Sometimes I can shed my workday worries and leave them outside the house - discarded, paper-thin, ready to drift away with the very next zephyr. I know those worries are there. I carry on as if they're not. Next time I peer outside, there's nothing but small balls of dog hair and a few dead leaves.
Other times, I come home from work and feel uneasy. Mostly, I'm not even sure why.
Today, I wonder - is it the melancholy of seeing Polly, a sweet octogenarian, who is lonely but won't admit it, who is losing weight before my eyes, who always looks stylish, and who has a smile that is equal parts bravado and happiness?
Or am I worried about Ned, who has incurable bladder cancer, and who talks and talks and talks and talks, and who looked much older than his 70-odd years today?
I know I keep wondering about about Leah, who I referred to a specialist with a puzzling lab result that could indicate anything from cancer to Cumquat disease (you're right, I made up the cumquat disease)
Maybe it wasn't Ned, or Polly or Leah, or any one person. Maybe it is just my mind whirling, my thoughts spinning, my anxiety levels skyrocketing irrationally too high. Because in case you haven't figured it out yet - I can be a bit like that. Neurotic. Anxious. Wired too tightly.
I tried a glass of Kahlua and Frangelico and milk. (Don't try this at home folks. Alcohol should NOT be used to self-medicate...... he he) But what would cure me for certain would be a run, a gym class, even a long sweaty ride on the exercise bike. So why am I not pedalling this very minute, instead of whining to you?
I'm too lazy. It's dark, it's night-time, my kids are asleep and my husband is off sweating with his friends (playing squash, in case you were visualising some male-bonding towel-waisted sauna session). I don't want to go jump on the exercise bike and pedal like a mad thing. I'd rather just stay a non-perspiring mad thing, thanks very much.
Of course, blogging is another cure for those unsettled emotions. And I'm feeling better by the minute as I tap away here in my stunted 2-fingered fashion. (Veering off the topic for a moment - a question ...... If your doctor typed with two fingers, at a moderate speed but with a moderate error rate to boot, would you hold it against her? Or him? Or would you - she says, leading, leading, coaxing, coaxing - would you find it endearing and forgivable rather than regarding her as an inept idiot? Please reply frankly. But not too frankly. In fact, brutally honest answers will be deleted)
So where was I ? Oh yes, feeling strung-out. Except, I'm no longer feeling so strung-out. It's a miracle! I am cured!
No snarky comments about the alcohol finally kicking in, people. I only had 1 drink. I am not an alcoholic. Hi, my name's Jelly, and I am not an alcoholic.
Life can be anxiety-provoking. But I hate to waste the quiet times; the peaceful moments that could be spent reading, laughing, cuddling. Sometimes, like everyone else at one time or another, I have to shake my silly self and give myself a stern talking-to. But tonight my ill-feeling seems to have evaporated on expression. No need to chastise myself further. All I need now is a cup of hot chocolate, a piece of banana cake, and my big, fat book.
It's turning out to be a wonderful evening after all.