Not Missing a Thing.

Just now, I was listening to one of the dish music stations and “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith started playing. I’m not sure if I mentioned this earlier—if so, my apologies—but, a few people have inquired as to how I’m not completely batshit from spending almost all my waking hours alone.

Well, this one birthday I had balloons left over from the smallish celebratory get-together; they were gradually descending in the garage, by then nearly hitting floor while giving the impression they were taking their last gasps before flopping on the concrete. I was in the kitchen belting out my best Steven Tyler impersonation when I actually did that “I have an idea” pantomime pose with my index finger pointing skyward, my eyebrows raised, and the easily identifiable facial expression of astonished delight. Realizing my position, I slowly did something like a backwards moonwalk to the laundry room so that I could surreptitiously reach for an incandescent light bulb to, yes, that’s right, hold above my head. Once I put it back in its place, I scrambled to the garage, grabbed the flaccid balloons, and sucked down the last helium molecules. Holding my breath, I galloped back inside, slid across the tile floor, and opened my mouth right at the moment Steven Tyler lets loose the lengthy screeching howl that lacks a single consonant (3:53). In perfect time, I joined him with a roaring squeak, jolting the dog awake. This made me happier than I thought possible considering how pleasing I found all of my activities leading up to the groggy, then baffled, then annoyed Pit Bull head before me. I closed in on her face for the final puffs of helium, still singing nonsense, now giggling uncontrollably, and I kissed her snout, her cheeks, the top of her head, and her big wet nose.

A few minutes like that ever so often are what have maintained my batshit level at a steady 65 to 75 percent.