It is raining today! The skies are gloomy and the wind is frigid and I just, like, want to die because I’m going to have to walk all the way to my car if I want to get to yoga.
My life is truly hellish. How can I survive this?
But then, I think of Solzhenitsyn. (You know, the Russian dude who wrote all those long books I always intended to read, but haven’t found the time for, since I am, you know, quite busy.) Like me, he battled icy winds and frostbitten hands when he was imprisoned in Siberia, which is evidently located in a not very desirable part of Russia. He may not have even had a car! Think of that. He probably had to walk everywhere.
Well, that does it. I am inspired and strengthened. If Solzhenitsyn can do it, so can I. We are fellow sufferers in this abysmal vale of tears. (Note to self: Find out whether Colorado ski resort of the same name — Vale — was ever visited by Solzhenitsyn. This would make a good literary tie-in.)
Oh, God! When does it ever quit? Never, that’s when!
Today, I am being tested once again. Yes, you guessed it. I have cedar fever. My nose is red and bulbous, spewing and leaking snot all over my new cashmere sweater (although I’ve now decided I don’t like the sweater and may have to return it first thing tomorrow, if I can find the tags). I sneeze, I cough, I tickle, I am a veritable human cesspool and a fount of misery! (Note to self: Is this mixing metaphors? Remember to call writing coach this afternoon to find out.)
Oh, but I’m not feeling sorry for myself. Au contraire. As usual, I am thinking of others. Frida Kahlo, in this case, who is artistic like me, but not nearly as good-looking. I think she got run over by a bus or something and always kind of walked funny after that. So yes, of course, I identify with Frida Kahlo! Like her, I will take the pain of my relentless allergies and meld it into great art! I will not be taken down by pollen! I will thrive and survive!
So, I was sitting in my Land Cruiser, waiting for little Trevor to come out of day care, and some anorexic named Heather in a pink yoga outfit and a new red Cayenne comes up and pounds on my window and accuses me of cutting in the day care carpool line! She is, like, I am not kidding you, liberal with rage. I try to smooth it all over by telling her I’m in a big hurry since I’m late to pilates and Trevor’s nanny is AWOL (something about her mother dying in Guatemala. I said, “What are you trying to tell me? That you’re not a Mexican?” When she gets back, I’m going to check her green card again).
But Heather was all, I don’t care about your stupid schedule, we all have problems, honey, which made me think this is so what’s wrong with the world. We don’t care about other people’s pain. But I do! Being busted by Heather, just because she had a bad yoga class and can’t keep her shit together, I felt just like Rosa Parks. Remember her? She had to go to the back of the carpool line, too.
I am tired of keeping my journal this week, sick of all the hassles and problems and sorrows of the world. I’m just surrounded by so much negative energy that I am going to have to go to a spa to detox for a few days. I want to be thin and calm and quiet, like Gandhi. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to go to India like him, so will have to settle for the Golden Door. Ciao!
(Copyright 2009 by Ruth Pennebaker)
Or, you could come back to L.A. for some sunshine and drinks with a blogging friend!
Gotta watch out for those anorectic rageful yoga people!
Yeah, but I think Frida Kahlo managed with hefty doses of addictive analgesics (morphine?)…
But Ghandi didn’t get to eat. He had to make all his clothes on a spinning wheel. And then he got shot.