Diary of a Writer in Midlife Crisis

I just want to say that people suck. (Well, not all of them. Not you, dear reader. But most. Go ahead. Nod. It's okay. You know it too.)

Case in point: Today, I was walking our two dogs, Elvis (the new guy) and Winnie. Winnie, who we've had for more than a year now, is an angel. In fact, sometimes, I see the sprouting of wings from behind her prototypical border collie ears. She walks great on a leash. Doesn't bark at pedestrians or bikers. And is generally and mostly interested in a good poop and a little exercise (kind of like me on a good day).

Elvis, on the other hand, is new. We've had him for barely a month and, frankly, he's a bit of a hothead. Small, but maniacal in a "he's-so-cute-OH-MY-that-hurts" sort of way. He'll often grumble at pedestrians, whine when he sees a rabbit, and go into full-on hysterics when somebody on a bicycle pedals by. (Characteristics of a few of my ex's, but I digress.)

Of course, we're working with him, but Rome wasn't built in a day. And Elvis will not be sprouting wings for several months, at least.

So today, I'm out with Winnie and Elvis walking on the path that circles the small but scenic pond by our house. It's a beautiful sunny day, moderate and bright, when a biker comes by on a five-speed. Elvis let's out a low squeal.

To prevent any escalation, I quickly respond: "No, don't you dare." Then, I pull him close to prep him for the sharp but humane snap of the leash that will come if he goes ballistic at the poor woman.

Typically, this tug is enough. Elvis is usually compliant.

But not today.

Instead, he barks, and then Winnie barks, and then, as the young woman calmly whizzes by, I trip over a small piece of mulch and begin my descent downward towards the ground. The dogs, in their frenzy, pull me to my demise.

With a leash around either wrist, I fall face, hands, knees, and elbows first (which doesn't really leave too many other body parts), into a dense mountain of brown dirt, scraping all of these parts and then some--and twisting my left forearm to the point of hurting.

"Expletive. EXPLETIVE." The dogs look at me like I'm an idiot.

Not my proudest moment, I will say, laying there with stones down my bra, but it was inevitable. I'm not all that graceful and between the stuff in the road and the bikers (now there were two), and the maniacal new rescue dog, going down was simply a matter of time.

And yet, I could not anticipate that, when I did, the people walking by, the bikers biking, the planes in the sky, would do nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Just walk over me. Ride by me, heads shaking in disdain. Stay on course in terms of speed and flight path. While I wiped the blood from my chin and mumbled a strained, "Si-it, you two. [expletive. expletive.] Stay. Good GOD, I beg you."

When did white middle-to-upper class America get so callous? I mean, people, I was LAYING BLOODY IN THE MULCH? (Okay, well, a slight exaggeration, but still.)

After a few minutes of squeaking out a few commands and praying the cyclists had gone off to a new trail (in Hades), I pulled myself up, wiped the dirt and God knows what else off of my stretch pants, and yanked the dogs to my side. "Let's GO." I said, as if I were yanking two abberrant toddlers from a china shop.

They both stared at me like I had been invaded by aliens. What did you do with our mother? Are you going to hurt us?

In all fairness, it really wasn't their fault. (They have nothing to do with the fact that people have no scruples anymore--and could care less whether one of their neighbors was laying dead in the azaleas.)

So I did come home and, after settling down, gave them each a pig's ear and a Vanilla Wafer to signify the body of Christ--or whatever for good luck (felt oddly good in theory).

And frankly, were it not for the extreme housing bubble and the fact that we're still paying attorneys (to see C), I'd be on realtor.com right now, looking for a kinder gentler environment. One where people loved one another. And stopped when they saw the person from next door face down in the shrubs.

So now, I sit here, shaky from the fall, longing for THREE Dunkin Munchkins, and disheartened from the lack of character in our social consciousness. (My arm hurts.)

And to those bikers, if you're reading (and you know who you are); shame on you.

Until next time.