June has been bursting out all over well in advance of its official start date. Currently, I am enduring week three-ish of a Poplar attack on my sinuses and inner ears that has me close to tears of frustration because all I can do is stop-gap the worst of the symptoms with a mix of OTC/homeopathic remedies that at best make me feel slightly less shitty than doing nothing at all.
Fluff floats like cotton snow moths, clogging window screens and mounding into curiously shaped lawn clouds. There is no escape. Resistance is a half-step up from futile.
But I had higher hopes for June given that spring beat back winter early this year and we haven’t had the monsoon rains like last year,which produced one bumper crop after another of the most vicious mosquitoes I have ever encountered. Normally the buzzing little vampires make the dusk impossible to enjoy but last year’s variety were day-walkers, immune to the effects of sunshine.
I haven’t abandoned all hope for June, but it has gotten off to an inauspicious start.
Allergy induced insomnia kept me awake most of the night (for the second time this week) and so the day began in the hole, so to speak.
Brief gains via a lovely hatha class were erased in the studio’s parking lot when I inadvertently threw the truck into drive instead of reverse and scratched the crap out of the truck’s front bumper. As if I needed yet another bumper damaging incident on my record. This necessitated a call to my ever patient husband who is currently in the midst of the seemingly without end overtime schedule from the fourteenth level of hell.
I have learned that it is better to let him know about truck damage right away rather than stew myself into an emotional train wreck. It’s silly and most likely it’s based in the perfectionism, which plagues me despite the fact that such a quality is largely incompatible with my personality in general. But I hate making indelible mistakes.
It also reminds me of how my mother backed three different vehicles into the car of the neighbor directly across the street. Dad’s reaction was always the same. Hands on hips, shoulder slump, head hang with a shake. The man had distilled body language disapproval into an art form.
Why is it, I wonder, that when you craft a plan with high hopes, reality feels compelled to check you?
“Don’t get cocky.”
The day is far from over, and I expect it will right itself at some point. After all, the first Friday of a month has no curse attached to it of which I am aware.
- Spring Has Sprung…and So Have Allergies (judyancheta.wordpress.com)