The three-o’clock-in-the-morning blues

 

My brother and me at his ranch.

Several years ago my brother and I were having a deep conversation—I can’t imagine what about, since we aren’t given to such conversations, especially since politics is the elephant in the room for us. But I distinctly remember that he said sometimes, lying awake at three o’clock, he had the recurring thought, “Oops. Wish I hadn’t done that one.” Those words have stayed in my mind.

Three o’clock seems to be the witching hour, when all kinds of unwelcome thoughts occur. Not exactly night terrors, but along that line. Lately, I’ve found myself fighting what I call the three-o’clock blues, trying to make my mind accept that everything looks worse at three o’clock. An image that truly scares me may lodge in my imagination, like people trapped in a rapidly sinking car or someone in a cable car dangling in the air. Sometimes I am obsessed by something I’m planning, like a meal I’m cooking for company or maybe an evening out with friends. I get not an earworm (oh, I do get those—I may have mentioned that it took me days to clear “We’ve a story to tell to the nations” our of my brain), but a brainworm—an obsessive thought I can’t get rid of that keeps me awake.  Sometimes it’s a memory, either good or bad, but even a trip to the bathroom doesn’t break the cycle. I get back in bed and my brain picks up where it left off. I will admit that sometimes I write brilliant scenes for whatever I’m working on, or I plan out a blog—but those don’t often stay with me after my early morning “second sleep.”

What I am a past master at is manufacturing illness in the night. At three o’clock, I am a raging hypochondriac. I have had heartburn that I thought was a heart attack (In my defense, I’d never had heartburn before.) A cough and upset stomach turns into a severe case of covid; a headache is a sure brain tumor; the call of the bathroom indicates an obstruction; if the bathroom doesn’t call, I am convinced my kidneys are failing again. You can see I have to give myself a stern talking to.

This is particularly relevant today, because I’ve just come from the doctor’s office where I was told, “You sound wonderful!” He couldn’t find a thing wrong, and I had no problems to report. I simply wanted—and got—a flu shot (yes, my arm is sore, even though I thought I relaxed the muscles just before the shot). Sure, I have some chronic conditions, but they are controlled. I couldn’t run a 1K race if I had to, and as I just said to someone, I doubt I could ride a bike anymore.

But I am counting my blessings—for my age and history, I am in good health. And all those three-o’clock problems? They’re mostly in my imagination.

This has been a doctor day. Jordan had an appointment just before mine, because she has developed a peculiar rash (we’re hoping it has nothing to do with her new kitty, Charlie). And while we were at the doctors’ office (she sees a different doctor than I do), Jacob texted a picture of a swollen, puffy hand. Instant telephone diagnosis was a bug bite, but I haven’t heard what his pediatrician said. But “doctoring,” as I call it, does take a chunk out of your day and kind of gets you off schedule. I’m not sure I’ve gotten back on yet today.

Watch me develop all the symptoms of the flu at three o’clock tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter—they’ll be gone by morning (knock on wood).

A pandemic learning lesson and a pleasant happy hour

We have all gotten into routines during this pandemic/quarantine that vary wildly from our usual daily routines. I’ve pretty much gotten used to my new routine and am okay with it, but today I had a funny wake-up call about how much my life has changed.

I haven’t worn make-up in five months. Why waste the makeup and the effort when I was going nowhere, wouldn’t see anyone but my family and a very few friends who, I hope, love me as I am. But today I had a doctor’s appointment—routine checkup, a little blood work, a look at my still-fat leg, nothing to worry about. But I decided to wear makeup because I think the better you look, the more it makes a subconscious impression on the doctor. If you look pale and wan, he’s going to think you’re poorly.

So I sat at my bathroom sink which doubles as a vanity—and I couldn’t remember what to do! I put on a light bit of liquid foundation and then scrambled in the drawer to find what was next. Powder! It turned out to be the dregs in a pressed powder compact. Do I have another? I still don’t know. I figured out blush, but then came to the part I think it important—eye makeup. My eyebrows have never darkened with age—they’re still the pale blonde they were when I was ten. Had I lost the technique for darkening them, so they were subtle, not obvious? Could I still do mascara without smudging it all over my eyes?

In the long run, I think I looked fairly respectable when I arrived at the doctor’s office. Certainly, he said I would survive such things s the apparent mosquito bite on my elbow and the arthritis in one of my fingers. And my leg is oh-so-gradually going back to normal. But I imagine it will be a while before I try the makeup thing again.

One doctor’s appointment messes up my now-established routine for the day, and I didn’t get much work done today. Mary came for happy hour, but it was just us two. Jordan has pulled a muscle in her back and does not sit comfortably; Prudence was busy with a final exam for an online graduate course she’s taking. But Mary and I had a pleasant, low-key visit.

She is one of those people who attract mosquitoes. While they rarely come near me, they swarm around her. It’s a concern these days not just for the discomfort of bites but because we’ve seen rising rates of West Nile virus in our county. So Mary arrives with all kinds of paraphernalia—a long-sleeved shirt, a face fan that drapes around her neck, bug spray (we have some but I think she likes hers better—ours is organic, at my insistence), and a lantern that is supposed to emit a vapor that drives the pesky critters way. She never got it to work quite right and fiddled with it a lot.

Meantime, Jordan had turned on our fan and the bug light which should discourage most flies and mosquitoes. It worked well for me, but poor Mary was constantly batting them away, particularly from her ankles. I told her I was grateful that she attracted them all so that they wouldn’t bother me. She wasn’t particularly amused.

Tomorrow I’ll get back to serious work, writing lessons for the online course on creating a chef. I think tomorrow’s topic will be “How ambitious is your chef?” and I’ll explore the career paths open to chefs. Which means I’ll spend a lot of time online researching. Not everyone can become Wolfgang Puck or Giada de Laurentiis or Jacques Pepin.

Now I’ll settle down with a book I’m to read for a competition. It’s about a rather grim subjects—can’t say more—but I have a feeling it is well done, which means I’ll have to read more of it than if I could dismiss it as sloppy and amateurish.

Today was pleasant, but the temperature is to go up all week. Bummer. Glad Is Isaias didn’t do more damage than it did, though several deaths are significant. And pray for the people of Beirut, where an explosion has killed at least seventy and injured many more. As someone I respect says, “There’s a world of hurt out there.”