Jump 'til You Slump

On my death certificate, under "Cause of Death," I vote for there to be entered: "Having Been Born."

A curiously balmy Thursday morn in February has not hoodwinked me out of awareness that the sun is absent from the proceedings. All of the snow in our yard has melted, and the earth has thawed. We just might be "in the clear" or "out of the woods" or "over the hump" with regard to winter, which is good, because I'm not amenable to cold, now that I'm elderly. If we undergo another cold snap, I just might go out, buy a couple of cans of Aqua Net®, and just point them skyward, spraying until empty.

I'M JUMPING SUBJECTS.

I'm knowing that I am digressing, but I know not from what. That's just because I'm something of a spazzcase at 6:28 this Thursday morning. I just began taking my medicines again after having gone without them for a number of days (due to some invisible administrative ball-dropping). They are for Narcolepsy and for Chronic Hypersomnolence (which sounds an awful lot like the former, but isn't; rather, it's the latter). Narcolepsy is what they call it when I fall asleep uncontrollably, like a sleep seizure. Hypersomnolence means that I can go to sleep at all times (always?) for indeterminate lengths of time (forever?).

A person (Person X) might think that I like to sleep. Person X would be inaccurate. Person X would be incorrect. And, more importantly, Person X would be wrong. I'm a lifelong opponent of sleep, because it burgles time categorically at my expense and has never left me rested or better for it. I've had good dreams every so often, but I really like staying up and being in and of the waking world, despite both its recalcitrance and its not being affected in any notable way by my presence in or on it.

THE FOLLOWING IS A SUBJECT JUMP.

Now it's later, and it's a dullard of a day. Gloopy and unwelcoming. And I feel bad about my parenting skills. Nothing serious; it's simply that I talk too much, and can even break the Cardinal Rule of taking it personally when people get full-on rude. That's a crappy propensity.

Parenting in a crisis is quite a bit like being impaired, in a lot of ways, or having the air around you turn into rubber cement. I am always surprised at the reflexive responses that I can have to different stimuli, and my sense is that this surprise is shared by parents everywhere. I guess that you never know what's going to occur until you're in the soup of it on whatever basis. And you see yourself dissociated, suppressed, and hapless as all get out. You try to summon yourself back to yourself. Then, it's kinda like, "Hey, obnoxious personality trait! Didn't I work for THREE DECADES to tame you?!!" But then, it's all fine, apparently. Did I tell you that I have WHITE WHISKERS on my chin? They're propagating.

NOW, ANOTHER JUMP HAS TRANSPIRED.

Last year, we peeled an enormous amount of wallpaper. I would that it were still there, so that I might peel it again. Instead, we have to paint. You know, to get on with it and such. But everything is so bleeding unclear. I still haven’t heard about that job, and am considering developing an ulcer in my inordinate fretfulness. But I told my therapist that I would be nice to myself. So, I guess that I’ll go do that now.