Young girls get weary

To all the husbands out there who come home on occasion to find that a tearful irrational, moody, alien has taken over their wife’s body, I have a thought for you -Young girls get weary and frankly old girls do too. It’s a fact. Sometimes heaviness comes from out of nowhere, overtakes us, and we get sad. Sometimes we cry.

I remember a time when my children were younger – I had the blues for several days. I didn’t know why I was sad. I still don’t.  I adore my husband and my children were  the light of my life, yet I couldn’t get out of the funk I was in. Could I be depressed? Was it hormones? Was I exhausted? Was I subconsciously missing something in my life?

My husband was taken aback. I think he was a bit frightened. He couldn’t understand, couldn’t help or fix me. He offered to get me professional help. A few days later, I was back to my former self, wondering why I had been so down in the dumps.

I went for a walk shortly after that and stopped by a friend’s house. There was an arrangement of flowers on her entry table. “Oh, is it your birthday? Anniversary?” I asked.

“No,” she reluctantly explained. She told me that her husband was trying to make her feel better because she had been inexplicably  sad as of late.

“You too?” I thought.

Since then I’ve had many such days (I’m a fairly old gal).** and my husband has pretty much learned when to lean in and when to back off.  I’ve also spoken with hundreds of girls who relay similar stories along with the ways they have learned to handle their own difficult days. Granted, there are some of us that need to work through some of our stuff in the office of our psychiatrist, but for the rest of us, we are becoming adept at recognizing the coming of the blues and aren’t as surprised by them anymore. We aren’t ashamed or afraid of feeling sad. We know the doldrums will leave in due time. We learn how to shorten our unhappy moodiness by seeking friends to talk to, getting out of the house, going for a walk, taking some ‘me’ time when possible. In the long run I think, the sad times enable us to anticipate and enjoy the good times all that much more.

As for the dozens of frustrated men who have expressed their exasperation at the sudden gloomy transformation of the women they love, I can’t think of anything better to say to them than what’s already been said by Three Dog Night.

**clue to how old I really am- check out the wardrobes

 

 

Her

Roadkill - Dead Deer on roadside.

 

I saw her again today.  It’s been awhile since her memory has come up and that is a good thing.  At first I thought that even time itself would never be able to erase her image from my mind.  I’m almost startled to realize that time has, in fact worked its magic and I’ve almost forgotten her.  But today, I see her again.

I am heading to Atlanta driving north on interstate 85 and I pass a deer lying rigid and still in the grass on the side of the road.  Its graceful and beautiful brown body is rigid, exposed and alone as hundreds of cars pass quickly by.  Several passengers glance at the deer for a moment, vaguely recognizing some form of mild indignity.

I pass by and think, “what a tragic injustice,” because I remember something else, someone else.  I see the deer and I think of her, the beautiful young South African girl.  A girl with no name of whom I am forever linked.  We share an eternal moment of unwanted intimacy.  She, the totally exposed and vulnerable one and I, the shocked and sickened voyeur.

I saw her shortly after the traffic began to slow.  My friend had planned a special day of lunch and shopping and we were moving along a busy highway.  We had been in the car for about 30 minutes enjoying each other’s company and the exquisite beauty of South Africa.  The last few miles gave me an opportunity to view the other South Africa and the inescapable evidence of extreme contrast.   I found myself unashamedly gawking at the township on my right through the privacy of my car window.  The township is a fantastic mosaic of cardboard, tin and wood strung together with a maze of electrical wire, littered with people and trash, and slung out as far as one can see.  I remember wanting to take it all in, absorb a bit of understanding as to how life is possible for the faceless thousands who eke out their existence in a place like this.  My friend suddenly applies the brakes and our car is forced into a slow-moving crawl.

We assume there must be a traffic accident up ahead which is quickly confirmed as we see a police vehicle.  As we approach the site there is a black automobile pulled over along the right hand side of the road and a woman who is visibly shaken, talking to a policeman, her arms crossed.  The windshield of her car is shattered into a million glass diamonds, some sparkling on the hood and some on the ground.  I look around for the other car involved in the accident.  There is no other car.

There is only a girl.  She has lovely brown skin and is hauntingly beautiful.  She is alone, uncovered and in repose.  Her body is being silently viewed by passer-byes who are slowed but not deterred from getting to their pre-determined destinations.  She landed at an odd angle against the concrete medium separating traffic going in opposite directions.  “She must have tried to hop over the barrier to get to the other side,”  my friend remarks.  “It has happened before.”

We are briefly horrified.  We pray for her soul.  We too pass by, propelled like the others in the tide of moving traffic.  We discuss possible ways to prevent another such tragedy.  We can’t seem to come up with any workable solution.  We continue on to Stellenbosch, mostly in silence, where we have a lovely lunch and do some shopping.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Benji and the Drain Critter

One has to admire his tenacity, the clarity of his mission.  He is a sentinel whose job is to keep watch.  And watch he does.  Day after day he returns to the same spot.  His commitment is undeniable as he patiently stands guard.

What caused him to be so focused, so devoted?  Was the first time they made contact so extraordinary, so enticing that the thought of next time became his obsession?

His giddy enthusiasm for this seemingly futile enterprise causes others to take notice.  Some think he’s quite mad.   Some say he’s wasting his time.  Some mock him and his unrequited passion.  He hardly hears them.  He is undeterred.  

Perhaps he ignores the insults because he knows something they know nothing of, sees something they cannot see.  Perhaps he imagines a day when the doubters will be proven wrong, when the object of his longing re-appears.

I wonder if there is anything or anyone that I could be so passionate about, so sure of, that I would endure endless waiting and watching, fend of frequent mocking and do so with great exuberance and joy.  That kind of commitment just might require all of my heart, mind, soul and strength.