A dark funk’s been nipping at my heels since we got back to Boone, and today it almost got the best of me. Maybe the change in routine fed the vicious beast. Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten nowhere on my manuscript for days.
Just when I think things are arranged so I can get to work, another obstacle pops up. My brother’s furnace went out yesterday, so Mom came here until it got fixed today. We spent the day baking, which I’d planned to do with her next week, once my manuscript was done. Allen’s big plans for splitting wood have been derailed by a nasty cold which seems to be turning into bronchitis. Anne wanted to come home tomorrow, but after several emails and a phone call, she took off early to beat the nasty storm that’s in the forecast.
Hiram, my patient and naturally pessimistic husband, has been more than normally pessimistic ever since we got back from West Virginia. There’s a nasty smell in our bedroom, either a dead critter in the outer wall or socks in need of exorcism, that is driving every ounce of patience out of him. The stress cold sore that sprouted beneath my nose last week is healing as grotesquely as possible. When I look in the mirror, the idea of a face transplant seems logical.
My Christmas shopping isn’t done. My Christmas letter won’t get done until the manuscript is in the editor’s hands. My Christmas decorating is on hold until Anne, who is driving on obscure Iowa country roads in cold, dark, single degree temperature weather, gets home. My Christmas cheer is danger of being eaten alive by my dark funk.
According to the Trauma Institute people, I’ve been attacked by “the Wednesdays” disguised as a dark funk. Last week they told my son he would feel better on Thursday, and they were right. So that’s my pep talk tonight. I’ll feel better on Thursday. I’ll feel better on Thursday. I’ll feel better on Thursday.
If this doesn’t work, I’m banking on the face transplant. One look at this cold sore, and I’m a shoe-in with the ethics board.
