Stream of consciousness

I was just planning on updating a random thread on a message board before going to sleep, but I wound up really liking how it came out, so I thought I'd add it here as well.

Thank you, Labor Day - sucks that summer's ending, but yay for a three-day weekend.

And yay for fairs. Yep, I said it. The questionable safety in temporary, spinning and flipping rides, the fried dough and the candy apples, the obnoxious clown you want to send into the dunk tank, the beer tents and karaoke, the promise of a prize with every play of the game.

One of the best places to people watch and see how the various walks of life come together to mingle and collectively vie for the extra ride tickets someone's trying to give away. That is, when you're not standing in line for five-ticket Freak Out ride.

The first glimpses of fall. Love it. And you'll find me welcoming it in from my spot near the maple tent.
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Today has just provided that picture-perfect day you want to freeze in time and go back to whenever you wish. The weather is warm enough, yet cool enough for comfort; your baseball team wins the afternoon game in style; you go running and feel as if you never want to stop because it feels incredible; you have time to get things accomplished, sit back and read a book on the sunporch, enjoy a homemade dinner with friends and still play around like a child at the fair; and you know you have an additional day to do whatever you want to do, particularly if what you want to do largely amounts to nothing of consequence in the end. Contentment stretches out before you for at least another 24 hours.

Thank goodness I was in a church and using my phone would wreak havoc on proper ettiquette.

The reverend was bringing the service to a close, and the sobs that had echoed through the space had just begun to subside. Everyone present knew they'd get louder upon arriving at the cemetery.

It was time for the "love each other" moment and I was ready for it. But what I wasn't prepared for was such an impressive delivery of the message.

As the assembly nodded and hugged each other, I stared in surprise. And my first impulse was to reach for my cell phone and make a call.

It was important! These are things that need to be shared among one another! What if something happened and I didn't get a chance!

Seriously. I was ready to call.

But wait. Location. Church. Service in session.

Not so much.

And then I came to my senses as I walked to my car.

And this, boys and girls, is why we wait when we have impulses to do something foolish. Fortunately, these impulses pass.

And yet I still occasionally drool over the Lacoste display

When did my life become dominated by polo shirts?

I packed a change of clothes into my backpack last night, after tearing myself away from the much-anticipated (seriously) re-reading of my second favorite book of all time.

I flipped through the assortment of brightly colored shirts, the kakhi pants and the black dress pants I'd recently washed, folded and put away.

Every other shirt was a polo shirt. Bright green, short sleeves. Slightly brighter green, three-quarter sleeves. Dark green, long sleeves. Turquoise. Pink. Navy blue. Stripes. Pale pink.

Some work best with a knee-length linen skirt. Others with professional clothing. Still more with jeans (much like the one I'm wearing today). The last with shorts. Each has a distinctive purpose, a different way it fits.

But when the hell did polos take over my life? I wear other things, of course, but most fall into the similar this-works-for-work-and-play category. Which caused just as much alarm.

What happened to the well-worn concert t-shirts? The simple, long-sleeved shirts?

The yuppification of my life flashed before my eyes, and I wanted to rail against the polo-button-sewing machines.

I went to sleep instead. And, upon waking, contemplated what to wear during what would be a very, very long day.

Ah, a polo shirt and jeans would be cute. Let's go with that.

Aurgh.

It's hot and humid, with condensation sticking to the windows, lampposts and awnings. A visible haze hanging over everything.

Much like the thundercloud hanging over my head. I'm glowering. Grumpy. Ready to explode.

The reports that dominate screentime on the televisions here are alternately horrific and devastating. There are the reports of more than a thousand people killed while trying to flee a supposed suicide bomber. There's the water in the South, with looters preying upon the desertion of a city and increasing devastation.

You're acutely aware of what's going on, of course, but after being innundated with the images, it's a natural reflex to want to curl up and focus on what's happening close to home. There's too much happening outside, too much sadness and intensity.

So you do curl up, retreating into the imagined bubble that is supposed to protect you from harm. And you take a look at what's going on in your life, and you realize that maybe you should focus again on what's happening to others.

Things in your life are painful when they shoudn't be, dormant when they shouldn't be, obnoxious when they shouldn't be. You feel as if you're in a funk that shouldn't exist. But things have gotten to you. And that makes all the difference.

I cried myself to sleep last night for the first time in recent memory. Shortly after I turned off my lamp, a number of things finally managed to get through the thick skin I've been trying to develop. They struck me right at the nerves and I just broke down. I sobbed until my sides hurt and until I started to lose my breath. One side of my spare pillow was damp when I finally loosened my grip on it.

I forced my breathing to become steady again and then closed my eyes. I'd worn myself out from the crying and fell asleep easily.

But then I awoke and turned on the news. And realized that there would be little to force me out of the doldrums today. It looked like the cloud was going to remain over my head.

And then I stepped outside into the haze.