It never ceases to delight me how much one small thing can just alter your entire mood and perception.
Tonight for example, The General and I had already decided that a documentary would be just the thing to round out our simple BBQ fare but by the time everything was assembled, I was already starting to feel churlish about it, not sure if I really wanted to “think” after such a long day at the office and generally, finding all kinds of reasons that we should once more revert to the dreadfully predictable choices provided by Basic Cable.
(It’s a bit like ordering fast food when you are desperate, already knowing what the outcome will be and despising yourself when it’s all over.)
Most of the news at the moment is, I will venture to say, more disturbing that it has been in a long, long time. No, it’s not because of the internet making us all more aware than we were in years previous – it actually IS worse and it’s full-on terrible. I’m almost afraid to keep up – something I don’t even have to worry about actually since The General and his new Mac maintain an informal news-anchor presence at the kitchen table, constantly updating with bulletins from around the world, a trait which I am not used to but have grown to appreciate; however, I still have to walk that fine line between being a responsible adult who knows what’s happening and tries to do The Right Thing and reconciling that with the thin-skinned, highly strung artist-type who lies in bed at 3 am trying to untangle the finer points of European foreign policy after weeping openly at all those abused animal videos I should never have clicked on, hours before.
But I digress.
Fast forward to Frasier’s first day at school which was preempted by much psychological preparation including nightly readings about what that first day would entail ( I seem to recall the protagonist was a young raccoon) the purchase of a special, fancy knapsack and a lunch that included sliced grapes (no choking hazard) and sandwiches that were cut into the shape of a duck. His teacher, a kind and vivacious woman who was all flowy skirts and paisleys (think: Ms.Frizzle) actually came to the house to introduce herself over the summer and had already made quite an impression.
I am visiting my September pasts. I am walking along our street at a lazy pace, the kind of speed which will accommodate my small son’s wish to examine every dead earwig and share a secret with every nudging, neighbourhood cat and inspect each snail shell in case ‘someone is home.’ The sun filters weak coins of light onto our backs but the first indicator that the season is changing comes from within. Specifically, my stomach. Before I even had a chance to be fully awake this morning, the open window carried to me the smell of fresh earth but with a new chilliness that was not there even yesterday and that burnt, peppery smell of leaves that are just beginning to crisp. Already a fluttering of anxiety had begun in my stomach, creeping downwards like a cold syrup, so steady that I could feel it unfurling like a flag. But really, what was actually wrong?