I bought epsom salt today on my way home from the gym. This time I went all out and got the big size, like a good consumer on a pension. Look:
I was very proud of myself for finding it in Duane Reade without assistance, although I can say with a fair amount of certainty that had I asked for it, my request would have been met with a blank stare by the lone store employee who played the part of cashier moments later when I proudly brought my purchase to the counter. (Note: Kudos to you, Duane Reade, for hiring the mute.) I will not tell you where to find epsom salt in Duane Reade, because you have to learn these things for yourself. Later in life you’ll thank me for making you think on your own. Believe me.
So, as I wended my way through the aisles, single-minded in my mission, I told myself, “Don’t even think of thinking ‘Buddy Ebsen Salt’.” And then I told myself, “Well, it’s too late, because you just thought it.” The conversation escalated as follows:
Me: Not really, though. I only thought of it to tell myself not to think of it.
Me: That doesn’t make sense, does it? It entered your mind, so that means you had to think about it.
Me: But I only thought of it in the context of telling myself not to think it. I didn’t think it for real.
Me: You still thought it, though.
Me: Yes, but only — What’s your point?
Me: What do you mean, what’s my point? Don’t get you get it?
Me: Yeah, I get what you’re saying, but there’s really nothing to get. Who really cares, anyway?
Me: I don’t really CARE care. I’m just sayin’, is all.
Me: Then why say it in the first place?
Me: Shut up.
Me: Fuck you. Go soak in your Buddy Ebsen salt and not-think about it. Geriatric jackass.
Of course, those were fighting words. (I am tempted to say, “Them’s fighting words,” but I won’t say it.) (But Jodi, you just did.) (No, not really. I just said it to say that I wasn’t really going to say it.) Fisticuffs, of course, ensued, as fisticuffs are wont to do in matters like this, where tensions and passions run high. Fortunately I tumbled pell-mell with myself down the first aid aisle, because by the time I was done beating myself to a pulp, I needed a few Band-Aids.
“Don’t think of that song from the ’80s,” I mumbled to myself as I crawled on one elbow toward the shelf where the adhesive bandages and other paraphernalia stood in perfect formation like tidy soldiers. “Don’t even think of that song.”
“What’s that?” I asked me.
“I said –, ” I said. “Nothing.”
You see, I may be contentious, but I do know when enough’s enough.