Music has that ability to capture those special moments.
Some days just start badly, particularly Mondays. No milk in the fridge (in fact no food), belly the size of a five-month gestation and a large angry pimple on my chin (I’m in my forties for Christ’s sake) – not the best way to start a week. Even the fearful look on the dog’s face couldn’t salvage my mood, even though I usually take such perverse pleasure from my domineering status as her ‘master’. Having to love unconditionally must really suck.
There were a million things I could have blamed my Mondayitis on, other than the old man, who fortunately had to earn our living and so was unavailable for target practice:
the beginning of school holiday hell with no concrete plans
PMT (you think?);
the frustrating incapability of the scales to lie
the fact that the newish car, (four wheel drive, ugly as f..k, but SAFE, in the right hands) only purchased for reliability, blatantly refused to power into life when I most needed it to. (My conjugation of the verb ‘to walk’, which I thought was funny, was met with stony stares and contempt from the FML teenagers).
the fact that no car = no food
By 9am the dog looked depressed.
Flat battery, apparently – the car that is! Something to do with teenagers + car reading lights + lack of common sense. Of course it was my fault, for not explaining to them the intricacies of ‘circuits’ (that I think they cover every year in the science syllabus from the time they can draw a light bulb). Scientific Fact: leaving car lights on for 48 hours does affects battery performance (don’t ask me why). As I now owe $55 worth in unpaid Top Gear DVD rentals, was it so wrong of me to assume that Jeremy Clarkson has some educational responsibility? Just saying.
The roadside assistance ‘gods’ fixed the car, proving a point to the old man (again), that insurance is not a rip-off (when you need it).
Picture of Jeremy Clarkson, on the set of Top Gear (current format) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
But who’s going to fix me?
Can I really blame the day, or the hormones for that matter – maybe it is just general ‘disillusion’? I knew that furtive chapter of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey‘ was dangerous territory, that it might lead to a sense of disatisfaction; I’d been warned at Bookclub.
I could blame my despondency on any number of events: the blog post that failed to ignite a ‘like’; the obstinacy of a teenage son who refuses to do anything I want him to do, in particular washing of the nest he calls a hairstyle; the dull, yet persistent back ache or even the persistent (and irritating) dog who is perpetually under my feet, eager for a walk that I feel no enthusiasm for; or just another bad hair day.
Did I mention I’m pre-menstrual?
‘Tell me why!’ I growl to myself, distractedly, as I swill porridge made with water, (without gagging) and try to reorganize the day – minus car, ‘joie de vivre’, and energy.
That heady ‘potential’ of last Friday night now seems a lifetime away, when we opened the first of several bottles of expensive wine to celebrate surviving the week. Five days of simply ‘existing’ loom ahead.
It’s not that I need affirmation of the good in my life; there is an abundance of greatness. I do, however, need to stop ‘sweating the small stuff’. And I definitely need to control the existentialist demon within me from materialising, on a monthly basis. Sometimes I feel insignificant, embarrassed by my pathetic contribution to life’s grand scheme, and I forget the importance of my responsibility on the home front. The old man reminds me that I will contribute one day….. financially.
The hormones are definitely to blame.
The dog makes a final desperate stand, bleating like a lamb by the front door. Somewhere, in the stony recesses of my heart, I discover some benevolence. It’s not her fault I can be such a cow!
I rush back home to my precious ‘unit’, to start the day again, because ‘time waits for no man’.
‘Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.’ (Berthold Auerbach)