There's something inconsolably pathetic about a cancelled evening flight. On the long bus and subway trip back from the airport, I felt like the straps of my bags were the leashes of dogs eager to burst forth into the unknown, but instead I had to reign them in wearily and drag them, whimpering, back home. The rain didn't exactly improve my mood; neither did the snot-gargler and crotch-grabber sitting next to me, who spent the twenty-minute airport shuttle ride contemplating something very fascinating inside my right ear. And now I'm back in the apartment it took me three hours to clean and put in order this afternoon, packing everything away and destroying all traces of my two-week life there so that the movers could do their job more easily. It's almost funny, really. Toiletries trapped inside taped-up cardboard, towels and linens smashed together with dirty clothes in the hamper, all the leftover food in the cupboards thrown away. Nothing but boxes and a bare mattress for the next sixteen-some hours.
My life this month was supposed to be on its way to positively domestic. Finally, I was going to do some of that nesting I'd read about, maybe get my act together and start playing the part of a "wife," whatever the hell that is. And yet here I am, musing indifferently that the next time I'll be able to shower might be around nine or ten tomorrow night, if I'm lucky, and contemplating a run to the liquor store for a therapeutic evening of solitary beer and video games. Pretty much like every other night this month, except with even less in the way of creature comforts. Joy.
The thing about the karmic wheel: I tend to take it all, bank or bust, with the same level of complicity. And once that bitch starts rolling downhill, I just let it draaaaaag me down.
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