You’d probably never guess it from my Pollyanna/Namaste attitude most of the time, but sometimes there’s that one last thread that just pulls and unravels me, Reader. It doesn’t even have to be a major event to trigger that threadpull. I mean, in the grand scheme of this world, it’s nothing at all, but at the same time it’s big enough that I fall. Not literally, but to pieces, complete with wracking sobs and trembling lips.
Tonight was that night. That one last thread, I kept pulling tighter and tighter to keep it all together and then? It snapped. And I cried. And cried. And cried. In fact, I sit here sharing this with you I’m not even sure why, other than I don’t want to ever leave you with the impression that everything is always the found penny with the shiny side up over here at Chez Bang Bang. I try – I really really try – to keep that penny bright, because I prefer to be joyful and grateful vs. tired and broken.
I had the perfect storm of events leading up to the break.
Nine hours in an airport, with cancelled flights and terminal moves and delays and gate changes and more delays. Normally I could keep that penny on the bright side. But that was after being sick for a week and a half, getting worse instead of better, on top of three and a half days of lightening-paced meetings where I had to start every meeting with, “I’m sorry, I’m sick, we can’t shake hands, please don’t think I’m rude…” well, that thread was hanging on by it’s last thin fiber when I had a tap on my shoulder at the airport – while I was standing in line to deal with my cancelled flight – followed by an, “Excuse me, Miss, something is dripping out of your suitcase.”
I started to tear up right there in the airport. But I pulled on that last thread and tightened it the fuck up. I was not going to cry at the airport. It was such a “First World Problems” moment, I would not give in to the indulgence of it.
Even after I discovered it was the last 1/2 of my bottle of cherry NyQuil that had leaked over and coated everything in my suitcase in a thick and pungent red glaze.
I would not cry then, Reader.
I held that shit together, right up until I got home and unzipped that suitcase.
That thread started to fray faster. Then, this conversation in my brain happened.
Trixie Bang Bang, to my brain: “How did someone else’s clothes get in my suitcase??”
My brain, back to TBB: “What are you talking about??”
TBB to brain: “Um, I don’t even own pink socks. Someone else’s pink socks are in my suitcase.”
Brain to TBB: “Um, you DO remember the CHERRY NyQuil spillage? Of course you do, you were in the middle of cleaning that up when you landed upon someone else’s socks, aka. YOURs.”
Ah. Right. I mean, I was in the middle of cleaning that out of my suitcase, and tossing all my clothing in the washer, and wiping off everything that was wipeable, and tossing out some papers that were saturated beyond saving. I knew the situation.
Even dealing with that mess wasn’t enough to snap that thread.
It snapped while I was in the bathroom and got the extra toothbrush I use for “scrubbing the crevices of things” out of the cleaning cabinet to clean up my bottles and brushes, and then I accidentally picked up MY toothbrush instead to scrub things. I looked down at the toothbrush in my hand, that had just scrubbed my things and all around the bathroom sink and other disgusting things, and realized I had just used the wrong toothbrush on disgusting things.
That was the moment, Reader. Right there.
My thread came undone, and I started bawling. So I just stripped down and stood under the shower, crying and hiccoughing and there was a whole bunch of Poor Me’s and I’m Tired’s and just sometimes? I need someone to hold me up. I wanted to just hand myself right over to a pair of shoulders and break on them. I blame you, Keith Urban. For encouraging me to shatter like glass.
Why am I even telling you all this, Reader? I guess because sometimes that’s the real shit that happens and it’s not all happy-go-lucky vagina talks and cocktails. I mean, there’s a lot of that, true. But right now? I’m fragile. And that’s okay. I’ll knit myself back together after a good night’s sleep and the purchase of a new toothbrush.
I’m just tired. And I read a sort of emotional book on the plane about second chances in life that resonated a little too closely, and left me raw and exposed.
I know life will look bright once again in the morning.
But sometimes? It’s okay to come to terms with not always being the strong one and wanting to hand that shit over to someone who can hold you up for a while. And it’s okay to have a good cry. It takes a little rain to make the flowers grow, ya know.