Brought Low

I suppose it’s silly to wonder why I can’t put a pin in a particular moment of a particular day, wrestle it to the ground and declare, “THIS! This is how today will be categorized! As a good day! As a great day! This particular professional triumph, duly noted and recorded at 10:40 AM, shall cast its magnificent glow on this entire day!”

That’s just not how it works, babydoll, I tell myself. And I know this. I’ve watched the pendulum swing before.

But I was stunned, yet again, to see that the high of this morning pertained not at all to this evening, when I ticked off a couple of people who mean a good deal to me.

I’m usually a pretty good person. I bend over backwards to avoid hurting, or even upsetting, those who are most important to me.

So at 7:45 tonight, when I cuddled up to the bar at my local and surveyed the wreckage around me, remembering still the high of this morning, I couldn’t blink fast enough to corral a couple of tiny tears.

Making a hash in one area of my life colors every other area, at least temporarily. My unkindness, my sarcasm, my thoughtlessness reflect and perhaps distort all my other warts and bumps, warts and bumps I know too well and inventory too regularly. My reaction, I know, is overwrought and overdramatic, but I’m smart enough to know there’s more than just one kernel of truth there.

There’s work to be done. I sit at the bar working a rosary of sorries between my fingers.

Washington, DC, 2010

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