The Waiting Game

After a lot of heavy breathing and awkward fumbling with my shirt, I was a lot happier than I have been for a while. My doctor gave me the all clear yesterday and it is now up to the head office and the insurance people to decide if I am a good risk as an employee, despite my lengthy bout with kennel cough.

Now the waiting begins. I have been told that placing me shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, it took about six months for me to be hired, thus I don’t necessarily trust their timetable. I’ve started packing, trying to find individual socks and articles of clothing in my mother’s museum of my past. (I found a shirt from 1989 in the closet, freshly laundered and pressed.) My afro wig lays on the dresser, soon to be replaced by a Janet-style shag. I’ll uselessly obsess over which ship and which itinerary I’ll end up on. With my luck it’ll be the same ship I was on before, complete with petty resentments from poor drunken choices. However, one thing will be certain. Within a month most of the ships will be repositioning toward the Mexican Riviera and the Caribbean. Most likely, I’ll still be blindingly white by winter.

Oh, and have I mentioned it’s still hurricane season?