Entry Four-- 12 Sept.
There's one thing that bothers me: I don't know when my birthday is.
The subject comes up when one of the elderly patients turns eighty-two. He holds a party for his friends and relations- including Kalen and I.
At first my roommate can't get me within ten feet of anything resembling a blouse or skirt. I protest
that I've never worn either, but she maintains that I probably have.
"C'mon, Mia. It's only polite to dress up when someone invites you to a party."
"C'mon yourself! I'll go in shirt and pants or not at all."
She glares: the first time I've seen her truly mad.
"Kalen. I can't; if I'm all hemmed in like that, I won't know what to do."
Her expression softens just a little. She says, "OK. Tell you what: try this on, and if you don't like it,
there are some dress pants in here."
She passes over something in a pale green shade. It smells of mothballs and a hint of vanilla.
If you're wondering, journal, I have seen a video now. Since it showed a young woman putting on a skirt, I at least know how to do that.
"Now there's a good look." Kalen smiles full-on at me. "You've managed to gain weight."
Have I? It seems like I've been on the liquid diet forever. What is it with real doctors?
