It’s finally warming in Atlanta, this weekend taunted us with temps that felt like spring and for the bijillionth year in a row will surely confuse the tulips and azaleas and crepe myrtles. They’ll bloom, it’ll freeze again and there will be a collective “awwww” across the city at the same the trees and flowers haven’t caught on to Mother Nature and her dirty tricks by now.

It’s hard to type with frozen hands. Two space heaters in my cube don’t help, the cavity I had filled two weeks ago still hurts so much I’m only chewing with one side of my mouth. The Mc is down with a cold and I spent the better part of yesterday in a separate wing of the house because we’ve been unusually bit¢hy with each other for no good reason.

Riveting, I know.

It seems weeks fly by and I barely notice. I’m numb and exhausted from not doing anything of substance.

This weekend was a rare opportunity to do anything. Other than an appointment for a little chop-chop on Saturday morning, The Mc and I had no where we had to be and nothing we had to do…it should have been a perfect opportunity to take pictures, to knit, to catch up on reading, to go for a long walk or a hike.

Instead, we both found ourselves feeling puny, a little icky and a lot unmotivated and spent the better part of our two days lumped on the couch, snaking and starting at the flickering lights on the boob tube.

I’m not sure what’s gotten into me - or rather - fallen out of me.

Gwen would say it’s the weather. That’s probably the foundation for me, but there’s more to it.

Maybe it’s the paralysis that comes from having so many things you should be doing that you can’t start any of them. Someone once said “even joy can become a burden if you laugh too much.” Was it me? Did I say that? Even my ability to recollect is blurred.

Maybe it’s the disappointment from the promise of something falling flat and the struggle to find motivation again.

Maybe it’s the burning to do something more, something real with my hands (see also: cabin).

Maybe it’s my always present lack of patience and need for immediate gratification.

Maybe it’s the feeling that life has become predictable and normalized. I loathe both.

Even the illogical is creeping in: last night I was half way to sleep when I said something about wanting to go to Disneyland. Mc indicated he didn’t want to go, he’d already been there. I know better, but I probed “with your family?” Yeah…um…no. Why does that even bother me? It was a lifetime ago and I’m not without my history. See? Illogical. I’m fine intellectually, but the emotional is disconnected. Ironic, since my therapist and I just decided we could start easing up on the frequency of our appointments.

I’m numb and gray and find myself both over stimulated and bored out of my mind at the same time. I don’t want to write about anything, knit anything, go on walks, or take pictures of anything.

I flash forward. I think about being in the house we build: sitting and listening to birds and trees and drinking a little tea…and not showering for days on end. Planted in front of an entire wall of windows that are open wide, and a nip in the air I don’t fight.

I want to be where I’m not thinking about the taxes I finished a few weeks ago or my recent (second) bout of card fraud. I want to be where I don’t have to make the bed every morning or do any other chores (because the dang house is up for sale), what my calendar looks like or any other spoken or unspoken requirements that bind and confine me…including doing this.

*sigh*

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Taking a class on a Tuesday night is not a good idea.

The photography class I’m taking is from 6p-8p, which means busting out of work, making a bee-line to pick Beth up, getting to class, listening to my stomach growl starting at 7, and whispering to said partner in crime “I’m famished”. Dinner after class to rehash what we’ve learned that night and talk about plans for practicing new said skills. Home around 10/10:30 for a shower, a little computing and sleep around 11:30.

That had less to do with the point of my story and more to do with me being SO FREAKING TIRED for the last four weeks and being frustrated that so many other parts of my life are suffering because of it. OTOH, I love the class, get to spend time with B and am distracted enough/have no energy to devote to worrying about selling The Big House.

So last night after Greek yum yums with B & her oily bohunk, a drive home in crooked rain and a quick scalding shower, I fell into bed. No puter, no reading, no knitting. Grayson hopped in when he saw me spoon The Supremely Unconscious Mc, promptly inserting himself between us.

Everything else went as it normally does - Little Dude started “making biscuits” on my neck at 4am, so I flopped my legs over the side of the bed, scooped him up, walked to the hall, put him down next to his sister and closed the door…sleepwalking back to bed.

At 6:30 (late) I woke up to more of his kneading and clanging of The Mc unpacking the dishwasher. My coffee hadn’t been delivered so I stumbled downstairs to a somewhat amusing “Hi, I’m The Mc…have we met?” theatrical performance. When that was over I asked “why are both bedroom doors open?”

We have French doors on the bedroom, the right side of which is usually closed and held in place by a D shaped sliding lock at the top of the door. When I got up, they were both open.

“The cats broke in” he says. “I heard Amber doing her usual scratching, and the next thing I knew both doors were open and Grayson was on my head. You don’t remember that?”

Nope.

That Amber…she’s a beast. And this? Possibly the crappiest story of all time.

During a long distance reality check from my older, wiser and much more daring seester last night we were discussing my being in a vulnerable place. “That’s not a good place for you” she says. I grunt a nearly inaudible “no” to affirm the statement. She goes on. “It’s not one of your favorites. I’d guess it’s not on your list of 100 places you want to go before you die.”

I love her perspective and I love her for making me laugh when I’m feeling poopy.

*****

This morning laying in bed, with The Mc standing over me telling me it’s time to get up and my coffee is waiting on the bathroom counter. My face is buried in a pillow and I grumble “cramps” following it up with an overly dramatic child like pouting fake whimper.

“Women really should get extra time off so they can stay home during the worst day of their cycle.”

He’s a logical, handsome, witty, charming little genius and I love him for sympathizing with me.

Yanked from ThreadPit

I have nothing else to say today. Look at pictures instead.

Thursday? It’s for hangin’ at the DMV and organizing closets in preparation for a visit from a real estate agent. And Friday? It’s for trips to the mountains, knitting in the car, fresh crisp fall air and walking through big ole’ beautiful trees in a virgin forest celebrating the earth and limbs that work and a happy heart.

My friend Ken has proposed that the US stop creating and placing warning labels on any and all items, indicating that no only could we weed out the weakest links, but we could save a bundle on our car insurance a fraction of our ridiculous government spending issue.

Today, I’d sign that petition in a heartbeat.

Cranky? Me? Never.