I guess you can't underestimate the power of bad news. I let myself get held under the swamp for an entire—well maybe an entire decade—of looking at the terrible things going on in the world. Scrolling news sites until my soul bleeds. There was this moment yesterday when suddenly I wasn't seeing things, but just flashes of the world around me. My internal WebMD always defaults to stroke. Or aneurysm. Alzheimers is always in there, too. I walked with the dogs and panned my head to take in these little glimpses. It was as if my real-time vision was an edgy opening to a dramatic movie. Dark and then vibrant, repeat. All I needed was some deep vibrato synth music to drag me to the bloody end.
I Slacked my boss and told her I needed a day. She got it. It was only 12 hours prior that I'd glued my corneas to the Idiot Insurrection of the Capitol building. Marauders brimming with bullshit victimization invited to wreck things by dudes in desperate need of chaos. That went down and I didn't necessarily break (which maybe I should and relish some of that hard-earned work insurance for a stay in a facility), but oozed from a high point of productivity to the floor drain of my mental demise. There have been times like, perhaps a lot, when I get distracted by the current events. Actually, we should be allowed to bill the trump administration for the lost productivity of checking in on the republic every few minutes. But, yes, recent developments have torn me between formatting an Excel spreadsheet or wondering if I should grab a musket and invade Texas.
Soon, we’ll be this happy.
Yesterday, however, was brutal with all its finger-to-the-eye flaunting of unmitigated fear-mongering and white power prodding. It's one thing to see an animal titillated by playtime tough talk: "Who's the most ferocious chihuahua" as you tug on its favorite toy, but to see it work on fellow humans. Oh shit.
So, we've all been asses before. I long for a good twenty-something drunk where I can randomly wrestle a stranger over a pool game. But when you're being dog whistled by a reality show star whose been whittled down to old timey talking points, you're pissing on generations of hard working ancestors. Not just your young grandfather bobbing ashore to Normandy, but way back. The goddamn trickle down to your cave-dwelling cousin who's smaller-forehead mutation made his social life a living hell. We're skull humping generations of progress so a few mothertruckers can maintain their club memberships.
All that is throbbing through my veins as I try to conduct myself in a work meeting. Of course we're on Google Hangouts because a poorly managed pandemic means we can't be in person. I'm getting riled by my boss's Slack comments when I realize I haven't had the opportunity for sweet in-person intonation in months. I'd love to be the Chihuahua getting play talked about a promotion. Later, I'd actually go to the office and stand in the emptiness of what was once the muttering bustle of tech company progress.
In the meantime, I'd get home from the dog park. That's where I was when the world turned into a blinking movie intro. I was on the verge of a teary-eyed announcement to the family about my impending death, when instead I Slacked back to my boss the need to do anything but be at work. Or at home. Or at work. Or at my kids school. They're all the same. All the wormholes in my timeline intertwined like horny snakes. She says "Yeah, GTFO," and I do that thing where you simply end up places.
"What are you needing?" asked the guy at Davey Tree Expert Company. He was gruff, but I understood. The sign on the door clearly said not to go inside, but rather call if you needed something. I burst into their office as if everyone would understand I was burbling with hot blood and needed to clamber amongst their stumps. I explained that I like to chop wood—nay! I need to chop wood—and would like to buy or borrow one of their large tree trunks in their scrap pile. Apparently this is so common they have a waiver. I signed it and then provided much entertainment as, from their office windows, they'd get to watch me load the Shrek of stems into the back of my Subaru. It was wonderful. Some people do yoga. Some people do drugs. Some people sign legal documents to crawl around dead wood.
I got home and Sarah did her due diligence in being very impressed by my tree parts. With only the slightest sign of a hernia, I was able to roll my stumps (I got two) into the backyard and bring some solace to my day. My axe was born anew from the shed; my chainsaw turned spare lumber into a firewood holder. Said firewood was then chopped into burnable bits. Sometimes you gotta take control of the situation even if it isn't the situation that you think needs control. That shit is going to have to wait for a far less stressed version of me.
Can double as a charcuterie board.