This is an obtuse angle—not a straight, acute, right, reflex or full angle. Its angle is greater than 90 degrees, but less than 180 degrees, as you can see. Obtuse. Let's pretend life is a straight line, rather than a full circle. At 90 degrees life is full-on-open, in its prime; nevertheless, half-way back to a flat line. Beyond the 90 degree mark, the right angle begins to tilt toward the flattest of flat lines. And look at that arc, oh yes, it has peaked and is on the downward curve. Looks like there's a lot of gravitational force on that slant. Not that an obtuse angle is all bad, ahem, but in relation to age it's not the sort of angle I prefer.
I realize that the ninety degree mark actually came to pass a few years ago, but for some reason, today, this birthday—the last in my forties—I'm seeing numbers from a different angle. After yet another perimenapausal night of fitful sleep and absurd dreams, I woke to a dark, cold house, and drowsy-slipped into sweatpants and an oversized sweater (this, actually just another version of my PJs, or maybe they were my PJs and I never actually changed—who can remember), and a son who never quite developed early-morning language skills, and... NO (decent) coffee. At my age, one needs decent coffee—first thing.
I told myself that it was alright—the coffee thing—it was my birthday, I didn't want to make my own cup of coffee anyway. What I wanted, what I really craved, was a steamy cup of Pumpkin Spice coffee from the local orchard. I wanted to wrap my hands around the Tallest, Grandest, Ventiest cup of Pumpkin Spice coffee I could find. And for that moment in time it was all I needed, all I could think of, not a thing more urgent.
This... and this....
I then sleepily drove a car full of teens to school. (Don't worry parents! Honest, I was fine, I was paying attention—as best I could manage without my morning java jolt—I drove slowly).
On my return home, I stopped at the orchard and ordered that triple Venti cup of hot Pumpkin Spice coffee. But more, I spied a pumpkin mousse roll... and the girl behind the counter, who had already poured my coffee, asked, "Would you like something else?" Are you kidding?! How did she know that?
I looked her in the eye but pointed at the roll and finished her thought for her (because I knew what she wanted to say... in slow motion), "Like the pumpkin mousse rooooooll, perhaps?" Hell—it's my birthday, isn't it! Of course I want the rooooooll.
|I mean really, how could I pass this up? How could I pass up a pumpkin anything?|
So, the girl lovingly packaged my single roll in a little white box, and I left with roll and coffee in hand. I made my way to my car, and juggled a few items in order to open the door. I placed the little white box and my handbag on the passenger seat and proceeded home. At home, I parked my car in the garage bay, opened the car door, swiped my bag and box from the seat and went for my coffee—my PUMPKIN SPICE coffee—in the cup holder. And when I looked down, into my cup holder, my empty cup holder, I said, "Wha?" (Yes, out loud.)
"Wha?!" again and near tears. Where had my coffee—my PUMPKIN SPICE coffee—gone?! How could this be? I knew that I had taken it out to the car. I remembered lifting it from the cashier's counter and walking out the door with it in hand. And then, the dawning: Ooooohhhhh. That's riiiiiiggghhhht. I must have placed it on the roof of my car so that I had a free hand in which to open the door. I must have. However, I absolutely couldn't remember placing it on the rooftop; but, logic being... I must have. And then to confirm this fact, which is certainly plausible (I shudder to think what happened as I drove off—its flight, the cover's seal violently broken, warm spiced coffee splattered across the road, the paper cup crushed beneath a tire, stamped with treads as evidence), I inspect my car for coffee stains, for some proof that the PUMPKIN SPICE coffee had licked my car on the way down. Logic being... and yet, not a spot of coffee. Not one sweaty swatch of beige. I will most likely never solve the mystery—that is how it goes here.
This, after having my twenty-one page story shred the night before. Heartless.
Obtuse? Definitely more than 90 degrees gone. And why do you think the angle is called "obtuse"? That's right—it's blunt, people. BLUNT. As in, not sharp. Yep, Math is not the only thing that is not fun (or dumb). And changing geometry is a killer. But I still had my pumpkin mousse roll! And a cup of tea. And then there was the practice with the cross-country team... that only emphasized the arc...