drunk dude up the street and just not give a fuck. He certainly doesn’t. Life isn’t a beauty contest. Teeth are for stars and presidents anyway.
