The very lovely young mother who’s been sitting next to me during our twice-weekly swim lessons kept the chit-chat lighter than normal: having invited us twice previously to her church programs on Sundays, perhaps our repeated non-attendance sank in as some kind of snub. Perhaps she was snubbing us out of judgment or boredom. Or perhaps there is nothing to speculate – she was merely quieter than weeks past. Typically a woman in my position makes sure to make extra-nice in the scenario – as if to say, “I’m not going to attend your church but I want you to know it was so nice you invited me, and I still want everything to be okay between us.” That’s the way most ladies are. It’s not that I don’t care to be polite. I’m just so damned tired right now.
A tendency to anemia during my menstrual period, hormonal fluctuations, the abstention from drink, or the rainy, dismal weather: I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been in a dangerous mood. It paints my perception of the world into something utterly different than how I usually experience it. The children I spend time with are rude, horrid, or slow; adults are clueless, irritating. My mental state is like shark cruising, waiting for the scent of blood to distract me, edgy, keyed up and ready to strike. I haven’t yet crossed the threshold into Full-Blooded Bitchdom where my husband is concerned, but my kids have certainly been on the receiving end of my precipitate hostilities.
On my Pandora station Band of Horses’ “The Great Salt Lake” begins playing. Coincidentally this is Sophie’s current favorite song. She’s sitting next to me reading (and thus so enthralled she can’t “hear” it), but my mind is full of memories of her precise duck-voiced singing, which makes me smile.
Another day, another night to get through; maybe things will look or feel better in the morning.