A Peculiar and Zoloftig Metamorphosis

I do not know what stars ascended or whose prayers were cited, but I awakened yesterday feeling terrific. Beyond that actually. I was energetic, lucid, and motivated. Hmmm. The agony of my pinched nerve was already beginning to subside. Frankly, if I had closed my eyes and allowed my imagination its passage, I’d probably guess it was back when I worked with Evelyn and Chrysanthemum (actually Nancy and Chris) in the most surprisingly stressful business of interior design.

We were all, as they sometimes say in the deepest of Southern annals, “decoratizers” back then. Jon and I were both happy, healthy, financially secure, and extremely employed.

And so it goes. And so it went.

Saturday morning, I didn’t feel like “the guy that lives down that long drive and needs a heart transplant.” I started to actually count my blessings, albeit it on only one hand, the one not communing with my pinched nerve. My dreams had been vivid and emotional with my mother and grandmother, the key players.

For a few moments after I opened my eyes and stared down that darned alarm clock, the two women seemed real and not a memory’s folly. I had to grieve all over again for them, but was still invigorated from the “visit” as it were. In the oddly offered “one word”, I was happy.

As I took my many morning medications, my Zoloft stood out. Yet it had never really had much effect on me. 200mg of “not much at all!”

I had still not pinpointed the Universe’s purpose for my mood. It couldn’t be random, nor could I be getting well. It was time for my morning iced coffee with the rest of the day free to ponder.

My voice has been stronger lately and not the strained prolonged squeak it has been. It was, for a weekend, indeed effortless to talk. I so took advantage of my vocal enigma and talked with a few close friends, my sister, and my cousin (who was two years older than my mother). Catching up is always revitalizing, except for the repetition of pertinent health news.

It was time for a call to my friend Laurie, who recently followed a job to Albany. I was anxious to express and share my jubilation about the recent District Court ruling, making same-sex marriage legal in North Carolina. It was inevitable. The various counties already had the proper forms and our conservative governor announced his plan to respect the judge’s decision.

Of course. the elections are a month away and he might think he can still convince enough democrats to defect. Although that “ship of fools”, I believe, raised its rusty anchor and embarked on its doomed Kathy Lee holiday two years ago. Is it naughty and unkind of me to suggest a convoy of dinghies. “10-4, Good Buddies!” 

My friend Andrew and I had had a month of unfulfilling phone tag … until Friday. After a few minutes of exchanging both questions and answers, we were both ranting. About the upcoming elections. And the state of the Mid-East. And the horrific beheadings. And the inconsistencies from state to state. And how we were each trying to resolve family issues (regarding the ultimate death of a loved one). And, finally, how we had spent well over thirty minutes in heated discussion. The last being quite an inappropriate state for a mid-evening.

My conversation with Polly was particularly satisfying. I knew, when her daughters were 1, 3, and 5, that it would probably be a two-decade wait before she’d be able to have a lengthy conversation. Although they were usually well-intended, interruptions were endless. Friday night, the wait ended and we caught up, both committed to try to resolve any lingering family dysfunction. (Please note earlier reference to both the deaths and the funerals of loved ones.) It was time for me to assign to her a perkier, yet tasteful ringtone.

By ten o’clock Saturday morning: I had emptied the dishwasher, filed all of my papers, and other oft-skipped missions. Normally, any one of these activities would squeeze the breath out of me. But there I was, subconsciously putzing around downstairs while my ponderances were passengers on LaLa Land’s “local”.

I actually gave up trying to make sense of my mood. Perhaps, it was best to neither tempt fate nor make sense out of that which can never be sensible.

Oh, my. I love my iced coffee. In the past few years my java consumption has dwindled from ten or more cups to just one, if any.

The outside cats were gathering at the the double glass doors, pawing the glass. One was climbing a screen to the roof. Little Yorick and the growing Beamer, however, waited patiently for me to deliver their AM victuals. The others reminded me of zombies.

And that, Gentle Readers, reminded me that the season premiere of “The Walking Dead” is to be on AMC Sunday night. That made me smile (In a Chicago or even Cockney Rebel manner).

A stint on Facebook was imminent.

I continue to feel robust, perky, lucid, and motivated.

(Images: by Colleen Parker.)

One thought on “A Peculiar and Zoloftig Metamorphosis

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s