I got into the car this evening to drive home, pleasantly tired and fed and looking forward to my bed. The weekend was great (the party on Saturday night in Galway in particular) and I was in good form. It was good to be home with my parents, to spend some time with my brother and sister (especially the Saturday morning hair salon which I'll tell you about tomorrow) and to spend time with the mutts (it's oddly flattering that the little one still wets herself with excitement every time she sees me).
But I pulled out, turned on the radio and started crying.
What the fuck? There hadn't been a bother on my two minutes beforehand and I had no idea why I was crying. I wiped the tears, sucked back the sniffles and got my shit together. Laughed. Focused on something else, resumed my usual internal monologue, listened to the radio. But for the 45 minutes it took me to drive home, every time I let my brain drift off and my concentration lapse the tears would start again.
I'm home now and The Panel is on. It's not very good but it doesn't matter, I seem to be just fine again. I'm sure I'll be rosie again by morning.
But I pulled out, turned on the radio and started crying.
What the fuck? There hadn't been a bother on my two minutes beforehand and I had no idea why I was crying. I wiped the tears, sucked back the sniffles and got my shit together. Laughed. Focused on something else, resumed my usual internal monologue, listened to the radio. But for the 45 minutes it took me to drive home, every time I let my brain drift off and my concentration lapse the tears would start again.
I'm home now and The Panel is on. It's not very good but it doesn't matter, I seem to be just fine again. I'm sure I'll be rosie again by morning.
