February 21, 2005
"Excuse me but can I be you for a while..."
I'm well awake long before I glance over at the clock and find out it's still too early and I ought to be asleep. One of my sisters has offered me a week's worth of pills that would knock me out and help me get back to a normal schedule. Aside from the mental crap I know the insomnia has to do with my not eating much or very well, staying up too late, lack of exercise, etc. Like any of that is new.
Tabitha's been sighted. She's been hiding out in the seemingly endless crawlspace of the triplex next door. Scott's got filthy clothes and bruises on his knees - battle scars from trying to reach a cat who clearly has no interest in coming back inside right now. We tried again last night but she didn't seem to be around.
Despite being old, fat and practically toothless she's probably already formed a gang of cats who find food for her or maybe she's found some soft-hearted sucker (as I have been) who will set out a little something for her. Enjoy your grand adventure, cat. What do you care that we're worried about you. Frickin frackin ungrateful minx.
On the opposite side of the spectrum, Ginger is clingy and demanding. She seems to think my every waking moment is dedicated to her. Just guess who is sitting on my lap right now, enjoying her current status as the only cat in the house. Fortunately she's more of a lapcat and doesn't interfere with my keyboard/mouse activity.
The office is closed for today's holiday, although other people I know have to go to work. I'm tempted to sneak in for a few hours. My desk is awash in Many Things to Do.
On the ride to and from Nashville we also listened to lots of Margaret Cho. She's funny enough to cut through the fog in my head, and I laugh until it hurts. I wish I could be that fearless. Anyway, she talks about dieting in a performance from her Revolution tour. She gave all of that up after her last really bad fad diet. (It was really, really bad, and she explains, in excruciating detail, what that entailed.) She says she's now on the "Fuck It" diet, which goes really well with the "Fuck That Shit" exercise plan. That became a recurring joke during our trip as we ate lots of junk, washed down with strong drink.
But now I'm back home. There's a cat who needs to be dragged back in, laundry to do, lots of clutter to do away with this calendar year. A job that needs more attention than I've been giving. I need to be more involved in my major relationships - my marriage, my friendships, my family. I need to resist impulsiveness and reacting from extremes and accept that there is merit - reward, even - in commitment, responsibility, moderation, and self-control. I can't just say "fuck it." I don't get to be young and stupid anymore. In one sense, I kind of mourn that - like growing up means giving up. Growing old. But change doesn't have to be negative, and not all loss is painful. I'm trying to believe this, even though things really suck right now. (Feeling sad and angry now. Is that progress?)
But as one friend put it to me recently (thank you, J), you change from one moment to the next - you don't mourn the loss of yourself from five minutes ago. So in mourning for Mike, we keep him close by remembering him. We can miss him but we must still find a way to keep going. It's what's supposed to be done, even though it hurts so much to even think it.
I can't afford to stay frozen, incapable of doing anything. Inaction - being able to do something, but unable or rather unwilling to act, which is itself a choice - is like a living death. To live is to act: to think, to choose - but also to do.