I woke up with a migraine this morning. As usual, I began the ritual of “blaming the victim.” What did I do to bring this on myself? I ran through my list of suspect behaviors: Did I drink any booze last night? No. Did I eat any chocolate? Nope. Ate any aged cheese? No, I don’t think I ate any cheese yesterday. Did I miss a meal, went without food for at least six or seven hours? Did I walk around outside in the hot sun for hours? Again, no.
But the weather … the weather is changing! Aha!
Since my head is a weather barometer, and since this is one of the biggest migraine triggers to me, I probably should ask myself that question — What is the weather doing? Is there sudden drop in barometric pressure? Is there a storm front moving in? This is the question I should ask before I accuse myself of such sinful behavior as eating aged cheese.
When I woke up with a migraine, the morning was sunny, with nary a cloud in the sky, the temp climbing to about 55 degrees Fahrenheit. But, just as promised on my smartphone’s weather app, slowly, slowly, the clouds gathered, and around 3 p.m., the sky became heavy and turned gun-metal gray. The wind became sharp and cold, and I could smell the snow on the way.
As the first flakes of snow began to fall, my migraine medication had kicked in, and the pain started to abide. And now, my husband is home making a fire, and I am going to make hot Earl Grey tea, bundle up with the blanket my daughter, Riva, gave me on my birthday last year (it’s buttery-soft, and on it there are photos from our trip to New Zealand in 2017). I’ll bask in the glow of the hearth and watch the electric hearth — TV. I have several shows saved up just for this occasion, as soon as I finish this blog.
But I have wanted to write about an incident that occurred a few days ago, on Saturday morning. Maybe this incident is why my brain is now punishing me. Maybe I deserve it.
My friend Reverie had organized a little birthday party for herself in a local coffee house we used to frequent when all our kids went to the same school (Rocky Mountain School of Expeditionary Learning, or RMSEL). The coffee house is called Sojourners a.k.a. SoJo’s. SoJo’s is located very close to the school, and it’s independently owned and charming, selling teas, coffees, pastries and sandwiches, and was a perfect place for gathering for an hour or two after we dropped our kiddos off. For most of us, it is simply a place of nostalgia now, since our children have either graduated from high school or have moved on to different high schools (my son is in his final year of high school, and has chosen to go to a much larger school closer to home).
I was sipping a hazelnut vanilla latte and chatting with an acquaintance (let’s call her M) I haven’t seen for a while. We talked about our offsprings (her daughter got married last summer, and she’s not much older than Riva), how her business was doing (her business is a little store right next door to SoJo’s). At some point in the conversation, I brought up my dogs, Bella and Toffee, as I am want to do. As I rambled on, I saw her eyes glaze over. This produced a weird response in me. I. Could. Not. Stop.
M began to look clearly bored, looking around as if searching for an escape door. Prior to this conversation, I had yet to find anyone who’s uninterested listening to dog stories — children stories, yes, sure, but dogs? Never! The less interested M became, the more insistent I became. At one point, M actually looked at her watch, and that’s when I doubled down! I had no idea what was going on, nor could I help myself, and it only stopped when M muttered something about how it’s time for her to open up her store, and stumbled away from me, hurriedly saying goodbye to the group.
I was screaming at myself inside my own head: What’s wrong with you? Why did you keep going even though clearly M wasn’t even slightly interested? I swear, I wasn’t in control of things coming out of my own mouth. It was like I was possessed!
I remembered an episode of a TV show called Psych. On it, Gus and his date are held at gunpoint, and his date keeps on blathering away. When Gus hisses loudly at her, “Stop talking!” she replies, with mounting horror, “I don’t think I can!” That was me!
Thinking about this now, it seems stupidly funny. However, while it was going on, I half expected myself to projectile-vomit pea soup while my head spun around, so strong was my sense of no control.
I guess the moral of this story is how there is a first time for everything. Also, it doesn’t matter how old you are, you can make yourself look like a fool at every age with any subject.
Now, it’s really starting to snow. Good night, everyone.