She says she has nothing to look forward to anymore, that she’s just waiting to die. Not that she wants to die, mind you, but she’s unmotivated. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeping in its petty pace from day to day.
We admit to each other that ennui is a First World affliction. Shameful, we say. Yet we aren’t sufficiently embarrassed by our embarrassment of riches to get on the good foot and stay there. She shuffles her investment papers and sighs. I make sure that all the Pellegrino labels in my refrigerator are facing out and wonder with a twinge of self-pity whether I’m the only person who’ll ever admire them.
“What that guy needs is a swift kick in the ass,” my father used to say.
A little ankle grabbing might do us all some good.