One of the least interesting things about me
Since this is my first post in awhile, I could tell you about how for the past few months I’ve been having a lot more of these episodes.
Episodes where my ears are full of cotton and my head is floating away and my heart has decided to take up tap dancing and my legs just won’t stop shaking.
I could tell you about ice packs and doctor appointments and electrolytes and all the things I’ve missed out on this summer.
But that’s honestly one of the least interesting things about me.
What’s more interesting is that I’m scoring a film with a wind quintet and I think the flute is like raindrops falling on pebbles and the clarinet is like rustling leaves and the oboe is like rich soil and the horn is like granite boulders and the bassoon is like the sturdy trunks of centuries-old trees.
And that I recently made strawberry syrup to put on my ice cream and now I don’t understand why I ever wasted money buying bottles of it.
And I usually don’t like musicals, but I absolutely loved Hadestown. It was one of those rare moments where I think experiencing a work of art may have actually changed me as a person a bit.
And my favorite part of most days are evenings spent watching cooking competition TV shows with my husband and two cats.
I want to visit Iceland.
I want to write more synth music.
I want to be a more thoughtful friend.
I want to start journaling again.
These things are all more interesting than those first things.
You understand, right?
I think I’ve had a chronic illness for a long time without knowing it. But now that I know, I tend to get very down during flare-ups. Lamenting the unfairness of it, thoughts threatening to veer into self-loathing.
But no.
I’ve found that when I remind myself that this is one of the least interesting things about me, it always snaps me out of it. I hate anything that’s boring.
And even if I’m feeling awful and can’t do much,
I can always listen to a podcast about scammers
Or read a library book
Or pull some tarot cards
Or picture myself floating on my back in Lake Michigan
Or look at the way the sunlight is streaming in through the blinds.