This post is a stream of consciousness because my consciousness needs streaming, and I’m starting to wear myself out. Clearly the burden needs sharing. Lucky you.

It’s coming to you feathers, guts, and all. I’m not going to edit it. Streams of consciousness can’t be edited or they become pools of lucidity, and I’m not in the mood to be lucid.

Why on earth would anyone with the money to buy one, purchase a gumball-yellow Lexus? Why does Lexus even give the public the option of gumball yellow? Have they no shame—they being Lexus. Where is the logic of gumball yellow in a car dealership equipped with a service department waiting room complete with vibrating recliners, brewed coffee, and a conspicuous absence of Field and Stream? I only know this because a friend, who buys a new Lexus every three years, takes me with her to have her oil changed so I can sit in the recliners and drink brewed coffee. I drive a ’98 Toyota with a cracked windshield. I’m lucky to get a milk crate to sit on where I go for service.

Why, I ask again, does a luxury car maker even have gumball yellow on its color chart? There is something very wrong here.

I saw the gumball yellow Lexus on my way to eat lunch with my grasshopper-eating grandson with the stunning amber eyes you may remember from a previous post. He invited me no less. I mean it wasn’t like Invite Your Grandparent or in loco Grandparentis Day. It was an act of volition on his part. I was touched.

His mother sent me about a dozen texts reminding me about it, where to go, how much money to take, etc. I cut her a lot of slack. With five children it’s a kindness to her if I just settle into the role of the sixth child. Hell, for I know she may see me that way.

While waiting for his class to come to the feeding area, I get to see a little kid barf in the hall. WOW, I think. Here’s a conversation starter for 4th grade boys if there ever was one.

Every little boy, and most men I know, consider bodily secretions and sounds, along with the orifices from which they issue, subjects of high humor. Fart in front of a young male, and you won’t have to add anything else to the relationship for the foreseeable future.

So, we get all settled in, six 9-year old boys and me. I start in on my lunch of sloppy joe, mandarin oranges, and rice pudding. The alchemy of combining school lunch dishes remains immutable.

Trying to be one of the guys was ill-advised. I told my kid-barfing-in-the-hall story whereupon one of my luncheon hosts tersely reminded me that we aren’t allowed to talk about barf at lunch because it’s bad manners. Humiliation is being thusly chastised by a small creature that spends most of his leisure hours with his finger up his nose.

All in all it was a success. One told JD that his grandmother was pretty and another complimented my pumpkin earrings. I just hope JD doesn’t tell his mother about the barfing debacle.

Most of my friends have their fiftieth or thereabouts class reunions coming up. Mine’s next year and I’m not going.

I’m being roundly admonished for not attending and, by the way, not by any of my classmates. That would leave the admonishing to current friends who lost twenty five pounds, had cosmetic surgery, rented luxury cars passed off as their own in order to attend their own reunions.

They tell me of old wounds healed, revenge extracted, former sweethearts reunited, etc. They are missing the point(s). I’ve healed the wounds, revenge gives me a sour stomach, and former sweethearts are married or dead.

The real reason I’m not going has nothing to do with their perception of me. It has to do with my perception of them. I want to keep them the way they were when we parted. My only image of them is youth, when we were wild and hopeful, beautiful and strong, full of passion and lust. Why on earth would I put that at risk?

Nope. Not going. However, I am considering cosmetic surgery. I’m researching neck lifts. I don’t want to look younger. I merely don’t want any part of me to flap in the wind should I perchance find myself on the bow of the Titanic with Leonardo DiCaprio holding me around the waist.

I’ve streamed enough. I’m tired and going to make myself some comfort food and watch NCIS on my PC thereby perpetuating the delusion that I’m not watching TV because I don’t have one.