Every so often I get a reminder that life is easier when you show how much you enjoy it. I’ve been feeling down lately. It feels less like spring coming, than winter. I’ve been sleeping a lot. Restless a lot too. The skies have been unusually cloudy. Death seems to be lingering in the nooks and crannies. (The stuff with Doo, but also two friends of friends dying and a friend of mine being diagnosed with cancer.)
I’ve had gas (read: I’m having a hard time digesting life). I’ve had chest pain, like something about the size of a 20-pound dog is sitting on my chest. It’s felt hard to take deep breaths. Yesterday, I got some visceral work done. And the therapist said that my pericardium (the protective covering around the heart) was stiff where it attaches to my lungs and not moving freely like it should. You guess the metaphor.
So, last night, I went to tango. It’s hard to feel dead and tango. (It’s kinda like that it’s hard to feel sad when you’re holding an ice cream cone.) I put on my flowing, pink and blue, sequined punjabi dress from India and hauled myself out to the dance. The bright colors swirling around me helped lift me out of the greyness. By the end, I wasn’t 100% light, but at least my feet weren’t stuck in its cement.
This morning, I further compensated by donning my wildly striped, bell bottomed corduroys and a red suede jacket. Then I put on some bright red lipstick and headed out to work, stopping at the bakery on the way for a treat. I walked up to the counter and did a moaning zombie imitation, “Choc ..olate … chip … pump …kin …wal …nut … muff …in”.
The guy behind the counter decided that I was good advertising and he gave the muffin for free. Which reminds me: when I love life, it usually loves me back.