Wrapped Around the Axel
Half the time I write these blogs at least a day or two ahead of time. The other half, I've gotten several weeks ahead, and Web Guy dishes them out to the wide world each Monday.
But I'm late. I was supposed to have this written and off to Web Guy by last night.
It's four a.m. The cats are confused, so I fed them early to stop their swarming. Which means they'll demand their tuna delight gravy edition dinner an hour earlier this evening.
The hubs is about to wake up for work, and he'll also be confused as to why I'm at the desk. Bless his heart, he'll probably start talking to me. Which is a dangerous undertaking even in the eight-a.m. range, let alone four hours earlier.
I'm not a four-o'clock-in-the-morning kind of writer. I'm a two-o'clock-in-the-morning middle insomniac who can mentally wrap herself around all sorts of axels of unimportance until six a.m. Then I'll write about it later.
I like that phrase: Wrapped around the axel. Implying that one can get hung up like an untied shoelace during a bicycle ride and wreck forward progress. When I was a kid, my mom didn't want me wearing flip-flops to ride my bike because I'd sliced my foot on those evil grippy pedal grip thingies. (It's 4:15 a.m., please bear with me. The vocabulary part of my brain is still in silent mode). So I wore tennis shoes and managed to throw myself over the handlebars when the axel ate my shoelace so completely that I became one with the bike.
Lately, I seemed to be wrapped around all kinds of axels — real and imagined. If I'm not careful, I can get hung up on the minutest of details and not deal with big problems.
Especially when thyrodic brain fog sets in. And when life stressors pile up, demanding attention all at once (how dare they not wait in line patiently?). And my internet has been on the fritz, making all of the day-job duties take four times as long.
And now it's 5:24 a.m. Something happened. I went to look up a word and may have gone through a Google wormhole.
Then I laid my head down on my desk for just a second. Or many seconds. I awoke to a cat checking my pulse —Stella Marie sitting next to my head with her razor pigs on my neck. I told her I wasn't dead yet. And please do not call the other two cats in for carcass removal.
I can get wrapped around current event axels – not one thing to control there. I can get wrapped around "what if" axels. What-if axels are great for story construction and plotting, not so much for peaceful sleeping.
A couple of weeks ago, my first-world axel problem was the disappearance of my favorite beverage from every single store in our town. In all forms. Cans, bottles, two-liters. All gone. I ranted about this quite a bit to the hubs, who tried to find some a town over with not much luck. So he brought me a new brand to try.
Gag me now. Canada Dry or bust.
I got grumpy. I complained. I could've spent that energy on something productive, but nope. Let's spin on this issue for waaaay longer than necessary.
I mentioned this to my mom and my aunt as a point of conversation. And they rescued me. Bless their hearts, I now have enough Canada Dry Zero Ginger Ale to last until spring.
Another axel? We have an "End Construction" sign at the end of our road. It's a lie. As a matter of fact, all "End Construction" signs in the state of Indiana are all lies. I got grumpy. I complained way too hard and way too long about this slip of ethics on the part of construction crews.
Bless their hearts, working in this awful heat. I don't envy their jobs, and they seem to be doing a good job. But stop with the lying signs already. We Hoosiers know it will never end…
Devil's-front-porch level of heat can send me axel spinning, twisting, and cartwheeling. I struggle to concentrate or breathe in triple-digit indices. I got grumpy. I complained.
Thankfully the weather has eased up to tolerable and, dare I say it, enjoyable, especially in the evenings. Nice, cool weather and an ice-cold Canada Dry work wonders to unwind my hang-ups.
And now I'm wrapping myself around the axel of whether or not bicycles have axels. They have spokes. Those shoelaces get caught in spokes. Not axels. At least I think, at 5:38 a.m. that that's how it is.
And I was right. The hubs is talking to me. Telling me he didn't sleep until two a.m. because he "couldn’t shut off his brain.”
Twisted around some axel, too, he was.
5:49. He leaves in fifteen minutes. At which time the cats will settle back down, and I will attempt to sneak another 90 minutes before the day job starts.
I will likely require a midday coma to replenish a few brain cells the off-yet-again thyroid has claimed. Hopefully, Stella can palpate a pulse, holding off the feline forensics crew one more day...