Weekend In Review

Walking down the hall to the bathroom I found myself with the overwhelming urge to pull the fire alarm in my building. I would love to go play hooky with Husband and enjoy some of this spring-like weather we’re having. Sitting at a coffee shop with him would be the perfect cure for this Monday. Alas, I have work to do.

This weekend I had two episodes of rage - small, in comparison, but debilitating, nonetheless. One Friday and one Saturday. After going so long without having these it was scary to have those thoughts again. Why does my brain think that stabbing my wrist with a fork (which I did NOT do, rest assured) would make the anguish better? Why do I have to scream things I don’t mean at Husband? Why aren’t the pills working?

I am monitoring myself closely now, allowing only for one more of these stupid outbursts to occur before I call the psychiatrist to move my standing appointment up. Having been on pills for so long, though, I do know that this is about the time when a medication will level off and you will see what dose you really need to be at. This thing isn’t a perfect science and it takes a lot of patience, but it’s hard to have that when you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. (But not literally. We do  not own a gun and never will.)

Yet, I can tell that the medication did do something because once it was over it was really over. I took a xanax and a nap and forced myself out of the apartment to go see my nephew compete in the Lego Championship.  Watching a stage full of elementary school kids do the Dougie was edifying, not to mention cute as shit.

Sunday I took my nephew and nieces to the art museum. They are now all of the age where they can appreciate something as potentially boring as an art museum – even my four year old niece made it three whole hours before starting to ask that we leave “immediately”. It was really neat to share one of my passions with them. They are all little artists in one form or another at varying levels of skill and they were interested to see what works qualified as “real” art.

I proudly strolled them through the European art section, drooling over Degas and Rodin and some of the lesser known masters that I consider among my favorites. I was surprised to find them most interested by the abstract artists like Miro and Picasso (but everyone loves Picasso, really), my oldest niece claiming an interesting Jasper Johns piece as her favorite of all the things we saw. Though I hadn’t planned to take them there, we ended up in the Modern and Contemporary Art wing where they were fully submerged into the world of “Why the hell is this art?” There the youngest begged me to read the descriptions of the pieces that interested her, like the wall of mirrors with a small child and some stage lights on it and the one that captured all of us – a creepy sculpture of a pair of hairy child’s legs in wax in place of the handles of a faucet in an over sized sink.

Despite the fact that the parking garage raped my wallet (note to self, never use parking garage again) I was so happy to have been able to share that place with them. The Philadelphia Museum of Art was one of the first “real” art museums I ever went to and now it is theirs as well. I had been dreaming about that moment with them for years, biding my time until they were old enough to not get super bored by looking at pictures on the wall. Afterwards I took them all to Starbucks for little hot chocolates, rounding out doing all the things I love to do.

By the end of Sunday night – after a hearty helping of my sister’s chicken parmesan and a dance off with the nieces – I felt normal again. I felt like a part of my family, like a part of my life, which is so much better than a sad silent spectator. I hope that this means that the rages will be fleeting and not a worrisome sign of something in need of changing. I am hopeful, period, and that makes waking up on a Monday worth doing at all.

Lightening

Normally on my way up the stairs at my office there is nobody to accompany me. I like this, as it keeps me from having to explain why my breathing sounds like I've just ran a marathon by the top. It’s less embarrassing when I am alone. Today I was not.

Three stairs behind me was the pretty asian girl from the third floor, the one who parks as far out as possible every day. She is petite and stylish. As I turned a corner she caught my eye, smiling.

“Normally have you lost your breath when you get to the top?”

“Yes, I definitely do!” I replied. My smile broke into laughter. Apparently climbing the stairs is hard for other people too. This made me feel a lot less ashamed of myself.

The second social networking event was more networking than social but Husband and I were happy that we went. We both made some interesting contacts and, really, I don’t think either of us expected anything from it. Just another lesson in the benefits of lowering ones expectations, I guess.

Also, despite being a little drunk last night I actually feel pretty good today, probably because I was in bed before ten. It was pretty awesome. I slept a heavy, solid sleep dreaming of fish in various, colorful states existence. I awoke refreshed and totally happy with my early bedtime.

It appears as though the little old lady is sticking around after all.

With Age Comes Being Old

The man on the radio told me yesterday that a fancy scientist did some analysis and discovered that the most depressing day of the year was yesterday. It’s called Blue Monday. There is even an existing formula to back it up, if you believe in formulas.

 According to a press release by a mental health charity,^[8] the formula is:

where weather=W, debt=d, time since Christmas=T, time since failing our new year’s resolutions=Q, low motivational levels=M and the feeling of a need to take action=N_a. 'D' is not defined in the release, nor are units.

I tended to agree with that statement, considering the heavy fog that had been hanging over the city all day. It wasn’t cold but it was dreary.  When I got home I flung my rain spattered purse on the couch and sighed exasperatedly.

“J’en ai marre de cette journee!” I exclaimed. I’m so sick of this day!

Husband responded by promptly rising from the spot and doing the dishes. And the world was good again. (I think I’ll keep him.)

Lately I have been feeling remarkably old. This is silly because I’m not even thirty yet, and I also do not believe that thirty is old (or forty for that matter). I am convinced that I must be possessed by some little old lady who is trying to get another few extra years out of life. The proof:

• My tights feel like sausage casing around my belly. I might be losing feeling in the lower half of my body, or else I am about to be squeezed in half.
• I just referred to this as a “three cup of coffee kind of day”. This is because I am having coffee after two P.M.. I am afraid it’s going to keep me up all night.
• I put on the adorable cocktail dress this morning (thought being: wear the dress to work, be ready to go as soon as I am done.) and upon realizing it’s a wee bit short in the rump area I deemed it “not work appropriate”.  Twenty one year old me is so ashamed.
• That third cup of coffee is needed because I went to be after eleven last night. ELEVEN, people. THAT IS SO LATE.

So I guess what I am wondering is how much does an exorcism cost these days? Or maybe I can lure the old biddy out with some nila wafers and tea? Either way I suspect that I tomorrow, after going to bed late two nights in a row, it’s going to be another three cup of coffee day.