Tuesday, January 14, 2014


I've been in recovery-mode for the past several days.

On Saturday, I was feeling pretty down in the dumps.  I assumed it was because of the repair-fiasco.  Because quite frankly, conflict gets me down.  I've met people who I would swear seem to genuinely enjoy it: they're always out stirring up gossip, provoking drama, getting in so-and-so's face, posting this and responding to that--you name it, they're pissed off and they're all over it.

I'm definitely not one of those people.  I'm just not.  Getting into confrontations with other people leaves me feeling exhausted and sad and guilty for days on end, and if it happens often enough, the stress gets to me and I start to feel genuinely ill.

So I thought it was that.  On Saturday night, I ate popcorn and drank a beer and told myself to "Snap out of it and move on.  It's over.  You've weathered far worse."

On Sunday morning, that's what I did: snapped out of it and moved on.  I spent a couple of hours finishing/repairing what I had hired that annoying guy to do. (I never said I couldn't do it myself: I simply hired him to do it because I thought it would be quicker and easier.  I was horribly, horribly wrong, of course, but the principle was valid.)

And then, because I'm not one to wallow in self-pity, I decided I would turn the tide on the whole thing and paint my kitchen.  And make a pot of soup.  And start learning to knit socks. 

I've been wanting to paint my kitchen for a while now, actually, but it was a good thing I didn't because when I went to visit a friend last fall, I saw her recently-painted kitchen and she had chosen a GREAT color.  I decided that's what I wanted for my new kitchen color--something like THAT--and I was very happy I hadn't settled for anything else.

I actually dreamt about her kitchen weeks after the fact--it was that kind of experience.

So I planned to do that on Monday.  But on Monday morning, I woke up 2 hours earlier than I usually do and felt like serious crap.  Because I seem to refuse to believe that I can ever have a genuine physiological reason to feel like serious crap, I told myself I simply needed to eat something--because, oddly enough, I had been eating next to nothing all weekend--and maybe take an Advil and just... get over it.

I did all of the above and I felt better.  So yesterday, I painted the kitchen and then hauled and stacked a cord of firewood.  And then I took a walk.  By nightfall, I had this sinking suspicion that I was once again beginning to feel like crap.  I found it very odd that I was letting work emails pile up, unanswered, in my inbox.  I couldn't focus and the thought of reading or writing anything was a bit overwhelming.

I slowly began to realize that I was perhaps not myself. 

I woke up this morning and realized I did NOT want to paint the kitchen.  I did NOT want to go for a walk or a swim. I did NOT want to cook.  I did NOT want to eat.  I did NOT feel like reading or writing or checking email or running errands or doing anything at all, actually.  I did NOT want to knit.  The most I could be convinced that I might want to do was to pet my kitty cats.  But their litter box was going to need to empty itself today.

So I took myself to the Urgent Care facility which is (luckily) right down the street from me.  Because what I failed to mention is that during all of this, I was somewhat aware of the fact that I had a low-grade infection that I'd been more or less ignoring for the past week.  At this point, it began to occur to me that I might not want to keep ignoring it in favor of stacking firewood and painting my home.

So I'm on antibiotics and things are looking up.  I surprised myself by finishing the kitchen paint-job this afternoon.  And I'm writing this.  And now I plan to read.  Clearly, I'm on the road to recovery.

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Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, "Life is short, but there is always time for courtesy."