Not a good mood

I’m having problems this morning. I spent yesterday being undeniably cheerful. Smiling at nothing and everything, happily making lists, sending email, cleaning, napping. Just pleasantly existing with no big worries or concerns.

Apparently I must pay for my lovely day by feeling a bit vicious. I woke up this morning to birds chirping. Which is fine, except they’re apparently trying to pull apart my gutters to build nests. I gasped as I watched out the window, offended as I peered up at their work.

So I tapped politely on the glass, explaining that I would rather the roof/gutter system stay functional, rather than being bent out of place so twigs and grasses could be placed therein. Apparently the birds disagree or don’t speak English, because they continue to build said nest. I think I fear them more than they me. I don’t like flying creatures – they’re unpredictable. Birds, bugs – scary.

They’re chirping right now. Bastards.

An aberration, I assured myself. I’m still happy! But I found myself scowling as I made coffee, looking around at the tiny messes that have yet to be cleaned and not feeling a single tug of motivation to do anything about them. Perhaps if I just start cleaning, my good mood will return. I lasted 10 minutes before giving up – it wasn’t helping. The coffee still wasn’t done, so I decided to check email. Nope – that irritated me too.

I consulted my list – the freaking list of things to do that I stupidly put on this happy flower-shaped post-it which now mocks me by its very cheer – and decided that I’d finish cleaning the closet, coffee in hand, and start more laundry. I enjoy laundry. On days other than today, apparently. But I got that done and was satisfied – not pleased, satisfied – with my progress.

Still frowning, I got out socks and went to the living room to find shoes. Chienne happily bounced around, knowing her walk was about to begin. I watched her for a moment, knowing that I’d normally laugh at her, perhaps play tug with one of my socks so I could share her excitement over our morning routine. This morning?

“Enough, dog. Seriously. We go every single day. Calm down already.”

Undaunted – she’s lived with me for 3 years now, after all – she continued to wag her tail, waited impatiently at the door for me while I found sunglasses, headphones and my keys. We set off, and she bothered me. Walked too fast at first when clearly I should dictate the pace. My status as a human demands it. Then after I decided how fast I wanted to walk, she kept stopping! Or trying to cross the street! I hate that.

But the trip around the neighborhood allowed me to focus on what I think is really bothering me – walking does help me think.

It comes down to how I move through life, I think. I don’t know how you find someone – friendly or otherwise – who can comfortably walk with you. Hell, I can’t even figure out how to stroll along with God with any great consistency. Some days are wonderful – easy and spiritual and right – but others I find myself speeding up or slowing down just to feel like I’m on my own. Even knowing He’s there, likely smiling and shaking His head over me, I feel better knowing that I’m ignoring Him, doing my own thing. I should be getting ready for church right now – it’s Palm Sunday, for crying out loud! – but here I sit, still in pajamas and ponytail, nose in the air, refusing to fall in line - like a spoiled child.

I don’t want to speed up or slow down just have company. At least not today. Most of the time it would be worth it, I think. To have someone to tease, laugh with, love. But if I feel like I’m always adjusting my pace, would I resent it? I always have in the past. Friends, the sort of/kind of serious relationships, even crushes fade because I get tired of feeling like I’m giving more than I’m getting. I don’t often initiate phone calls – my cell phone log is dominated by received rather than dialed. I like it that way – then I only deal with people who think I’m important. But I lose friendships without even regretting it. Because other people like to feel special too, right?

It comes down to Violet in this case, I think. I sent email to a few people after I finished my grant – catching up, returning neglected messages, stuff like that. After catching her up on my news, I asked for an update on her life. She’s adopting a baby. I cried – think it’s such amazing news and am so very happy for her. I wiped away tears and squinted at pictures, smiling over a beautiful baby boy that should join her late this summer, immediately asked when she was going to register so I could send gifts, planned a trip to the bookstore so I could send a tiny t-shirt with my current institution’s name on it. So we talked and she explained her thought process – that she grew tired of waiting for the right man and decided that she was fine with not being a wife, but needed to be a mother.

I cocked my head over that one, considered my own feelings. I do want children – I’ve known for some time that I want that part of life for myself. It has been, until recently, harder for me to picture being married. Making room for another person – fully formed and with all sorts of ideas, feelings and preferences that might not mesh with my own – seems pretty difficult. Especially on days like today where I’m even having trouble dealing with my dog. But I want that, I told Violet. Someone to balance my weaknesses – to shake his head at me and smile when I’m smothering our poor child. To encourage a bit of bravery when I’d advise extreme caution. A man who might stumble in parenting himself so I can pick up where he leaves off. I want that.

Rather than nodding and telling me I’d find it, Violet offered her copy of “Adopting on Your Own.” Because though apparently I have some time to figure this stuff out, I apparently don’t want to wait too long. I’m getting older after all, and I can’t put my plans on hold forever for some guy who may or may not exist, let alone participate in my life.

It’s this that’s bothering me, I think. Looking far into my future and trying to come up with a timeline that makes sense. Locking myself into some plan that life may render completely irrelevant. But still… If I get this grant, then I’ll be settled professionally within 4 years. Will move, find an independent position, hire some students, try to wiggle my way out of teaching a class. That makes me 31. I’ll give the job a couple of years, provide a little extra time for future husband to show up already, which puts me at 33.

It just goes on from here. When do I read this book? Do I really think that at some point I’ll need to read it? Make that decision for myself?

Honestly? On days like today, I’m quite certain that no man would want to deal with me. So perhaps I’ll take Violet’s copy just in case.