All my nerves are in my stomach, and lately that’s meant heaps o’ heartburn. My own little world putters along dreamily, but suddenly there’s a cluster of female friends weathering tough times in their marriages. And I do feel their pain. Smack in the middle of my chest. I’m popping generic Phasyme like their TicTacs. It’s hard to believe one female body can hold – and let go of – so much gas. I’m sure the Lord & Master and his nose are grateful to be sleeping on the lower level.
So there I am, rolling around in my bed worrying, when I should be mid-nightmare. I cannot get through a decent night’s sleep when those I love are in pain. I lie in bed catching the various digital combos roll by. (Yes, lie in bed, people. One of my chief grammatical pet peeves is the misuse of “lay” for “lie.” One lies in bed. One lays a suitcase upon the bed. Make sure you have an object to lay and you’ll be okay! That’s my grammar lesson for today. And it rhymes. But I digress.) Among spotting 12:34 morph into 2:22 then 3:45, whisking the dog out for a multliple pees by the light of the silvery moon, and the shock of sunrise hitting my eyeballs at dawn, I’m a wreck in the daytime.
One of my divorcing girlfriends just discovered her spouse had been receiving trust fund buckaroos for years without her knowledge. Nice. What’s hers is his; what’s his is his. Steam shot out of my ears when she told me. “You gotta let it go, Wiggles,” she cooed. What is wrong with this picture? Where’s her anger? I think anger gets a bad rap.
I, for one, am mad as hell, and I don’t want anyone to take it anymore. Or is that just sheer exhaustion talking?