Usually Thursday is my favorite day of the week. Usually I’ve got my creative groove on. I’m dancing with my very own stars and baking puttery pretty messy cupcakes in a pinny. Usually I’m a happy little chicken and all seems well with the world.
Only last night I read a little grown up fairy story that confirmed that yes, Thursday should very definitely be re-named as Happy-Day and so bouyed up was I by this very idea that I fell asleep smiling, and woke up to an empty day full of promise. And PMT. And a computer that has just eaten the rather wonderful review of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening that I have just written for you. And I’m very, very sorry but though I would like to say otherwise I can’t work up the energy to write it all over again, because I rather feel that I would be forever in mourning for the words that went before.
So never mind (it was angsty and feminist in tone and painful and life affirming, kinda. You should read it. I recommend it. I enjoyed it. It made me sad. I like feeling sad). It is Thursday. It is Happy Day. I feel a bit miserable. Sad I can do, misery I resent.
So I am going to carry this bowlful of white hydrangeas to the bathroom for the merry sweet scented hell of it, though the darn things have given me just as much trauma as they gave our dear old Provincial lady. And take lots of photographs and make things pretty enough to pretty up my growling heart all over again. I am going to make my bed with tight hospital corners and chip the wax that has run down my candlesticks away and dab lavender on to my temples to sooth my banging head, and overdose on Rescue Remedy, so help me God.
Then I’m going to bake a cake. A sweet, sticky, store cupboard throw it all kind of fridge cake that won’t have me doing battle with the bolshy little madam that is my oven and then (don’t tell anyone will you?) when I have licked the bowl clean of melted chocolate, I might just take a teeny tiny nap. With orange scented pillow spray for citrus flavoured juicy dreams and the alarm set just in case I get carried away and find myself somewhere I shouldn’t be when I am supposed to be standing at the school gates picking up my child. Hedonistic grumpy lushes are never well recieved at the school gates, that I know for sure.
What I didn’t know is that I would have to give my life over to the school gates. And lunchboxes (I hate lunchboxes). And no one ever told me that one day I would wake up and Happy-Day would throw a strop quite as big as this one. No one ever warned me that this is how being all growed up feels.
Let me see now what else do I have to whinge about? You don’t mind if I get it off my chest do you? I have a cold. And a sore throat. I am worried about Eygpt and the terrible weather in lands far away and how the washing machine eats so many socks and whether the fact that my periods are getting shorter means I’m perimenopausal. See? I am awash with worry.
And all this because WordPress ate my post about another women awash with worry. Don’t worry your little head though. This too will pass. Not all of us who wander are lost…
Some of us are just throwing something of an on-line wobbler.