Lately Stoker has been teasing me about the phrase, "I feel pretty crappy." I guess I've been saying it a lot the past few days. Why not? I DO. I FEEL PRETTY CRAPPY.
For all intents and purposes, the weather here is akin to a bear the size of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man with paws as large as thirteen cows, and I might as well be the fish between the bear's paws. I'm not sure if those measurements are proportionate--the point is, the weather tosses me back and forth between its meaty paws with no apparent concern for how I FEEL about it.
I feel pretty crappy about it.
It's not just the flooding and the wind storms we just had, which were really unfortunate. In general, the environment is toxic to me. Do you realize I didn't have ANY gray hair before I moved to Tennessee? No wrinkles either.
Now, you're probably thinking something like, "Well, be serious. You were also four years younger when you moved to Nashville. Wrinkles and gray hair CAN appear in that amount of time."
And I'll give you that. Wrinkles and gray hair are quite stealthy when it comes to choosing their victims.
However, my teeth ALSO started falling out once I got to Nashville. Coincidence? Hardly!
The problem is the humid sub-tropical climate. That's right. SUB-TROPICAL. I'm from the desert. I was miserable there due to allergies. At least--I fancied that the desert made me miserable. From my current perspective, in the arms of this bastardly bear, the desert looks like heaven.
From Wikipedia, the final authority on all knowledge:
Nashville's long springs and autumns combined with a diverse array of trees and grasses can often make it uncomfortable for allergy sufferers.[14] In 2008, Nashville was ranked as the 18th-worst spring allergy city in the U.S. by the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America.[15]Translated, this quote explains that Nashville is the 10th circle of hell. Apparently it is a place reserved for those who sinned against mother nature in some way, however innocent or ignorant the sin(s) may have been.
I also enjoy the mild phrase "make it uncomfortable." Mild. Ha ha.
During late summer, autumn, and winter, I forget how the spring attacks me with its clumsy paws and batters me around like a shuttlecock. I think, "Hey, it's not so bad here. Though I pine for the great basin desert and its thin atmosphere, majestic highlands, and icy, clear streams and wildflower meadows, I could also just stay here. I've made a few friends, established a couple haunts. No big deal. Plus my job's not too bad. And most of my cats were born here--I'd hate to tear them from their birthplace."
There are even a few days in the spring when I think I'll be OK if I have to stay here forever.
Then the bear rears its ugly muzzle. It typically comes in from the Gulf, occasionally across the plains, but always it carves a swath of hell before it, a low pressure or a high pressure system that strangles me. And then the bear arrives and I become its rag doll.
So anyway, that's why I'm having a hard time writing. Simply because I feel pretty crappy.
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