It wasn't boredom yesterday that interfered with painting. As the day went on my head became thick. It was hard to think, like I was on the verge of having a headache but with no pain. I had wanted to sweat on the treadmill but it looked like taking a shower would be a big enough adventure. After my shower I went to Blockbuster to get a movie. I wanted to see the theatrical "Rachel Getting Married". For some reason, as I got out of the car and walked into the store there were tears in my eyes. A five year old boy held the door open for me, uncommon courtesy in someone so young. The clerk recognized me and made a joke. My face twisted. My smile felt so artificial that I had to look away. I hoped desperately to check out the movie without tears falling. There was nothing and no reason that had me feeling sad. I was simply brittle. Fragile. Without will power or a solid center filling me up.
When my husband came home from work I told him that I was sick. But I wanted to go for a walk. I had been in bed all day. All that I thought I could manage was a short walk. We walked slowly and I said nothing and stared at the pavement. Near the end of the walk I could lift my head and look at the sky. But when he took my hand to hold it I know my hand was limp, I could manage no response.
We decided that we had a little extra money this week and could afford to eat dinner at a restaurant. The time out in public had a good effect on me. Maybe conversation with my husband eased my mind toward more normal patterns. He thought that he had a fix to make me feel better when we got home. He wanted to read to me out loud from the romance novel he is in the middle in. I saw no sense listening to the middle of a book. I went to the children and young adult section of books that is against one wall of our library. I took down the first book in a series I believe I read in elementary school. He had discovered it and read it when he was in the Air Force.
Mike has recently stopped drinking wine in the evenings. Instead he drinks strong herbal teas made with two tea bags and sometimes a drop of raspberry extract. Mike made himself some tea and propped up his back against the bed headboard with four pillows. I lay down next to him, my head on his stomach. I listened to him read. He read a story about three children in England that I have absolutely no memory of. I can tell that he has read for children before or maybe it is the natural ham in him. He varies the voices and adds accent. He tells the story so earnestly.
I like being read to. When everything is slowly being said out loud I think you can visualize it better. You have to pay attention though, because if you don't, nothing is re-read. The pace marches on. It did put me at peace.