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Feets Don't Fail Me Now


Interesting expression: I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.




I can't find anything like guidelines. For using the saying.

I mean, how does one go about establishing right and wrong with respect to (WRT) bed side? Does it mean that a bed pushed up against the wall has no good/bad sides? Or does a bed against the wall guarantee that you will be one or the other, every time you get up?

Absent any official rules and regulations, Ima declare my feet let me down this morning, because, despite the fact I got out of the bed on the same side I always get up on, I did it. I stepped right in it. It's a blur, so I won't be able to regale you with details, with 'evidence'. I will say that it didn't take three steps before I knew. Wrong side. Phucking shit.




I think I'm generally an upbeat person. Maybe not as much as I used to be, or, no, it's just that' I'm less gregarious. Really, I lost the feeling of obligation I used to have, to keep people happy. That was a healthy development.

I did not however, extinguish that desire for attention. My AS (Attention Seeker) schema set me on a course of class clown from the time I could walk. My impulse (some would say "my compulsion") to entertain and stimulate laughter is as strong as ever.

Which is, I suppose, part of the reason I'm grumpy today.

I gots no audience!

I'm so used to, no, I'm dependent on, my friendships. Ack! That doesn't sound entirely healthy. My clowning often extended to strangers, the people standing in line at the store, the teller at the bank, I had outlets. For my craving for attention.

Now? In the pandemic?

I got nothin'.






Well, not nothin'. I got Zoom, which works like a charm, and I discovered today I can clown on Zoom. Now I just need to fluff out my contact list. I don't have that many people to call. I have yet to prototype Zoom on my phone, but once I do that, I can advise those of my friends who are hardware-poor how to join a meeting from their smartphone. If they don't have a smartphone…smoke signals? I just hate the way smoke signals warp the nonverbal communication. Wait, what?

Yeah, I think today, my facade crumbled. I've been telling myself my life is not that much different, I can do three months standing on my head.

And it's only been a month. And I'm breaking down. What's gonna happen if/when it's eighteen months?

There's a concept: cumulative trauma. On their own, each little cut, each minor insult, is not enough to kill.

But.

After a thousand cuts, the cumulative trauma creates a much different wound, one that can be fatal.

I think I'm experiencing the outcome of serious isolation. I started the Ides of March. Someone said "Beware the Ides of March!" and you can believe that shit, man, let me tell you! So, it hasn't even been a month! And I'm wimpin' out…

Nah, I'm not gonna wimp. I'm not gonna cave to the deprivation. People don't understand how tough I am. I will whine, that I will do. I might throw a tantrum, or a hissy fit, or have a conniption.

But.

I will hang. Believe me. People don't generally look at my dark days as benevolent. I got something out of them—I survived! Tell me to put a sock in it, if I'm bitchin' like a little girl, still, I will be there. I might not look good doin' it. I might even get bounced once or twice. I will come back. Been comin' back my whole life, through one phase or another.

I know you're out there. My audience. No matter your size. I may not see you, but I feel you, I still got what you need. Ima try and stay sharp, stay tough, stay smart so that when the time comes, I'll be there. For you.

And that goes no matter what side of the bed I get out of.

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