Ever since the move, I’ve felt rudderless. Isn’t that curious? I mean, sure, moving is stressful and disorienting and all that, but this is different. This is drifting, a weird sensation of being at loose ends.
Take last night, I’m so far off my game I turned to liquor, which is way out of character. I’m not opposed to drinking, mind you, it just doesn’t occur to me. And that’s what has me baffled; where did the idea come from? I can’t blame the weather. Yet. I wasn’t celebrating or grieving, either. I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t panicky. I was having an ordinary, run-of-the-mill evening. Except for chugging hot toddies.
Wait, though, it gets worse.
This afternoon, in broad daylight, I took a nap. I don’t take naps. I go to the library or Starbucks, I work on my computer or read a book, ride my bike, take a walk, I do things. I don’t nap. This isn’t normal. This is scary and I’ve started thinking maybe, just maybe, I’m surrendering to age. Then I think, oh, crap, this can’t be happening. I don’t surrender. Ever. To anything. I soldier on to the bitter, and usually painful, end.
But I do feel old. And tired. Sore, too — everything aches, shoulders to ankles. So I’m going to give myself the benefit of the doubt and attribute the various anomalies to the moving process. Packing box after box of books and dishes and clothing is hard labor. The unpacking is no day in the park, either. But schlepping them hither and yon is flat-out back-breaking. I think I’m simply worn out.
Plus, I’m finally starting to unclench after four years of unrelenting noise and disruption. So I’ve come up with a strict regimen for the next few weeks: breathe, drink hot toddies, nap, read, watch movies, and eat. In other words, be a slug.
Now, even though I intend to continue posting regularly, I’m so flipping flighty I can’t guarantee anything. I know I’ll be back with Thanksgiving wishes, though. Gobble. Gobble.
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