Where Are You?

In a domicile with a footpad of approximately 2200 square feet, three thinking beings live -- two cats and one human. They are boxed in and boxed out of the surrounding environment, feeling cold air circulate, chilling their skin or fur, while the outside temperature hovers around 90 deg F (32 deg C).

The human shuts herself into a separate room to typewrite, isolating her from any sentient being in order to free her body to focus on transferring thoughts to text. She has no skin-to-fur contact that might impose itself.

The human sits and waits for words to pop out of her fingertips.

She waits.

And waits.

What is time? The cats are fed. The mail has been pulled from the box at the road. No visitors are expected. At 16:32, 24 more hours will pass before any appointment with other humans is expected.

The human thinks to herself, "I am an 'indicator species' type, predicting environmental changes and other influences on living things, mainly human ones. When I get down to it, I am bored with myself. I am a boring person at large."

She looks at the empty photo albums beside her and mentally puts the stacks of photographs into categories that will magically insert themselves into the albums if she only concentrates hard enough. Or not. The cats sure won't sort the photos for her. The job is hers...when she decides to do it.

She waits for inspiration. She sorts her thoughts into categories - recent conversations, emotional states, color palettes, to-do lists, unmatched shoes and socks, blouses that are too small, memories of long-lost boyfriends, and antique shops to browse.

She looks at her nails - chewed to the quick. She's not the fancy fingernail type. She'd rather spend her money on gourmet chocolate and weekend getaways, using discount coupons to spend one night at a resort hotel and eat at a fine restaurant when she's in between man friends.

She sees the key to her convertible BMW and wonders who blogs about their cars. Hers needs a good bath and scrub, and maybe some vacuuming, too.

She talks to herself. "Who am I? Why do I sit here by myself when the cats and I are perfectly satisfied to sit in front of the TV and snuggle together?" She sighs.

After her two failed marriages, her parents stopped putting pressure on her to have kids. Even so, they still want her to answer the questions, "Where did we go wrong? Why can't you find a good man and settle down to have kids?"

She has no answers. Those are not the questions she's asking herself. Instead, she wants to know if there is a universal truth that answers the question, "Why am I who I am, a human?," that applies to both genders.

She looks at her wrinkled, freckled hands, with light wisps of blonde hair running up her arms. Her fingertips are worn smooth from typing. She sighs again. She begins typing.

"I am a woman getting older. I am a wise person. I am stronger than most of my friends but maybe a little less happy because, my friends tell me, I think too much. I am me because of who I am. I cannot be someone else. I would not want to be someone else. I am here with me and close to my cats. I can have any man I want but right now I don't want a man. Men are good for a few things but not everything."

She sits back in her chair and looks at the cobwebs black with soot from the candles she burns. She clasps her hands together, places her chin on a finger and yawns. She feels a couple of hairs on her chin that she should cut, if she remembers to look at herself in the mirror tonight or tomorrow. She feels thankful that her complexion allows her to go without makeup.

She pushes herself from the desk and stands up. She's decided to take a walk, knowing the cats will beg for her attention when she leaves the room and heads across the house to the garage door.