Unhappiness is an irritant. It affects the heartbeats of circulation first; then the digestion; and the person is ripe for two hundred and nineteen diseases, and six hundred forty-two complications. What we call diseases are merely symptoms of mental conditions.
-Elbert Hubbard
I guess we would call that "inflammation" now.
Standing in the checkout line at Walgreens last night sheepishly clutching two enema kits, it occurred to me that this moment was a metaphor for life right now, but I can't put my finger on exactly how.
I've not become a high colonic enthusiast; rather, I have scheduled another trip to the GI doc on Monday for a closer look at the thing that'll likely kill me one of these days. You're on the five-year roto rooter plan? Good for you. Doc Finlaw's put me on the three month alimentary open house schedule.
And I was in fact feeling a little violated last night after spending eight hours in a mediation representing a party with no money and no ability to pay for the time. Same on the other side. The only way the lawyers have any hope of compensation is to win, and the dispute by its terms is all-or-nothing. I wasn't aware of this when I agreed to get involved, stupidly flattered that the chief judge of the circuit suggested to the now-clients that I might be a good choice to help them. That was before alimony and three residences. I should have been more discerning.
A client with no skin in the game is always up for going to trial on principle. And society blames the lawyers for these sorts of proceedings, although the last person who wants to be standing in court singing for his or her supper so the client can make a point is the poor barrister. We're not jerks (well, not all of us); more often than not the client is the vexatious litigant.
All this led to a sleepless night exacerbated by an impulsive decision to go through a fast food drive-through last night after twelve hours with no food. Eight thirty p.m. was a greasy umami foodgasm of fried deliciousness. Six hours later brought quite another sensation, as if I'd chugged the contents of a car battery for dessert.
This morning P called as she was heading for work, always a pleasant way to start my day, and as I opened the sunroom curtains I noticed four big does, the first I've seen on the property in months, scampering across the east pasture.
Trust me, they're out there toward the middle of the photo, just about to hop the fence into the neighbor's dog fennel patch.
The cattle lounging in the same pasture were unimpressed.
Today I have a conference call in a case I despise with every fiber of my being, mostly because the lawyers spend hours peeing down each others' legs rather than actually litigating the case, then I mediate as the mediator a case involving a twisted ankle and four subsequent surgeries ending in a fusion. Hoping it won't be another marathon into the dinner hour like last night. At least this time I may get paid.
Normally I'd have a little more spring in my step on a Friday, but there's absolutely nothing to which to look forward today. P's a thousand miles from here, a result of yet another lawyer insisting I come down here in person for a mediation then changing his mind the day before the event. The golf course is closed for a tournament. I don't much feel like dragging the boat for an hour to launch and drive around by myself. Hell, I'd even mow for relaxation--after all, the place is a shaggy mess--but P's decreed that we need to leave that for Dean (the retired guy, not the cat), so I'll just feel that twinge of irritation every time I look out the window at the weeds swaying in the breeze.
The sad fact is that tomorrow will be a work day, as will Sunday. As will the next day. Rinse and repeat, for the foreseeable future, in utter solitude.
And so it goes.
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