Filed under: blogosphere, Detective Curt, Donny, Peter | Tags: climbing under desks, divorce, single mom
A number of times in my life, during personally traumatic times, I’ve experienced the impulse to climb under large pieces of furniture for emotional comfort.
When I was in college and overwhelmed by homework and tests and the panic and paralysis I felt about writing, I was once in a lecture hall and couldn’t restrain myself from climbing under a bank of theater-style seats. Luckily, I was early to class and no one else was there.
Later, when I was in the process of moving out of the apartment I shared with Husband Number One, and overcome with the weight of my first marital failure, I used to climb under my desk at work to comfort myself. I locked my office door so that no one would discover me.
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Maybe this impulse to climb under large items of furniture originates from a lifetime lived in earthquake country. I can remember earthquake drills as early as the first grade. A bell would ring and our entire class of five- and six-year olds calmly scooted back our chairs and curled up into little balls under our desks, our arms wrapped around our heads to protect our little brains.
So you see I learned very early the lesson that when the earth is shaking beneath you, when your dearest possessions are flying across the room and breaking into a million pieces, when the couch that used to be in that corner is now on the other side of the room in that other corner, you climb under something sturdy. And that is precisely what I do.
When I am feeling all at sea, I climb under a bank of chairs… a desk… or sometimes a nice, big, sturdy man.
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I didn’t realize how at sea I was feeling today, until I looked around and found that I was crouched under my desk at work. This was a weird one. In the past, I’d contemplated the climbing under furniture for long, painful stretches before actually succumbing. In other instances I would first try to talk myself out of it. I would resist.
This time, I found myself looking out from under my desk before I had even quite realized I wanted to crawl under. I’m going to go ahead and consider that personal progress.
What, you may wonder, is happening with me that’s got me climbing under my desk? Oh, you know, the Horny Housewife usual: Things got weird and creepy with my thirty-year old boyfriend of three months. Let’s call him Peter. (We’ve never had a Peter before, have we?) So I went back to constant, addictive, electronic communication with Donny (whom I’m still madly in love with, despite the fact thate he lives with his girlfriend) and so last night, in a boozy effort to forget them both, I got into a sexy and honest exchange with Detective Kurt. Then today I got into a fight with my ex-husband, who decided not to bring my son to school today because he felt like sleeping in, and then I crawled right under my desk. That sums it up.
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Why am I telling you all this? I’m not sure. I felt like sharing. Actually, I felt like my head was going to explode, and the last time I felt like that was about three years ago when I started this blog.
Also, I’d had a very nice e-mail from someone on the other side of the world named Edward, who kind of reminded me that I used to do this.
So we’ll try it out again. It’s cheaper than therapy.
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Remember today, when I was underneath my desk? (I know, we’re all a lot older than we were in 2008, but you can remember just a few paragraphs ago, can’t you?) When I was under my desk I texted GOC. He is one of my best friends now, and one of the only people in the world I would reach out to under such odd circumstances. He was there for me, of course.
Just now he texted me before he went to bed to make sure I was all right. ”I tried it under my desk,” he said. ”It was nice.”
It’s good to have friends.
HH
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