I would rather scratch them all from my calendar. I understand that the weary working need and savor this break, but they only make me sick. The YMCA closes, my coffee shops close, the folks I interact with on a daily basis trot off to be with their families or throw parties—all of which blasts apart my routine. Without my routine, I am a Bipolar Time Bomb with a very short fuse.
Since I was already in a heightened state of stress going into the holiday, I knew I needed some serious backup planning to keep from wigging out completely. I planned to walk the neighborhood to make up for my missed aquatics classes. Yesterday’s temperature was supposed to top out over 100 degrees, so I took my walk at 4:00 AM. I was awake anyway with a yammering cross-fire of spiky thoughts (courtesy of the Bipolar Agitation Fairy), so why not use the time, right?
I decided to allow myself some TV, but the only thing on was Magic City, a Starz series about hotels and the mob in 1959—sort of like Mad Men with dead bodies. I got hooked immediately and had to watch six episodes in a row until I couldn’t take any more depravity or naked women. More yammering, only now it’s images of icky, greasy mobsters doing icky things. Ick.
The urge to bolt seized me, and all I could think of was to go to a movie. That I’d already seen. Which was fine. Air conditioning and popcorn with a little distraction from the yammerers. But after the movie I was right back where I started. I made birthday cards for a while, cooked some supper, worked three crossword puzzles. I tried to soothe my traumatized cats when the fireworks started up, but they would have none of that. They planted themselves under my bed and stayed there.
When I finally crawled into bed myself, all I sent up a little prayer of thanks. I made it through another holiday. Sort of.