“I like the bubble”
—“Yes, Mrs. ******, we are indeed living in a bubble.”
I kept thinking that to myself as I motored home from Rochester after an eat-out with my niece, et al.
My trip home became a downer.
Our eat-out wasn’t a downer, but driving home I felt old and out of it, like I no longer could cope with life as it had become.
My niece’s boyfriend suggested the reason I was getting deluged with unknown hotties as “friend” requests was because I researched ‘em.
“Every time you do anything on your phone, ‘pyooter, etc. Facebook and Google track your every move.”
“He must like cleavage. He’s researching Truck-stop candy. Send him more boobies!”
Two more this morning — I zapped ‘em both. “Friend” requests deleted. No research.
The “bubble” bit goes back two years. I was traveling by Amtrak back from Fort Lauderdale, FL, where I visited my other niece.
I was on the last leg of my long train trip: Albany to Rochester NY.
In order to stave off sheer boredom, I fell into texting my YMCA aquacise-instructor back home. Like me she also has an iPhone.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.
At one point I mentioned that compared to Fort Lauderdale, Canandaigua, where were we live, was a bubble.
“I like the bubble,” she texted back.
Both she and I live in rural settings, although I’ve never seen her house.
I’m on 4.7 acres, partly wooded, in a house my wife and I designed.
Coming home for me is pushing madness aside — the madness real-world existence has become.
That aquacise-instructor has probably long forgotten that text-exchange, while unfortunately I haven’t.
Driving back home from Rochester, leaving behind its flashing lights and racket, is like returning to “the bubble.”
“Google knows where your phone is,” I said once to my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
“They know my phone is in the locker room, and yours is in the office. They may even be miking us.”
She laughed.
“What I always went by,” I said to my niece’s boyfriend; “is whether a white antenna-festooned Econoline showed up in the pasture across the road; flat-topped thugs inside warily eyeing me through long binoculars.”
Not yet anyway!
But I worry our bubble will soon get burst.
I kept thinking that to myself as I motored home from Rochester after an eat-out with my niece, et al.
My trip home became a downer.
Our eat-out wasn’t a downer, but driving home I felt old and out of it, like I no longer could cope with life as it had become.
My niece’s boyfriend suggested the reason I was getting deluged with unknown hotties as “friend” requests was because I researched ‘em.
“Every time you do anything on your phone, ‘pyooter, etc. Facebook and Google track your every move.”
“He must like cleavage. He’s researching Truck-stop candy. Send him more boobies!”
Two more this morning — I zapped ‘em both. “Friend” requests deleted. No research.
The “bubble” bit goes back two years. I was traveling by Amtrak back from Fort Lauderdale, FL, where I visited my other niece.
I was on the last leg of my long train trip: Albany to Rochester NY.
In order to stave off sheer boredom, I fell into texting my YMCA aquacise-instructor back home. Like me she also has an iPhone.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.
At one point I mentioned that compared to Fort Lauderdale, Canandaigua, where were we live, was a bubble.
“I like the bubble,” she texted back.
Both she and I live in rural settings, although I’ve never seen her house.
I’m on 4.7 acres, partly wooded, in a house my wife and I designed.
Coming home for me is pushing madness aside — the madness real-world existence has become.
That aquacise-instructor has probably long forgotten that text-exchange, while unfortunately I haven’t.
Driving back home from Rochester, leaving behind its flashing lights and racket, is like returning to “the bubble.”
“Google knows where your phone is,” I said once to my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
“They know my phone is in the locker room, and yours is in the office. They may even be miking us.”
She laughed.
“What I always went by,” I said to my niece’s boyfriend; “is whether a white antenna-festooned Econoline showed up in the pasture across the road; flat-topped thugs inside warily eyeing me through long binoculars.”
Not yet anyway!
But I worry our bubble will soon get burst.
—Despite occasional depression, I hafta remember it’s just a mood-swing; a chemical imbalance in my fetid brain, mayhap?
Too many joyous encounters with ladies have occurred. 70+ years late my dreadful childhood is being reversed.
I strike up a conversation with “Pigtail-girl,” and she smiles at me.
posted by BobbaLew at 2:37 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home