Thoughts that Fester

As I age, I have thoughts that fester. Some matter, some not so much. They come to me at random times, and they grow bigger the more I think about them.

I was at the hairdresser last month, getting my hair ready to make me appear younger than I am for the holidays. Then it hit me like a Christmas tree falling off the roof of my car onto my head. What if I had a heart attack while I was waiting for the color to seep into my roots, and probably my frontal lobe as well? Would they rinse it out while they were waiting for the ambulance? Would they take me to the hospital and then cut off my hair and wipe my scalp with some sort of alcohol? Oh my. Note to self: consider letting the gray grow in this winter when my plan is to hibernate anyway. Yep. I might just do that as a precautionary action.

My journals. I don't always write nice things about everyone, including myself. But I know that journaling is a gift to myself. What should I do with them? Would I want you or anyone else to read them? No, at least not now when I'm not the Jane Austen of my time here in history. But what if my novel, which is coming out in March, becomes the next "War and Peace" and my journals could make my offspring billionaires in perpetuity? What about that? Should I lock them in a metal case and have them sent to someone I trust? Seriously, who would that be? I could tell them that if my book is made into an award-winning film by Reese Witherspoon, she can give the diaries to Sarah and tell her that she should consider selling them to the highest bidder.

What about my computers and what's inside them? Yes, I have more than one. I have five or six, actually, each with very precious cargo that matters to me. No one knows the codes to get in. What about that?

And, speaking of codes, what about the fact that if I died by being raped and pillaged in my home and they think it was someone who knew me, my text messages might lead to the capture of that awful man I had an altercation with in that parking lot a year ago? But do I really want someone going through my texts after I'm gone? I don't delete them, and while there is nothing in there that would matter to most people, I still consider them private correspondence between me and mine. I'm pretty sure Jane Austen's sister destroyed the correspondence between Jane and that mystery man who broke her heart. What about that?

My sister says I have inspired her because I got rid of so much of my stuff, which means no one has to spend weeks here thinking I was some kind of hoarder or something, but these festering thoughts are not to be ignored. I just haven’t figured out the plan for them yet.