Maybe it is the switch in seasons, but I've been in a funk over the past several weeks. I wonder if I should blame it on the litany of men who have come and gone into my life like shooting stars. Easy come, easy go.
I also wonder if it is the meds, throwing me into an unexplained tizzy in the middle of the day. I start fretting, worrying about present, future, the next birthday, the meaning of life overall.
I become buried under an avalanche of worry and walk around the streets looking like someone has died. Or maybe it is that I didn't take vacation at all this summer. In fact, the other day I emerged from the cubicle and looked at a colleague, and said, "vacation, a foreign concept." It cracked him up.
The father doesn't understand the fretting over turning 33, over the job, the economy, the directionless betta man. "You're not married to him; just go out if he asks you and you feel like it," he says. "He's like a reserve in the Army." That made me laugh.
My only escape is swimming. Water is an escape and follows the lead of my strokes. When I dive into its coolness, I am enveloped in sweet silence away from the static of daily life and my own thoughts.
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