The great thing about the kids waking up too early is that I have just that much more time to have my inadequacies rubbed in my face. Minutes, no hours, more of staring at the offending crunchy floors and splattered mirrors. Of course, I should be folding the laundry instead of blogging, but exactly what kind of fun would that be, Mr. Reality Check? I’m such a fun-squasher, too. There was just something about watching E.G. push the spinning chair with his feet and seeing the Proximo’s little toddler leg dragging outside that called for a kibosh from mom.
“Centrifugal force,” I answer. (I believe in telling children the truth. Next up: a history of the Khmer Rouge.)
I don’t think it’s the housework that’s really upsetting me, I’m just generally a little stressed (which is a bit like saying I’m still breathing.) I always know I’m on the edge when I find myself listening to soft rock hits in the car, or even worse, Delilah (shut up, some of you eat Cakesters.) You can read my echoed thoughts about Delilah here, but there are days when it seems like one’s blood pressure could power a locomotive and perhaps some Steve Winwood, or Bryan Adams, would actually help.
Then, on my drive to work today, Chicago’s You’re the Inspiration came on the soft rock and adult contemporary hits station. I knew all of the words, in order, and with the echo/descant. I found myself at the depths of despair for a moment, wondering what other corners of my cerebellum have been given over to contemptible hits of yesteryear. The horrors my brain must hold. I want those neural pathways back.
The next step in de-stressing is to play a round of golf, which is exactly what I do. The company’s scramble puts me in with three gentlemen. I, when reaching the last hole, throw a bit of a hissy fit and renounce golf. I may have also pounded the unsuspecting rough with my club. “I am a better golfer than this,” I storm. Curiously, that little exhibition made me feel happy and secure.
I felt so happy that I put my condo up for sale.