Just now, on a bright sunny Monday on the cusp of Spring – and feeling hopelessly prone to the new unwelcome, overbearing lodger D. E. Pression (he just turned up one day and I can’t seem to shake him) – I thought to myself, ‘Could stay at home until I feel better.’
I was, admittedly, also looking a bit worse for wear in that I was a bit dishevelled-looking shall we say. Of course, no longer or for now not being able to have a carer, regular massages or even the ability to have a swim (or a soothing soak in a tub) is taking its toll.
I’m hanging on for the proper job warm weather when I’ll be able to swim, float, loll about in the fresh ocean waters whenever I please…
Funny how so many things others might well deem a bit of an extra or even a tad extravagant, to me these days have become absolutely crucial to my overall well being.
However, I managed to drag my bedraggled self to the Esplanade. I sometimes like to just sit for a while on one of the benches overlooking the endless Pacific. Of all oceans, I find this one the most soothing (pun intended)…
Also, you get to see ‘real’ people with lives, going about their daily business, which can be quite uplifting provided you don’t look too closely.
I had parked my car a bit farther away and while shuffling my way to the beach, I noticed my flies were undone. It’s this type of thing that can really get me down, almost leading me to panic stations.
‘Bugger! I managed to dress myself properly this morning, had a shower. Am wearing long black denims, a reasonably decent T-shirt as well as a smart jacket, and there we go again!’
I suppose I should explain. Any normal would just go, ‘Oh’, reach down and a semi-second later, the non-issue would be rectified.
Whereas in my case, the following monologue intérieur kicks in, ‘Shit, I’m on the pavement, already highly noticeable due to my shuffling and having to use my walking cane. If I stop now to try and do up my flies – which, given the appalling state of my fine motor skills when facing an ‘off’ period, could see me fumbling about in my nether regions for 5 or 10 minutes – I’ll be met with those Quasimodo looks and stares again.’
And let’s face it, this is not something any old passerby would be happy to help out with. In fact, I don’t think I’d like to meet any that would…
‘Should I keep shuffling towards the beach hoping to find a shaded corridor or something to sort myself out? The public toilets are at the beach anyway so that’s not an option either.’
In the end, I opted to pull my T-shirt up and over out of my trousers and so was able to at least cover up the offending wardrobe malfunction until my physical agility returned once the chemicals started hitting the bloodstream.
It’s so exhausting having to think like a old person (because a lot of these issues are typically old people’s problems). This is depressing in itself.
It also feels like I have to lead my life like an obsessive, very anxious chess player, continually having to anticipate ten steps ahead, taking into account a wide and ever-growing range of potential scenarios – even when planning the most drab and mundane activities.
I did make it to the Esplanade, though. Sat peering out to sea, saw the dog walkers, the odd surfer, the couples languidly taking a stroll.
Life is not good. Life is crap.
But it’s also good.