Day Two: The B Word

I’d thought on writing of deep philosophy, of sharing poetry, of sharing my fictional prose or a bit from my memoirs, or perhaps providing a little history about raising a son with Asperger’s… I thought on telling of my past and current studies, of my family, of my joys…I used to be a school teacher, an advocate, and later a spiritual life coach…I’ve homeschooled. I’ve been to beautiful places. I live in a beautiful city. I’ve found my vocation, my authentic calling. I have a purpose. I have gratitude, and have ample self-worth and self-acceptace.  I have genuine and nurturing friends. So, yes, I  have some insights, some life tales to share, some beauty to spread. Just not at this moment, I suppose.

Instead, right now, at this very instant, I’m sipping from a dark-glass bottle of a Double Chocolate Stout. (A surprise from my neighbor last week, when she’d heard I’d had a hard day; I’d been saving it for just the right moment.) Honestly, I don’t even know what a stout is. Maybe ale? I’m not a drinker, at least in the true sense. I can count the times I’ve had an alcoholic beverage in the past year on five toes. Though, I might be moving to two feet, this year.  More than likely it will take me a good two hours to nurse this one bottle, if I finish it at all, that is. Alcohol generally hurts my stomach or makes the glands around my jawline ache–gives me that stinging sensation like when I try to blow air into a balloon. The stout seemed appropriate though. I don’t take medication for anything, not for my physical pain, anxiety, depression, or phobias; so when I’m in a real funk, like today, sometimes I have a few sips of alcohol. I’m not worried about turning into an alcoholic though, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m way too overboard-anal-retentive and anxiety ridden to become an alcoholic. Seriously, I can’t eat a piece of cheese without thinking of the poor cow abuse and the injected hormones, and the health consequences to my body. Yet, I did enjoy that cheese sandwich this morning.

When Bob, my husband, (aka: saint, Godsend, patient man) entered the computer room this afternoon, after I’d been in here a few good hours, I gave him a true verbal hacking. I couldn’t stand the way he smelled. I kept repeating, “You stink. Take a shower.” He finally left, after I plugged my nose and said, “You smell worse than our wet dog.” He’s a good sport and all, but my frankness and over-sensitivity, to practically everything, wears on him. I typically feel a little bad after I am so direct. But I did tell him five times the smell was bothering me, before I snapped. I thought he’d get the hint. He’d just finished working out and taking the dogs to the park, so he had that outdoorsy and sweaty stench.

Truthfully, when Bob entered the room, if I wasn’t fixated on achieving a high-score on some online game, I was obsessing over my writing, or some other distraction. I waste a lot of time clinging to obsessive attachments, and it isn’t until afterwards I realize I’ve truly made a grand waste of my time.

All he wanted to do was connect, my husband that is, to touch base and check in, but I wasn’t in the mood. When I’m like this, I’m scary. I can see what I’m doing, but can’t help myself. Luckily, I self-correct after a little while, and dutifully apologize; still I’d sure like to paint an ideal picture of myself, to tell you all the super great qualities I have. But truth be told: sometimes life in general is the B Word. (And yes I meant to make angry eyes in the photo.)