to mend
Today is one of those days when I would have preferred to stay home. I don’t say that often — I actually enjoy the act of working, and appreciate my job despite the unbearable market and all the infamous events surrounding the financial sector and our hideous company. This morning, however, does not follow, I am easily distracted and extremely moody.
This is probably a carry over from the helpless feeling I had after yesterday’s dental sit-in. Truly a grand old time, I experienced any number of ghastly-tasting goos, glues, sands, and grit; all administered with crowbar-sized implements. Three hours and four novocaine shots later, I felt beaten up — I would reference the name of an extreme wrestler here, but I don’t know any — and oddly vulnerable. News of an impending oral surgery (“with a number of stitches”) put me emotionally over the top.
My hope to find relief in the day, my favorite of days, was short lived. The taste for drink lasted about half a beer, and I had no stomach for anything worth eating. I’ve been told the made-from-scratch colcannon was good, luckily I saved a bit and the now-five pack of Guinness will be a welcomed treat another time.
Mostly, I felt screamingly mute, frustrated that I could not mollify my need in those moments, I was not in actual pain, rather it was a high level of histrionics that ensued through the evening. I felt both exhausted and restless at the same time. When it became clear that not even a lovely stout could snap me out of the indescribable funk, I called it a night early but ended up mostly just lying there thinking — about virtually everything, repeatedly — the possibility of graduating in December, the perceived boomerang of my personal life, my apprehension surrounding Easter, and of course considering what to wear tomorrow, knowing that I’ll hate every piece of clothing I have.
After fitful sleep, I awoke to an email from my darling friend, Sean. He sends something about once a week, telling me jokes, sharing a poem, or letting me know he thinks he’s getting the flu. Sean is a hypochondriac, which has little to do with this story, but I thought I’d mention it. Last night he sent part of a lyric (for his consort, Sara), “All I need is one good night’s sleep in your loving arms to mend…” And then it hit me. I too needed to mend and didn’t recognize it. All this forging ahead, responsibility, worry, electronic calendars syncing, to-do lists, and more worry, and I somehow lost the ability to see when I need to slow down and escape life a bit. I would have been a fabulous time to sit with a friend, just sit, and draw calm from them, had I understood. Maybe disappearing for a day is in order.
Although I do own a sewing machine, it is probably no surprise that I’m a horrible seamstress. After all my admissions in the blog, I know everyone would be surprised if I have any talent at all (and I’m right there with you). Then I thought perhaps I this was a job for the patron Saint of sewing, perhaps he or she could help me out since this was obviously out of Pat’s league. Or a maybe just a needle and thread would suffice.
