“Now everyone of us was made to suffer
Everyone of us was made to weep
We’ve been hurting one another
Now the pain has cut too deep.
So take me from the wreckage
Save me from the blast
Lift me up and take me back
Don’t let me keep on walking
I can’t keep on walking, keep on walking on broken glass…
Walking on, walking on broken glass
Walking on, walking on broken glass
Walking on, walking on broken glass
Walking on, walking on broken glass.”
Written by Annie Lennox • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group
The energy was spiky this weekend, could you feel it? It felt crunchy, sharp and toxic, kinda like my hair back in the 80’s.
For me, it started with the middle-aged madman calling me a dumb bitch on Friday and it continued to amp up all the way through Sunday.
“They” say it’s the lead up into the full solar eclipse that’s happening next month. If I had a dollar for every time I blame bad shit or wonky energy on solar eclipses —well—I’d have tens of bucks.
Maybe it was the ungodly heat that was making everything feel like a life or death, big hairy deal. I don’t know about you but you can’t trust a word out of my mouth when I’m dehydrated.
And traffic. Traffic in the summer or any season for that matter is the ultimate barometer of humanity’s angst.
You want to know how the world is feeling about its current state of affairs? Hop on the 101 or the 405 freeways. There is rage. There is drama. There are motorcycles splitting lanes! If you make it home without killing anyone—that was a good day. Or the world ended and you’re the only person left on earth.
Even my even-tempered husband was edgy. Moody. PMS-ing. He kept on cruising’ to pick a fight. By Sunday I was exhausted from deflecting his barbs with my Wonder Woman bracelets. Running away from home occurred to me, and I would have except for the fact that after sixteen years I have him honed, groomed and trained exactly the way I want him.
Plus, he has this endearing and completely irreplaceable habit of not minding my snoring and appreciating my bed head in the morning.
He gets up before I do so by the time I wander into his office to signal the fact that I’m ready for my coffee, he’ll take one look at me, “Oh, yeah”, he’ll say, “That is some particularly epic bed head this morning,” and he’ll come in for a pity hug.
He thinks it’s adorable. My best look. He has since day one.
I play along, hardly able to contain my excitement on the really bad days. Like when I’m sick, or hung over, hot flashing, or
all of the above. With a pigtail sticking straight out from the side of my head and the rest of my hair arranged into a something resembling a sweaty beaver’s den, I’ll run to his office looking like a cyclone victim—barely able keep a straight face. Standing on the stair I’ll strike a pose, waiting for my score like a beauty pageant contestant during the swimsuit competition
“There she is,” he’ll say, slowly getting up from his chair nodding with appreciation, stifling a laugh, “A great natural beauty. How do you manage it?”
These are some of our best laughs. They’re always at my expense because he’s bald, so there’s that… but I know for a fact that I could never find anyone who could muster that level of genuine appreciation for such a hot mess—so I’m staying. Fight picking or not.
All of this to is warn you of the impending eggshells shards of broken glass you may find yourself walking in the next few weeks or so until the moon covers the sun and all the animals go to bed and darkness inhabits the Earth for like a minute and then it’s over and we can all get back to our regular scheduled programming.
Like loving baby goat videos, avoiding those who view parking as a combat sport, catching a cool breeze, and hating Trump.
Stay strong & Carry on,
xox
