We had a friend staying for a few days. It was lovely to see him again. It was nice having him around. I’m not just saying that because he reads this *waves*. What was awkward was the realisation of just how tired and flat I am. I’m normally a chatterbox filled brim-ful of snark, and have to be smacked with a stick to make me shut up and let others have a go. This week, I was all ‘no, you talk. I’ll listen. I might nod.’
This isn’t me at all.
My friend, who a) reads this blog and b) is not a moron, spent the whole visit asking me, gently, if I was OK. ‘Yes yes yes yes,’ I’d say, ‘I’m just tired. Insomnia. And I’ve got a headache. Insomnia’s a bastard, eh?’ And he’d smile at me in a faintly worried sort of way.
Oh, bollocks, who am I trying to kid. I feel like crap.
I keep telling myself I have no reason to feel like crap. The weather’s nice (the weather’s beautiful. It’s like June), work is, well, work is no more irritating than usual (though it is being more surreal than usual, also, there’s a cow-orker I need to slap quite hard for Dereliction of Alphabetical Order), diclofenac PR works (this is wonderful), H is snoring a lot but otherwise being adorable, my friends are lovely, I’ve been to the theatre and the opera a few times recently and thoroughly enjoyed it. See?
And anyway, the Universe is all about lessons in perspective at the moment. A colleague has just been bereaved, and creeps about the office like a stricken ghost. A relative has cancer, we thought it had gone, it came back. There’s the divorce thing going on. Other friends and loved ones are unwell, or unhappy, or digging bravely through a metric ton of shit. Old age, in particular, is playing cruel jokes on one part of the family (“You know that horrible version of dementia that your father died of a few years ago? Your mother has it too! Try not to panic when you next can’t find your keys.”)
According to my mother, who was always of the ‘eat your gristle, there are starving children in Africa’ school of parenting, knowing that other people are going through more/worse/different shit than I am, should cheer me up.
Written out, that suddenly seems perfectly mental. Hmm.
Allow me to elucidate, like the Brethren of Ebon Night: I don’t think she meant I should be getting my jollies by sneering at others’ misfortune. I think she meant the fact that other people are suffering should turn my attention away from my own teeny-tiny insignificant whiney woes, which will then dissolve both from lack of attention and from the shrivelling blight of realising they are, in fact, teeny-tiny and insignificant.
Nope, that still seems mental. Because, actually, if you are struggling with Much Woe, or even Some Woe, then having other people’s Huge Woe added to the situation, just turns your Woe into Trifecta of Woe. So, I am not only sad and anxious about baby-making, craptastica of, but I am also sad and anxious about a vast assortment of uncles and cousins and in-laws and friends, and I think the entire world is made out of Shit, by Mr Shit, during the Shit period.
The only nights I’ve slept well the past few weeks are those when I’ve had a drinkie and a shag. Not a pattern I wish to firmly establish in my life – well, maybe the shagging part, that’s quite fun – as my entire gene-pool is contaminated with addictive behaviours and frankly, the only reason I now do not smoke like Jean-Paul Sartre is that I never began.
Oh, speaking of shagging, I may have ovulated last night, day 19, which would mean my cycles are getting quite quite predictable and regular. Of course, it’ll be a few more days before we can be sure, and Satsuma has been known to pretend she’s ovulating for shit and giggles, so we’re not sure, we’re just hopeful.
Anyway, as I was saying, we had a friend to stay for a few days, which was lovely even though I was a giant boiled pile of MEH (I am so sorry about that). Today we went out for the day with different friends for a very long walk in the delightful weather (carefully larded with Factor 15, naturally). Tomorrow we’ve got even more friends coming for lunch.
I think, perhaps, spending time with people I am fond of is better for me than valiant attempts at gaining ‘perspective’ by being made to feel like pond-scum because I am sad and anxious over my own losses (as if I only had so much sadness to go round, and if I selfishly keep some for myself, there’ll be less available for worthier subjects). It’s just not so much fun for the friends, poor lambs. I feel I ought, whatever else is going on, be better value as a friend. Or at least, more amusing. I clearly put an unneccessarily high value on my being amusing.
I think, perhaps, I am rambling, because I am tired, and drinking whiskey (oops).