Um, I’m better now, thanks. Not physically, mind you, as the Martian Death Flu has regrouped and unleashed a new assault, but I have not cried in public since Thursday, nor have I called anyone an asshole. Well, okay, maybe once, but only in passing.
When, sheepishly, I told Arit about my little scene the other night, she didn’t miss a beat. “So,” she said, “when are you getting your period?” Right. She also reminded me that other people sometimes lose it too, which I found immensely reassuring.
Having said this, I know that it wasn’t just PMS, which merely provided a window of opportunity. PMS is to denial what kryptonite is to Superman: everything you’ve been suppressing, rationalizing, or simply ignoring in the hopes it will go away suddenly pins you to the ground and kicks your sorry ass. And I got my ass kicked, but good.
I will probably return to this theme in future posts, but for the moment I am letting myself be sick, which is the closest I’ve come to playing hooky in a long time. In this sense, my blue flannel pyjamas feel like a rebel uniform, akin to Castro’s military fatigues, except comfier. I only wish that I had a pair of bunny slippers to complete the outfit.
Sincere thanks, by the way, to James, who went grocery shopping for me yesterday and came back with all the fixings for hot toddies. I owe you one.