I don’t know, it’s one of those weeks. A woeful week, in which I have had sort of sad, or at least shaking, news from a friend and, with another friend, flailed helplessly in the face of her grief, though trying my darndest to avoid the chin-chucking and it-will-be-fining, because in her case it WON’T and all I can do is try and hear what she is saying and keep reiterating that sometimes horrible things happen and it’s not your fault. It’s a week of work-drowning, where the waves keep pulling me under and I keep trying to bob up again, waving. Not waving, not really.
It’s one of those weeks where the stress and frustration of all those things and then one more snapped something and I lost control for a little bit, bursting into tears and freaking out my husband because goddammit, why can’t things just WORK LIKE THEY’RE supposed to? And he thought I was mad at HIM, when really I was just mad at the universe (see friends and helplessness, above) and stressed over the amount of things at work that needed to get done and the time was ticking and they weren’t getting done because instead of being able to get to them, MORE things keep coming. And I’m going on vacation in just a few weeks and they HAVE TO GET DONE and I haven’t even had time to properly train the intern who will be trying to help cover for me during my absence and WAAH! Commence sobbing and drama.
And the next day, when I shamefacedly responded to a colleague’s inquiry as to why the hell I had been working at 11 p.m. at night with my story of sturm und drang, she then asked me if Aunt Flo was in town. HAA. Not yet, I said, but signs point to soon. Which, when I then relayed this conversation back to my husband, who had quietly gone to the store and bought the techie bits necessary to fix the thing that had not been working and sparked my sobfest in the first place, he merely nodded and tried very, very hard not to roll his eyes.
O! Woe! Weight and aging and uncertainties and sadnesses. All of which leaves me rather battered-feeling (ready to fry!) and tearing up at inopportune moments, and makes it hard to appreciate the lilacs because they’re blurry when seen through this watery haze.
So, these other things, instead: a grove of pink-blossomed cherry trees on the corner of the intersection in Södra Sandby which were sending a steady flow of pink petals floating on the evening breezes. Petals had been floating down all day, apparently, to coat the sidewalk in palest pink, below the trees, and drifting a pink-lining along the edge of the street. And later, a small girl, coming unexpectedly out from between a hedge and a fence, facing the street upon which I was driving by, on her bike, with a pink helmet and fuchsia shoes and a blinding smile directed straight at me. And the lilacs, the lilacs! And the unearthly glow of the rapeseed fields: I can’t get over them. I will never get over them.
Lovely Lovely Lilac-y Birthday Wishes to nannergo!