So, last week I said how my fear was kind of spiking, shit was difficult, and that I was naming my fear to help me better manage her.
Well, if I were to rate my day on Friday on a scale from “kittens and rainbows to hair on fire” I guess my Friday would fall just below “hair on fire.” Naming my fear didn’t do shit for me.
This weekend, I’ve been alternating between anxiety, dread, and not a little resentment.
I don’t want my goddamn weekend fucked up like this. This is bullshit.
Randy and I went to the grocery Sunday morning. We nearly always go on Sunday mornings right when they open at 8 AM. Because Randy is either a sadist or a masochist.
I walked down one of the produce aisles to pick out some apples. I would really prefer to exist on Butterfingers and hot chocolate this week, but comfort eating leads down the path of jeans that are too snug and knees that ache more than usual.
So I picked out a few apples and didn’t see the plastic bag thingies. I walked past the apples, and found a box of plastic produce baggies. I ended up pulling the whole thing down on a shelf of living micro herbs.
Fuckity fucking shit. What the hell, man? And who buys living micro herbs? Who is in their kitchen going “Oh, fooey. I forgot the living micro herbs?”
I got the clam shell packaging to pop back out. I considered digging in my purse for a sharpie so I could change the packaging from “living micro herbs” to “mortally wounded micro herbs” but decided it would be best to move along lest I wreak more havoc in the herbs section.
Randy had wandered down to the Starbucks counter to get us some overpriced coffee and I went to wait in line at the deli. Number 92. They were on 89, so the wait wasn’t bad. Still, it’s always slow at the deli. People really have exacting instructions for the thickness of their cold cuts.
I stood by a barrel of pickles and waited my turn.
I was still annoyed with the box dropping incident. My stomach rolled around as I considered all the different things I’m either scared of or pissed at. Then, I heard her.
This little old white haired lady was singing along to the piped in music. Bohemian Rhapsody. She wasn’t just kind of singing it, she was full on singing Bohemian Rhapsody. She was getting about 50% of the words right and she was rocking the shit out of it.
I did not realize what I needed, more than anything, was to see an old woman singing a Queen song at a deli counter.
It turns out that was exactly what I needed.
Shit. That little old lady is a fucking badass. Remember when you were a badass? For a while back in your forties. You could get that back. It wasn’t that long ago.
I don’t really like the song Bohemian Rhapsody. Not that it isn’t a perfectly fine song, it’s just that I’ve heard it 12 billion times and was sick to death of it by the time I was married the first time.
I never would have thought that I would be walking into work on a Monday morning with “scaramouche, scaramouche” echoing through my head as a battle cry.
I will take my fear by the hand and think of the amazing old woman at the deli. I don’t get to decide what gets thrown at me. I do get to decide, however, how I deal with it. I get to decide how I feel about myself. I get to decide how I spend my days.
Perhaps, this battle cry will wither by Monday evening. Perhaps, it won’t. I don’t care. I will worry about Tuesday when it gets here. Monday is covered.
Nevertheless, she persisted.