Never

“Never say never.”—incomplete sentence.

It should be, “Never say never say never.”

I know life is a funny thing and you don’t know what’s just around the next corner.  I’m the poster child for that statement.  I mean, look at me; last week I had a phone interview with a famous successful fashion designer and this week I’ll be speaking with a comic who’s had multiple TV series.  I am both massively grateful and completely thunderstruck over what my life has morphed into.

But.

But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t things that I am sure will never happen to me, by me, or with me.  Because, while my life astonishes me, I am not a stranger here.  I know that some things just ain’t gonna happen.

Never will I be the first person to walk on the moon.  It’s already been done, so unless I have some Doctor Who-level technology, nobody at NASA need worry about what size space diaper I take.

I will never circumnavigate the globe on foot and bike and rowboat.  I’m not a complete couch potato, I walk at least fifteen miles a week with my pooch.  But Nellie Bly-ing is way too sweaty and blistery for me.  Besides, I’m not sure there’s a clear path all the way ‘round where an American passport is accepted anymore…

On a smaller scale, I will never do a cartwheel.  I have been trying since I was eight years old.  If it hasn’t happened yet, I can say it will never happen.  I recently gave up trying, when the fear of breaking a hip and emergency room co-pays overcame my optimism and ambition.

I will never be able to reproduce either my mother’s macaroni and cheese, nor her Christmas cookies.  Her mac is perfect—neither too wet or too dry.  The cheddar to the Velveeta ratio is smooth yet just a little sharp.  It’s perfect for eating straight from the fridge in the middle of the night in your nightgown.

But I can’t.  Don’t know why; just can’t.

Her Christmas cookies; I’ve spoken about them before.  Other people can, that’s why I share the recipe every year, but I can’t.  The procedure is some weird biscuit type deal that I can’t figure out, and the secret ingredient is either crack or fairy dust, to which I don’t have access.  So, if she keeps baking them, I’ll keep frosting them, and when she looks away, eating them.

I will never compete on Dancing with the Stars.  First, the prospect of me being famous is slim verging on impossible.  Secondly, even with months of practice, a world-class partner/teacher, and a touch of CGI, I can’t dance.  My hips are less slinky and more erector set.  Honest, nobody wants to see that.

I will never buy a paradox-mobile.  The 2020 Cadilac Escalade Platinum costs $95,000.  That amount of cash would have purchased 190 of my first car, Lancelot.  Luxury SUV is the very definition of paradox.  Nope.  Also, humvees.  I’m running to Costco, not storming the beaches of Normandy.  Nobody needs a ginormous, gas-guzzling, troop transport vehicle.  When I see them on the road, they usually have only one very self-satisfied occupant.

I still have never owned a cell phone (And every day I’m hearing the “cell” part less.  To anybody under the age of 25, it is the phone.  They’ve never had any other kind).  But there will, I am sure, come a day when I will be forced, by the government/big tech global conspiracy to obtain one.

But if you ever see me take a selfie of myself, just bury me, ‘cause I’m already dead.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

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