Sundays are the worst, aren’t they? It’s not quite Monday yet but it’s not really weekend weekend anymore…it’s like the day can’t make up its mind what it is. I can relate…
Normally I adhere very beautifully to the Bible’s command that I must rest on Sundays. Ten four. I barely get up. Sometimes I actually put on proper day clothes. Other days I’m like: fuckit, if my pyjamas are good enough for nighttime, then damnit, it’s good enough for daytime.
Then I saunter over to the kitchen and eat…well, everything. Then I drop down on my couch like a big blop of guano on the pavement. Then I sleep.
In-between naps I sometimes catch a movie. Like today. An old but, in my opinion, very good second world war movie started just as I awoke from catching Z’s. Heros who do the right thing despite fear and regard for own safety. Who doesn’t love that, right? But it played nicely into my current confusion about my future and future career.
Do I stay in my comfort zone? And when I say ‘comfort zone’, I mean the hell hole that I currently work in, but a hell hole with a ton of vacation days and flexible hours.
Or do I leave and work for my people? Shitty circumstances. Shitty hours. Half the vacation days.
I know I know, how dare I complain about this when so many don’t have jobs. For what it’s worth, I do my job wholeheartedly…regardless what it is. And my heart remains grateful, regardless what I do.
I guess, employed or not, I must remind myself that death is coming for me. And when it arrives, I hope I’m proud of what I’ve done with my life. I sometimes imagine what it must feel like to be a firefighter or police officer or paramedic or nurse or teacher…to dedicate your entire life to the honorable pursuit of service.
But then I remember the times in my own life where I or others I know have been let down by someone in one of these ‘honorable’ vocations. Or the many times people in random positions have saved me or helped me or picked me up when I didn’t have the strength…
About a year after my mom’s death, the numbness started dissipating and some life seemed to return. I decided I’d effect some repairs around my house…metaphorically start to put myself back together, I guess. But I had gained a lot of weight and my skin looked like I had a three year holiday in a cave. Grief is not Mother Nature’s moisturiser, people.
Anyway, I mozied over to the local hardware store for some goodies. One of the shop assistants, an older gentleman, was asked to push my trolley to my car. He stood a few meters from me as I paid and as I walked over to him I noticed he was watching me pretty intently. He was smiling. He said to me: I like your spirit. You look very alive. I like that.
Hands down the strangest and most wonderful compliment I’ve ever received. Maybe I would feel suspicious if it happened today. But at the time, I needed to hear that my spirit was still there. That she still had a chance.
So in the end, I reckon if a shop assistant can lift up people with a smile and some kindness, I can do it too if I get my attitude out of my butt.