Bloodletting

I awoke to the insistent beep-beep-beeping of my alarm this morning, certain that I had been lying there annoyed and trying to get back to sleep but failing. A sure sign that I'm going to be deceiving myself all day. My body is still feeling slightly tweaked from an almost-fall off a ladder on Saturday, and my spirit/psyche/soul is most definitely out of whack. For hours I've been telling myself that the weird annoyed restlessness I'm feeling might be dehydration, but I have yet to take a drink of water. In the midst of typing the previous sentence I stopped, got up, and moved my water from my bedside to my desk, but I really don't want to have anything to do with it. So far everyone I've encountered today has gotten on my last nerve. My mother with her "the Christmas tree needs water." The bossy yoga woman with her "move your mat just a smidge." The yoga teacher who is probably 20 with the body of a lithe 12-year-old, and who has no fucking idea what it's like to be dragging a 60-year-old body around with a surgically fused spine and hips that will be forever seeking their lost swivel.

This piece in the New York Times might have made me jump for joy since I plan to get no closer to matrimony than I would to a coiled viper. Instead I found myself spitefully wishing with all my heart that the Someone's marriage is already in its death spiral. Yes! That is the one thing that would make me happy, Santa. Oh, I know that hate just hurts the hater, blah, blah, blah, and no doubt by the end of the day I will have come back to some sort of almost-center. But meanwhile, dear blogosphere, you are the leech draining away the poison.

Namasté.