Life’s been tough during these Covid times.
As the first month of quarantining segued into the second and then the third, things within my safe-space, my home, started to slowly unravel. I found myself talking out loud and the more I did, the more I began answering myself... as in a conversation... a back-and-forth of questions, answers, and opinions... and eventually the conversations got heated and turned ugly.
When I hadn’t shaved for weeks and couldn’t decide whether or not to shave, part of me wanted the beard gone while the other part was adamant the scruff needed to stay.
Shave... don’t shave... shave... don’t shave... I got dizzy from the ping-ponging of opinions echoing loudly in and out of my head.
To compromise, I ended up shaving only half of my face to please both sides of me, but I looked ridiculous. Later that night, I snuck into the bathroom and shaved the rest of the scruff. When I woke up the next morning, I had a black eye.
I spent days not getting anything done because I couldn’t make a decision without a fight with myself.
It wasn’t about salmon, and it wasn’t about chicken. It was about winning the argument. And in the moment of heightened emotion, all rationale ceased to exist. I threw wine glasses and wine bottles at myself. Luckily, I leaped out of the way in the nick of time.
Exhausted and spent, with hunger pangs banging louder than a chorus of kettle drums, I crawled into bed with a stack of Ritz crackers and a jar of crunchy peanut butter.
During the night, I tossed and turned and entangled myself so tightly in the sheets that I nearly strangled myself. I woke up gasping for breath.
I blame Covid. I blame quarantining. I blame endless bottles of merlot.
Tonight I’m avoiding salmon and chicken... it’s going to be pasta... no pasta... pork loin... no pork loin... lamb kabob... no lamb kabob...
WTF!?!
Will this bickering ever end?
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