TJ Maxx T.S. Eliot wrote that “April is the cruelest month,” in 1922. With all due respect to Mr. Eliot, I think it’s time to update that classic; therefore, I humbly submit this sequel:
September can kiss my biscuit-white ass.
Oh, yes, September bitched slapped me from day one when I found myself having a delightful picnic dinner of humus sandwiches with grilled vegetables in the antiseptic confines of the EMERGENCY ROOM. There’s nothing like hitting up the children’s hospital on Labor Day weekend to really rouse the soul. Gratefully, the injury was never life threatening– Simon earned himself five stitches after his little hobbit feet slipped on our living room floor.
And I’m not naturally a hater (I’m more of a self-pity-er), so I assumed the month would turn around. Like every other family with children, we suited up for our first days of school and gamely signed up for volunteer activities, while juggling back-to-school nights and looking up EMDR therapy to treat the PTSD from the carpool line experience.
Each banal challenge showed up like a barrel and I jumped like Donkey Kong. Mid-September, I learned that my beloved office was going the way of many a budget cut, and I tried not to cry so loud that I disturbed others. (I was not successful.) I endeavored to forgive my aging therapist for leaving town for the month of September, which I shall refer to hereafter as “the month that hates my guts” (“TMTHMG”).
Still, I took steps to keep my mind aloft, far from the maddening flood waters that threatened to carry away my peace of mind. I started watching Joel Osteen at the gym instead of gluing my eyes to the CNN crawl because one more piece of news about gunmen in malls or bombs in railway stations might have pushed me over a cliff. Now I have uneasy nightmarish dreams about Mr. Osteen’s hair coming to tell me how sinful I am for having negative thoughts.
Other existential battles I waged in my head and heart and are the subject of my forthcoming memoir (due in 2018) so I won’t detail them herein.
And to give TMTHMG his due, I will acknowledge sublime runs on the lake in the brilliant autumn sunshine, bonding family time as we learn our new neighborhood, and faithful friends who’ve helped me peel my ass off the floor countless times in the past 30 days. Like all difficult times, it wasn’t hard every.single.minute., but the minutes that were felt like they were going to take me under and poison me with stress and anxiety and discomfort.
I will not miss you, TMTHMG– I will wish you well, because that’s what Joel Osteen would do. Please take your crises and woes and stress with you. And yes, please let the door hit you on the ass as you leave, because you sort of deserve it.