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Standing On Your Head
Apr. 15th, 2021 09:40 amAll day yesterday, my nose wouldn’t stop running—which made me flash on the joke I thought was the height of sophisticated humor when I was nine years old or so: If your nose runs, and your feet smell, you are probably standing on your head.
I was sneezing, too, and altogether felt a general degree of mental wobbliness I can only describe as wonky.
Onset of a common cold? Allergies? Or IT?
I’ll take Door Number Two, Alex.
I never had allergies in my life before moving to the quaint and scenic Hudson Valley but here, evil little allergenic gerweebils lurk everywhere.
Tree flowers? They may be interesting to look at. But they’re loaded with insidious poisons.
###
What else?
The new desk chair the kids went in on for my birthday arrived.
In pieces. That needed assembly.
This meant I had to track down someone who could haul away the old desk chair and maybe assemble the new one—which I could probably assemble myself but I mean, c’mon: why would I want to?
So, I called the nice people who have done this sort of work for me before at a reasonable fee, and yep, yep, they’d do it.
Great! When can you do it? I asked.
We’ll get back to you, they said.
And this instantly pushed me into some sort of slough of despair because, I mean, what if they never got back to me? What if I was stuck with a broken desk chair for the rest of my life that I could never get out of my bedroom?
I hate it that my mind goes into these types of spins but go into these types of spins, it does.
I can only attribute that to the Great Uncertainty that attended every single aspect of childhood and to which only two responses were appropriate:
(A) A complete indifference toward certainty; an open-armed embrace of lack of control
or
(B) Panic
Of course, they got back to me, and I type this sitting in my new, quite comfortable desk chair.
Still. It really does amaze me how quickly I go into full-scale TILT when I’m in certain moods.
###
Also, Ichabod texted me this utterly adorable photo of himself at the summit of Mt Shasta:
The sign reads, I hiked to the top of Mt. Shasta to say Happy Birthday, mom!
But the wind was blowing too hard to unfurl it.
I was sneezing, too, and altogether felt a general degree of mental wobbliness I can only describe as wonky.
Onset of a common cold? Allergies? Or IT?
I’ll take Door Number Two, Alex.
I never had allergies in my life before moving to the quaint and scenic Hudson Valley but here, evil little allergenic gerweebils lurk everywhere.
Tree flowers? They may be interesting to look at. But they’re loaded with insidious poisons.
###
What else?
The new desk chair the kids went in on for my birthday arrived.
In pieces. That needed assembly.
This meant I had to track down someone who could haul away the old desk chair and maybe assemble the new one—which I could probably assemble myself but I mean, c’mon: why would I want to?
So, I called the nice people who have done this sort of work for me before at a reasonable fee, and yep, yep, they’d do it.
Great! When can you do it? I asked.
We’ll get back to you, they said.
And this instantly pushed me into some sort of slough of despair because, I mean, what if they never got back to me? What if I was stuck with a broken desk chair for the rest of my life that I could never get out of my bedroom?
I hate it that my mind goes into these types of spins but go into these types of spins, it does.
I can only attribute that to the Great Uncertainty that attended every single aspect of childhood and to which only two responses were appropriate:
(A) A complete indifference toward certainty; an open-armed embrace of lack of control
or
(B) Panic
Of course, they got back to me, and I type this sitting in my new, quite comfortable desk chair.
Still. It really does amaze me how quickly I go into full-scale TILT when I’m in certain moods.
###
Also, Ichabod texted me this utterly adorable photo of himself at the summit of Mt Shasta:
The sign reads, I hiked to the top of Mt. Shasta to say Happy Birthday, mom!
But the wind was blowing too hard to unfurl it.
