Pill Popping Parents

           

I can’t help myself, but I keep on checking my phone. I’m nervous; I’ve never done this before. I guess it’s not uncommon though; there are lots of housewives that start taking drugs to fill the desolate, dull days spent at home longing to have a real life. My once beautiful golden curly locks have dissolved into wiry, straw like strands of yellow frizz. My once full-of-life ocean blue eyes seemed gloomy and grey every time I stared at my reflection in the mirror. And my once flawless, porcelain complexion had acquired crow’s feet, wrinkles, and sun damage over the years from all the worrying about my three barbaric and conceited sons. And don’t even get me started on my husband, Hudson. Without him I could be a fashion designer. I could be a dancer on a cruise ship. I could be free. We met when we were in high school and the perfect kiss-in-the-rain-fairy-tale-serenade-me-at-my-window-cliché teenage romance. Things started off just how they were supposed to, we had a plan. Small little wedding, a cute old farm house by a sparkling blue lake, our first pet, a kitten named noodles, and a baby. Our first born was Cannon, then shortly following him were Bowie and Asher. After they were all born, Hudson started picking up more shifts down at the shop, just so that we could barely pay our bills. That’s when it started. He pays less and less attention to me, and more and more attention to his work. Our sons are growing more and more ungrateful of their mother, and less and less considerate of people’s feelings. I’m letting them slip away. Along with their bad attitudes and arrogant state of mind. Now that my boys are out of the house though, and is Hudson still working twelve hours a day, my life as a housewife has become bland and depressing. So why not turn to drugs?  It’s not a normal middle-aged women’s go-to therapeutic remedy for boredom, but I was once full of color and life. I lose myself in a daydream about how I used to be when I’m snapped back into reality by the vibrating pulses of my cell phone. It jolts me into a tornado of panic. Why did I pick the Starbucks at the mall to meet a drug dealer? I’m trying to be casual right now, but is it working? Do I look like I’m about to purchase illegal narcotics from a suspicious figure? Just as I’m at the peak of my panic a tall, stark man walks into the Starbucks, slumps himself onto the industrial metal chair across from me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled brown paper bag, places it gently on the table and slides it towards me slowly. Right in this moment, I know I’m about to regain the sense of adventure I lost long ago.