Tuesday, November 11, 2008

The Withdrawal Post

Introduction/warning for those who are prone to dizziness: very few of the following sentences have anything to do with each other.

I'm experiencing some campaign withdrawal. That's neither here nor there, of course. Also neither here nor there: I hate—and I mean really hate—walnuts.

And one other thing: I've been sick since Halloween. The spousal unit, in an effort to ease my sleep (and his), braved the overwhelming wall of medicinal remedies at the pharmacy and brought home something for my cough. Well, I took it before bedtime last night, and for the next eight hours it felt like there was a small person in my throat sitting on my coughs so that they could not express themselves in the desired manner. I kept imagining this small person with his arms crossed over his chest, harumphing and sitting harder on my coughs every time he felt one about to come out.

Also: I'm reading the book Storycatcher by Christina Baldwin, and she describes a tribe in Africa...

(I don't know if this is true. The more I think about it, the more it seems like the kind of thing that gets forwarded in earnest e-mails. But never mind: the die is cast)

...that has an excellent way to deal with someone who has created a not-cool disturbance within the community. They stage a kind of intervention where they recount every good thing the person has done in his or her life, thus inviting that person "back into the better part of himself."

I am now amusing myself by imagining an intervention of this type happening on my street when, let's say, someone blows leaves at 5:00 am. We could gather round and say things like, "You helped me string my Christmas lights." "You brought my dog back when she ran out of the yard." "You helped me move my couch." "Your chocolate chip cookies are freakin' awesome."

The sky is lit with pink at the moment. Despite my withdrawal, despite the little person stuck in my throat and the one dozen boxes of Kleenex I have burned through in the last twelve days, despite my compulsion to relate possibly untrue and corny stories about an unknown village in Africa, I am feeling good. I am feeling much like will.i.am:


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