I fell into my typical post man-who-loves-me-visit/Sunday funk the night before last. Headlong, down the the rabbit-hole fell. My life. What happened to it. I would never travel again, and even if I did, it wouldn't be with the man who loves me--who can never get away. I would never go anywhere. Wouldn't there be some advantage to having remained married? At least I could travel. Have at least a half-assed-pretending-he's-listening husband who would show up at some point every evening, and we could go somewhere fabulous on vacation and do our separate things when we got there. Oh, but wait, he left me because he didn't love me. This was the mood in which I let myself be carried off to sleep.
At 2:00 a.m., I woke whimpering from pain. My left hand was on fire. Fire. When I was fully awake, I began to panic. I spilled bleach on it, didn't I? Well, yes, a little--but I rinsed it immediately. Was it a reaction to the flu shot I got on Friday? Saturday my arm was so sore I skipped yoga. But now the arm was fine. I was fine. Except for my shitty mood and my blazing hand. The hot peppers. I painstakingly peeled and seeded them after I roasted them. The right hand wielded a knife, but the left hand held the peppers. They lit the squash soup on fire. I had an urge to creep downstairs and soak my hand in a bowl of milk, but I was afraid of waking my mom, so I submerged my hand in the sink and then coated it in aloe vera. An hour or so later I woke in pain again and repeated the remedy. The hot water from my shower the next morning ignited the burn all over again, and I drove my mother to her Miracle Ear appointment with my left hand in front of the a.c. vent.
Today the hand felt merely warm when exposed to hot water. The bleak mood, however, stuck with me. Tai Chi, beach walk, doing stuff for my mom, household chores. Everything felt off. After I went out to McGrath Farm to pick up my box of vegetables, I made fresh juice.
Maybe I felt a little better.
Then I made carrot salad as a side dish for dinner tonight.
Better. Somewhat. Then my mom spotted a new bird for us to i.d. She was excited. I got excited. Over a bird. By the time the Belted Kingfisher took off, my bad mood had flown, too.
I'll be more careful the next time I handle hot peppers.
And I hope to never again entertain any wishes of still being married to The Someone. If I do, may my ring finger spontaneously combust.