I woke up in a funk. Different from the funk I had a few months ago when my throat was killing me so I took cold medicine and stayed in bed staring at the heating vent, realizing it looked just like the profile of a baby lion. And unlike the I’m-living-in-another-country funk. This was the funk where the people you love most in the world appear to be incredibly irritating and you need to leave the house as soon as possible to avoid saying very mean things.
I’m a pretty happy person. Granted I’m no Mary Lou Retton, but I generally feel content and grateful. But today I felt angry, and no it wasn’t a female issue. The molehills felt like mountains and GOD HELP ME WITH THE CRUMBS EVERYWHERE WOULD IT KILL YOU TO USE A PLATE WITH YOUR FUCKING PEANUTS.
Please, a word on crumbs. Why is it that I can sit in someone else’s home completely unaffected by crumbs, but yet in my own house, the crumbs stare up at me from the floor like tiny Donald Trumps, screaming in my face?
I called my friend Elaine and asked if she’d meet me for a run, warning her I was in a horrible mood. “I’m always in a crap mood,” she said happily. “Let me just get changed and I’ll meet you at the park.”
Grabbing my headphones, I left the house. This type of funk required extra consideration in the music department. Lorde and Yo La Tengo felt too tender, and Beyoncé only amplified my anger when I recalled her lip-synching at the Giants Stadium last year. I expected Johnny Cash to be a safe choice, but that lonesome whistle was not exactly blowing my blues away. The Beastie Boys came through of course. Don’t you tell me to smile, you stick around I’ll make it worth your while.
The friend and the exercise helped. Though dragging myself up the stairs to my front door, I still felt hazardous. So I turned around and kept walking. I ended up at the library where I sat in a beanbag and read a children’s book about a talking dog. I wandered over to the nonfiction section where the final selections of a Young Artist contest were being displayed. There was a bright yellow multimedia piece about the pressures facing teenage girls, and a very realistic illustration of a cat. I stared at the cat for a while, mesmerized by the details. Willa would love this picture, I thought. I felt my brain unclench.
I’ve walked home from the library so many times, I’ve memorized the storefronts on Rokeby Road. There’s the law firm, the shop that sells Eileen Fisher nightgowns and $90 throw pillows, the physiotherapy office, and the Moroccan café with the cappuccinos dusted in chocolate. So today, I was surprised to see a newly opened shop showcasing giant bins of dried beans and coconut flour. Hypnotized by the promise of artisanal pickles and macadamia doukka, I wandered in and bought some nuts. On the way out, I noticed the name of the store – Angry Almond.
When I got home, Dave and Simone were on the couch eating Doritos, watching Howl’s Moving Castle. Willa had gone to a friend’s house. “I bought some almonds,” I said quietly. “Welcome back,” Dave said.
