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  • Deborah

Just Another "Wish I was a Mermaid" Monday

On Mondays like these, I think I’d do the trade. I’d go Mermaid. No wait, hear me out. I’ve thought it through:


Mer-people don’t talk. Neither do fish. That means no phones calls, no sales pitches, no DNC calling for donations, no apologies for forgetting friends’ birthdays, no “how many times have I told you” rhetorical questions to kids under 9, and no inane grocery-line small talk. I’m a mermaid. I just nod and smile. I can’t hear you under water.


Anything with a cord would be suicidal. I live in water, for god’s sake. That means no bedside light to wake me at 6 am. No computer. No cell-phone. No printer that keeps on jamming. No rice maker that overcooks the rice. No Facebook photos. No Linked In resume lies. No tweats from Ashton Kutcher. I’m a mermaid. I use a hairdryer to bat off sharks.


Sushi every night, right? No food shopping. No recipe books. No standing in front of the refrigerator. No washing, chopping, sautéing, stir-frying or steaming. No ham sandwiches to make. No crock pots to figure out. No loading dishwashers in a symmetrical pattern. No coffee beans to grind. I’m a mermaid. I make coffee out of seaweed and sand. I have a trained seal deliver it to me.


No beauty magazines. No 24-hour gyms. No feeling bad about that power-walk that I didn’t take. The only liposuction happening is with that kinky octopus from the Gulf. Have you ever seen a fat mermaid? How ’bout one with loopy breasts? No more sucking in my stomach because I did eat all the bread in the basket and now, my jeans don’t fit. My scales are flexible. I’m a mermaid. I’m the most beautiful creature a drunk sailer has ever seen.


You never see a mermaid with a book. Or wearing glasses. They swim. They brush their hair. They eat some fish. They play with some porpoises. They occasionally help save a cute man from a sunken ship. They probably sleep 12 – 14 hours a night. No teaching myself new technologies. No trying to figure out digital marketing. No wondering how I could be a better parent. No teaching my kid pre-algebra or helping map out Tanzania on her multi-cultural poster. I’m a mermaid. I just sit on a rock and try not to cringe when the surf sprays in my face.


If I’m a mermaid, I don’t own a vacuum, Windex, tweezers or band aids. My house is a shell so I know nothing about dust mites, mold and allergies. There’s no traffic (other than the occasional feeding frenzy) so I never have to check Mapquest or SIG alert or Mulholland Drive before I leave the house. There are no watches so I’m never late. No poorly situated keyboards so my right shoulder never hurts. Schools of fish don’t require large donations or creative Auction baskets. Mer-children never bicker with each other. Mer-babies never cry. Actually, mer-infants, mer-toddlers and mer-elementary school kids don’t require a responsible adult. It’s parenting by osmosis and new crops of perfect, well-behaved, well-trained mer-people arrive generation-after-generation in full-form. There are no mer-careers, mer-feminists, mer-Tea Partiers, mer-stay-at-home-Moms, mer-Celebrities (well, except for that red-headed one but she went Liz Taylor so no one sees her anymore). There’s nothing to think about when everyone is the same (except for your choice in hair color). I have no worries. I’m a mermaid. People like to paint pictures of me. And I’m friends with Peter Pan.

See what I’m talking about? It’s not a bad trade when you have one of those kind of Mondays.


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