I am so tired.
I didn’t make my regular food delivery Saturday morning; I was just too tired to do enough dishes I could cook enough to make it worth the cab fare. Plus, my usual crew of helpful scrubbers was unable to come by Friday night, and I couldn’t face 20 pounds of potatoes all by myself.
Slowly Saturday I did one thing and then another, though, and by noon Sunday I had 2 gallons of apple sauce and two boxes of salad fixings and 2.5 gallons of vegetable risotto.
Not before losing my temper (Occupy Hormones), though, and feeling like a heel as I swooped out the door. Have I mentioned lately how I’m human and shit? Yeah. Human. Me.
(shocking, I know…)
Anyway, the cab driver was nice but we had a miscommunication so we managed to go the wrong way for ten extra minutes, and I was just relieved when I finally saw familiar shops. He was willing to pull into the side street though, and helped me unload, so I tipped very well… but I was a little stressed since he made sure to communicate that I had told him to take the wrong turn.
Alll Myyy Faaaauuuult.
Got everything piled up on my handcart, but I hit a pothole and the light was about to change and there was a parent with a stroller trying to make it across so I was a little distracted at the sidewalk ramp—and I ploughed into a cop.
I apologized. She yelled. She yelled a lot. I tried to explain it was an accident and I apologized but she was not interested in hearing my apology. It was so strange—I teach my kids to say I’m sorry and to make it better if they can, whether that’s by kissing or trying to do better the next time. But there was no way to make this better. The cop was angry. At me. I’m really not used to that, you know? I’m little and cute and avoid authority figures whenever possible…
And so I escaped and sniffled my way through almost to the kitchen, and when I was at the last narrow alleyway two guys were lugging a huge open tub filled with dirty water and I had to back up over ground I had worked so hard to cover, and in so doing I stepped onto a tent and…
I broke down. I lost a few seconds.
Then there was Seth, asking if he could give me a hug and a nameless young man who made my cart disappear to the kitchen and stayed with it until I made my graceless and bleary way to it. And Seth took me to Comfort (which now has its own military style tent) so I could unload my huge backpack and put away the hand cart which is a menace but indispensable when I insist on cooking more than I can carry.
And then I talked to Marsha, the first and most- photographed knitting grandma. We agreed that Occupy Hormones was a valid issue and maybe we could bring it to one of the working groups. She made me laugh, and said that it does get easier to let things go once you get through menopause. I am suddenly looking much more forward to the end of all bloodshed.
Then Rivka came up, asking if she could barter with Marsha for a hand-knit thing, as her mother made her something every winter but she died a year ago this coming Wednesday. She said she and her brothers had just been saying, “But who will knit for us?” and she started to wobble a little bit, and I asked if I could give her a hug and she wobbled into my shoulder.
I am still tired. My house is a mess, there is a scandalously large pile of dirty dishes next to the sink… and on the counter… and… yeah. Lots. Just everywhere.
Occupy Wall Street is full of stressed out people—but so is everywhere.
We’re all tired, I think, of DIY.
Here’s to togetherness.