They left without saying goodbye. So much for my best laid plan.
The sun is in and out, and the palo verdes are joining the mesquites, both sending tendrils of itchiness out into the air. Someone referred to it as a Super Bloom, and I believe it. My itchy eyes have rejected my contacts all week; I've been squinting or gazing over the tops of reading glasses since my eyeballs decided to become faucets. I'm not even going to try to describe the pouches that have developed between my orbital socket and the itchy eyeball itself.
I'm a wreck.
I see distance with one eye and read with the other; my contacts keep me focused. Without their help, my eyes revert to seeing the same thing at the same time, and my head and my stomach vie for the opportunity to remind me that they are unhappy with the new world order. My brain takes some time to reorganize itself, and that process is aggravating, a little sickening, and, worst of all, is a reminder that my body needs add-ons in order to function properly.
I'm feeling somewhat old and decrepit
New sensations have appeared in the neighborhood of my right inner thigh, going up into my groin and across my abdominal wall. That's not a part of your body which can be rubbed in public, but it's in public that it announces its presence most forcefully - when I'm standing up or exercising or sitting in a restaurant after Pilates. I've developed some interesting coping strategies, but it's an annoyance.
I woke up this morning after the world's strangest dreams - I ran to the couch to be sure TBG was still in one piece. I couldn't remember the details, but the overarching meme was fear and angst. I cried, he hugged me, and then I cried some more. Facebook reminded me that Trump is a big investor in Raytheon, the company which built the missiles he sent to a deserted airport, after warning the Russians that they were coming, the airport from which further airstrikes were deployed the day after 59 Tomahawks destroyed it.... those air strikes hitting the same civilians who'd been poison gassed and happened to be on Fox News when Mr. President was watching.
I saw Justice Gorsuch in his lavender tie smiling and accepting admittance into the club which should have included a Justice Garland, instead. Trump's preening sent me fleeing from the room.
It's all minor stuff.
The bill I thought was due on the 11th but turns out to be due on the 10th. The baby pictures I meant to send Seret on her daughter's birthday never did get scanned; they are a few days late when they should have been a few days early. The book I am reading assumes knowledge that must have been included in an earlier story in the series; I thought I was reading them in order, but there is a new character confusing the issue and everybody seems to know who he is.... but me. Someone knocked over our garbage can and after I cleaned up the mess (I touched those vegetables twice before, thank goodness we bag the messiest stuff, Oh No is the medical marijuana package lying on the street, announcing its presence to those dog walkers who choose to examine the detritus of the past weekend, now strewn over the pavement) I moved next door and did the clean up on JannyLou and Fast Eddie's overturned can as well.
Even doing a good deed didn't help. I was a wreck. There was no relaxing, no calming down, no way out of the abyss. I'm dressed and ready to go to the gym, but this time my Bee Pollen Extract (for energy... it it's Dumbo's Magic Feather don't tell me.... it works!) is being supplemented with a small whiff of Ativan, the 21st century's Valium.
I took it before I sat down to type the story, because writing helps, too. And now, as I think about the conclusion of this post, I notice that my stomach is less turbulent, that my shoulders are no longer bonking into my earlobes, that I'm breathing more deeply and my thoughts are (somewhat) less disordered. It's a tiny 0.5mg pill that really packs a wallop.
I'm not smiling, but I'm not immobilized. I'm off to the gym in my turquoise top. I'll lift and I'll sweat and I'll get myself in gear to face the day. If it took some medicinal assistance to get me going, I'm okay with that. The world is awaiting and it's time to shine.
Mick Jagger is becoming the soundtrack to my life, it seems: