“How’s the head?” my mom asks me.
We’re sitting in a busy restaurant with a couple other members of our family, seven total. They are conversing amongst themselves, my aunt with her husband, my dad with my sister and her boyfriend, leaving my mom and me.
“Uh fine,” I reply and take a sip of my soda.
“Number?” she presses.
“Like a three or four,” I reply, my head is surprisingly calm in the noisy restaurant, with the assault of light and smells, and the lack of breakfast.
My mom’s face splits into a wide smile, “good, I’m glad. I’m happy when it’s less than a 5,” she tells me. I give her a funny look, perplexed and maybe a little offended. The fours and fives are the ones that grate on me, wear me out, and make me feel like a failure. I can accept the nines and tens, they knock me off my feet – there is no fighting them. The fours and fives make me want to fight and make me feel pathetic when they exhaust me, “No,” she reads my facial expression, “You know what I mean,” she tells me.
Ah, so we’re taking what I can get, I’ll go with that.