I rarely use this space to complain. I hate complaining. At least in print anyway.
But I’ve been having a rough few days.
I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically. Creatively spent and physically taxed. Torn between two halves of my brain. Stretched, literally and figuratively, to the point where I fear I might pop.
I came down with a seriously awful cold this week and as a pregnant chick there’s very little I can do to alleviate it, pharmaceutically-speaking.
So tonight I decided to do something I rarely do when Joe isn’t home. I turned on the TV.
“My mother’s line to me was always, ‘keep a low profile.’ You don’t understand. I’m at odds with myself all the time. I actually want to be mysterious and quiet. I really do. If anybody out there is like me, they can’t help but speak and communicate out of a giant capacity to communicate. And I’m always suffering because there’s nothing I’d rather do than be the guy who speaks when spoken to. I wake up every morning trying to be that guy and by the end of the night it’s the banana dance or something … I’m getting over it by acknowledging to myself that I do dumb stuff and that I’m going to continue to occasionally do dumb stuff peppered in with some special stuff. I’m coming to terms with that. It doesn’t explain everything away, but it helps to say I’ve always been this way. It’s not the perfect explanation, but it helps me sleep.”
PS. Yes, I hit rewind on my DVR to transcribe this. It was exactly what I needed to hear.