Down For the Count

Yesterday.  It was one of those days.  You know, those days.  When just about anything will make you wish the world would swallow you up whole.  The little things are harder than they should be and everything is a ten step process.  It’s days like these that it feels like you are an human emotional punching bag. 

 

LADIEEEEEEEEEEEEES AND GENTLEMEEEEEEEEEEEN, in the right corner, weighing in at nunya bidness, all the way from fragile springs…you.

 

You enter the boxing ring, ready. Bouncing around like Evander Holyfield (who by the way is one of the only boxing champions I know and that can respect.  He has yet to come out with a mini grill to endorse and has avoided biting off anyone’s ear).  You start the day and you are like, yes.  Ok.  Let’s do this.  Light on your feet.  Float like a butterfly, sting like a…

And then,  IN THE OTHER CORNER, weighing in at Yomama,  all the way from kickass Takenamesville…Life. 

Life enters the ring, too.  And Life is a girnormous beast of a gorilla with muscles upon muscles and he’s angry.  And he’s gunning for you. 

Not much you can do with a day like that except pray you get through it without wetting yourself or covering your ears and bursting into tears.

You plod through the morning.  For some reason your motor skills are lacking today and you drop things, spill your coffee all over the counter, and your hair tie breaks at the gym so you have to run two miles with a lion’s mane hairdo swinging around sticking to your back.  *Life takes a small jab to your gut.  You’re stunned but not down.

You get ready for the travel to Edinburgh for your last tech rehearsal.  You know there will be very little time for you to get ready since they’ve only blocked in an hour, so you attempt to put in your coloured contacts and base coat of make-up.  The contacts don’t want to go in.  It takes you fifteen minutes.  Then you try to get dressed.  You go around the room to where all your clothes have been drying for the last three days because the dryer in the apartment doesn’t work.  They are still wet.  All of them.  And they smell of must and cigarette smoke from the walls.  *Swift right hook to the face.  You block the next two punches and side step away from the ropes.

You are running late now.  You jump on the subway.  They’ve raised the prices.  *Illegal bitch slap when ref isn’t looking.

At the theatre in Edinburgh they say they are running fifteen minutes behind.  No surprise.  It’s ok.  Gives you time to breathe.  Right?  *Round 1 over.  You go to your corner to take a break.

An hour passes. *You are wondering why Life is looking at you and laughing as the bell rings. 

You go to the dressing room and put on the rest of your make up.  It takes you a while.  You fix your hair and wonder if they are going to make you get wet for the run through.  They are supposed to do photos and video footage.  Something tells you to hold off on getting into the costume and cling film.  *You land a punch in Life’s left rib cage.

The director comes in…he doesn’t look happy.  He tells you to breathe.  He tells you the tech crew have fucked up again (my words not his) and have run too far behind so they won’t be teching our show at all today.  We’ve spent the money to come into Edinburgh for nothing.  I put on all that make up for nothing.  Battle with contacts for nothing.  And we may have to come in the next day, our day off, and do it all over again.  Which means you don’t have time to take your clothes to a laundry mat, which means you have to smell like a wet dog for another day.  *Back is against the ropes.

The director leaves to get final word. 

You start to shake a bit.  No biggy, Stacy Lynn.  You are just being uber sensitive because you’ve reached your patience limit, you are sad to be leaving, you are done with meaningless unprofessional bullshit, you are hurting over a personal situation, and the last time you slept through the night was a month ago.  That is all.  *Life’s coaches, “Self-loathing” and “Loneliness” give Life some tips. 

You wipe the make-up off your face, tears are streaming down your cheeks.  You put in your ear phones and sunglasses for the car ride home.  You can’t seem to stop your eyes from leaking.  You pray that the other four people in the car can’t tell you are whimpering.  The amount of pressure behind your eyes feels like your brain is going to explode.  All you want is clean clothes, warm bed, and for someone to take care of you for two seconds while you catch your breath.  *Upper cut to the jaw.  You are down for the count.

Get up.

The ref begins to count 10, 9, 8…

You do this to yourself, Stacy Lynn.  You want to go home.  You don’t know where that is.  You want to be left alone.  You don’t want to be alone.

7, 6, 5…

Don’t be a pussy.  Get up. 

No.  I’m tired.  And I’m bruised.  And I don’t want to move.

 

4, 3…

Really?  You are really going to give up even an inch of self respect because you are tired, your clothes smell, and you spilled your coffee?

It was more than that.

 

2, 1…

No.  It wasn’t.  It was a bad day.  Friday you are going to take your clothes to a laundry mat.  You are going to pay the money to get it done properly.  Money is just money.  But clean laundry gives peace of mind.  Today you are going to get ready 30 minutes earlier than you did yesterday so you won’t be late.  Then you are going to do your tech.  You will be professional and you will do your job without pouting and you will do it generously and well.  Then you will come back to the flat, continue packing, schedule a hair appointment, find forgiveness and understanding in your heart for others, and pick your whiny ass up off of the mat.  Now, get up.

 

Get.  Up.

 

 

Update:  This post was written at a Starbucks early this morning.  I got up two hours early in order to get internet stuff done on time.  I pushed send on this blog…six times.  The internet in the Starbucks blew up.  It blew up.  I got up for nothing.  I smell like wet dog and got up for nothing.  So I left to go to AK house early so I could use her internet before our drive to Edinburgh.  Tears are building again.  How is that possible?  It’s fine.  I put the blog on a memory stick, I open it on her MAC. …she doesn’t have Microsoft Word.  What?  I don’t understand.  I ask her what program she uses.  Something called pages.  I open Pages.  How do I cut and paste?  We are now running late.  HOW DO I FUCKING CUT AND PASTE??  It’s time to go.  I’ve gotten nothing done.  NOTHING DONE.  …I picked the wrong day to try to stop cussing.

*Life. TKO.