I spent a goodly amount of time rearranging our home office this afternoon. It involved a lot of dirty work, because we are not so hot at the whole dusting and sweeping end of maintaining our apartment. We are more into denial and willful blindness.
Yesterday, I made my first attempt at rearranging the office, but it did not go well. I became overwhelmed with boxes and dust bunnies and sat down in a chair to cry. Then, I decided that it would be a good idea to call the Palinode at work, because his voice is calming, but I ended up passive-aggressively complaining at him. Then, I sobbed and broke down into a crumpled mess on the floor, because I never intended to be the kind of wife that calls up her husband at work to nag and argue, except that now I was that wife, but even worse, I was now the wife who cried because she had to clean something.
Then, I went out and got drunk.
Every day cannot be a brilliant exercise of the higher self, and for the most part I accept that, but when days like yesterday happen, I find myself wondering why I bother. That's not the most logical thinking pattern — today was terrible; therefore, all other days are rendered meaningless — but it is the easiest means to a serious but comforting mope under the covers.
Sometime around 2:00 p.m. today, I found a renewed sense of industriousness and moved furniture, scrubbed walls, swept and mopped the floors, trashed a surprising amount of useless crap that I've been moving in boxes for eight years, and I wasn't reduced to a tantrum once, not even when I accidentally dowsed myself with water while showering down a plastic floor pad and fell into the tub and ate soap.
You know why? Because I'm a grown up, that's why.
In one of the boxes I went through, I found my soprano recorder from grade six. Or was it grade four? It was definitely grade four, because I remember that this one girl, Deanna, came to school with a blonde wood recorder from Germany when we had all been issued plastic recorders. Hers had its own velvet-lined box and a cleaning stick with a cloth on it. My recorder was a three-dollar brown and ivory plastic one that had to have the spit shaken out of it at the end of music class. I yearned for Deanna's wood recorder all year, but I steeled myself against thieving it, even when I dreamed of plans to lift it from her desk and stared at it longingly while all thirty of us played a shrill and plodding version of "Three Blind Mice".
You know why? Because I'd already been caught for stealing once, and it sucked.
I still have that damn plastic recorder, and, for some reason, it was the only thing I salvaged this afternoon from an entire box of useless stuff. It was all pretty old-school stuff, too — a wooden clipboard, a yellowed Hilroy notebook, an old hammer my dad gave me — all stuff from some era of my life a couple of decades ago.
Crap! I threw away a hammer? Who throws away a hammer?
You know who? A person who can't find the point in her own post, that's who.
Maybe we should come at this with some dream interpretation. Quick. We have a dirty office, a cheap musical instrument from my childhood, and a garbaged hammer. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?