Tomorrow I return to the chasm of despair, knowing that I will get a faceful of shit over the Packers loss to the toilet cleaners of the NFL. That's fine, I've gotten used to it over the last couple years. I can even live with it.
But there's a universal filing system someplace that is filled with invoices of bad things that whomever is in charge requisitions to happen to those of us walking this scarred dirty marble. I once believed, in my stupid, shrinking, rotting, naive little heart that there was another cabinet in that system. See, my mind is still not working in computer terms, I guess, despite my blog about the opposite. It still envisions giant metallic HON cabinets brimming with triplicate forms on all of us. This second cabinet is used to organize the other things, the nice things, or at the very least, the benign.
I don't think there's an even balance there. I've had 3 funerals in the past 6 months, very good people, those. There's been no less than 4 major pieces of household equipment failing since March, no matter how I batten the hatches, and a house that is ill more often than not despite it's brave and relentless battles with it's disease.
Now I've gone into a funk.
I keep waking up grumbling, usually tripping at least once on my way to the restroom, but still thinking, "Today may be that day. That magical day, when that thing, whatever it may be in it's mysteriously vague nature, happens."
That's what I was thinking on Friday. This despite the fact that at first, I thought I had the day off, until my rather rude wife broke the glass on that fantastical hope. I was running late because I set my alarm ahead a half hour in my fugue state of believing I did not have to get up yet. I slipped in the shower and banged my elbow. Despite the warmth of late, I had to scrape hardened frost off my windshield, and the coup de grace, Fog appeared at the end of my driveway. Not just patches in low lying areas like usual, but thick Linda Blair-esque, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, don't go out onto the moors, FOG all the way to work.
That was just the first 35 minutes of my day. Days like this continue to pile up, I get down, my kid gets me back up, or tries to anyway, and I can sometimes work a smile up my face. Maybe even joke a little.
My sister brought something up to me the other night. You know that feeling, that sigh you get just before you start to cry really fucking hard? I haven't broken up in pieces since I put my German Shepherd down 3 years ago, but I've been feeling that way my sister described more often than not. I almost want to, if not for anything, but the relief.
I keep looking for that thing. Whatever it may be. It could be small, it could be huge. It could glow like E.T.'s fingertip. I don't know.
But it better show up soon.
For the time being, I'll have to enjoy the shine on what I got.