So I think I may be getting sick.
I am definitely out of whack.
So much so that I feel I must do something about it. Like not gorge any more. Like not eat everyday like it’s my damned last dying day. Like calm down on every level I have access to right now. Drink water and be quiet inside.
I do not want to post today. At all. I want to just slip into a trance and wake up on the other side of this. No such doing and I don’t want to break the amazing streak, and I won’t, but damn, I feel drained and gross and self-loathing and dark and depressive and
My co-worker asked me if I was sick yesterday and I didn’t quite hear her and so, as I do in those cases, I stupidly automatically played along as if I said yes. I realized later what she actually said and wondered why I responded like that as I felt perfectly fine and now, lo and behold, post-nasal drip, my body’s running hot as if my whole epidermal layer is trying to work out a complicated math equation. It’s not built for the work and it’s not sure why it’s trying, but it’s running every last cell as hard as it can to get the job done.
I went to the market this morning. Mr. Dr. Darcy was a pretty giant goose egg, leaving very shortly after I arrived and not before flexing his muscles in my general vicinity (not, I must be perfectly clear, at me or for my benefit. I don’t think so anyway, I suppose I don’t know him well enough to gauge why he does what he does.) My cute headband french braid and plum shirt of overwhelming and almost shameless cleavage had no effect on him. I don’t want to be despondent, but it’s apparent to anyone that it obviously affects me. Deeply, even if it’s against my will to hope impossibly and when things don’t work out as they never could have, to rail against the unfairness of the universe.
So I sat around, smiling at the grandbabies and grandpuppies that surrounded me, feeling like some seminary novitiate. Somehow on some other track where I can be the same age as these girls, but no one expects any children to come spilling out of me. No one expects me to emotionally respond. It is as if I have already been spoken for by some other purpose that everyone else sees plainly except for me.
It is past frustration. It is, perhaps, past all possibility of ever being permanently resolved.
I am overheated and down on myself and bloated and all kinds of really unfortunate adjectives that I will spare you here.
The resolution I can find tonight is only a bath and a prayer for morning resurrection. This morning resurrection, another unlikely and overhoped-for event, will involve Hoarders, water, one master list, a confessional post here, aspirin, my book, and not leaving the house for any purpose but to escape the fire of my own productivity.