Lately I’ve been feeling emotionally disheveled, off. Miserably, the contents of my interior life reads as a scrappy, chaotic mess. Unease is permeating my every muscle; leaving me alone to fall apart, fractured by an unshakable anxiety. Pulling excessive overtime in a feeble attempt to make sense of all this tedium has inflicted my brain with a ceaseless ache. My poor overworked brain. Weakened by conflicting emotions attacking from every angle, my brain is left with little to no other option but to scatter erratic thoughts and obliterate my equilibrium. Overstretched from the inside out; I split at the seam. The question repeats itself all day long. Why am I unravelling? But, I’m utterly clueless, lost even.
There’s a scenario playing out in front of me, matching the most dramatic of movie scenes as it aggressively spits out complexity. No doubt, a pleasure to watch if drama is your thing. Unfortunately acting has never been of interest to me. The weighty emotions arise taking themselves for a spin before lodging in the back of my throat. It is there they niggle like thick, sickness coated saliva. Unable to pinpoint the specifics, I attempt to summarise as eloquently as possible. Emptiness battling overwhelm, anxiety battling boredom, freedom fighting a losing battle against loneliness.
Scared shitless by the lack of control I possess over my own life, I sometimes admit defeat. Haunted by my own curiosity, my impatience grows everyday. Too often hungry for the vaguest clue, I rarely enjoy reprieve. A screenshot or the briefest glimpse would suffice. A smidgen, just some form of reassurance affirming a positive future ahead of me. Plagued by uncertainty, I’m desperate for the story enclosed in my next chapter, although if I'm honest with myself, it is the not knowing that evokes my passionate lust for life. I've never claimed to be my own best friend. I’m foolish, a sucker for learning lessons the hard way and typically I get what I deserve. Coaxed onto this roller coaster by my eager, dare-devilish heart; I jump on.
I’ve so depressingly succumbed to ill health. Put it this way, simple movement causes bone discomfort. The lethargy is rife, laughing in my face. The sincerest form of punishment in itself. This is especially due to my overactive brain needing movement, typically of the vigorous, sweat- your-guts- out kind in order to still and settle down. Yes, I am aware of how ludicrous that does indeed sound. However, it makes perfect sense to me.
Keeping active physically through scheduled exercise and using my feet as my main source of transportation, or through productivity; asserting my usefulness through creative projects and everyday tasks such as cooking, has always worked in my minds favour. Activity brings me outside of my own head by planting me firmly in real life, the sweetest place to be. Hence, lethargy is foe, never ever friend.
Lethargy inducing illness inhibits my concentration and my ability to assimilate information. On top of this, illness disables my energetic reserve preventing my gym attendance. Bitterly, this is not the worst of it. Subsequently, when forced into overdrive, my brain begins to attack. Rendered useless, very little remains for me to do beside close my eyes and nod off into non-existence.
Of course, I’m spluttering melodramatic nonsense. I know, I know, it all comes across as a little bit sad. It just goes to show how much I really detest being sick. Knowing that sometimes melodrama makes life more of a trip; peppering life with piquancy and interest, like ginger firing up and otherwise bland healing tea, I allow myself my theatrical moment.
If all truth be told, I won’t completely give into this illness. I won’t. I simply can’t allow it to set the tone for my week, not even my day. I’ll find a way to indulge and treat myself. Perhaps I’ll make pancakes which I’ll devour in bed under a stack of donnas. I may even don ugg’s, fill up a hot water bottle and build a comforting cocoon around myself. I’ll dedicate my precious hours to warming my ill, cold blooded soul.
Lundi in Paris is similar to Monday in Sydney, yet somehow vastly different. It is in the pace of the morning unfurling where the variances become apparent. Paris has a slower rhythm. It’s gentle, quiet even and it makes perfect sense. As an observer it seems as if the Parisians prefer to ease back into their working week. On Lundi morning the Parisians seem to take their time approaching their day in a more Dimanche fashion. In local cafe’s they sit, casually sipping espresso’s in order to perk themselves up and face reality. Well if it works for the Parisians…
Compelled by perpetual tiredness, when the alarm interrupted my slumber Lundi morning, I shamelessly hit snooze myriad times. Surely an extra twenty minutes of shut eye has never hurt anybody, or so I soothed myself with every tap. Eventually though, my husband forced me out of bed against my weary eyed wishes. No excuses, he argued “we’ve made plans”. Left with little choice of my own, I got up and after luxurious and altogether aimless pottering, I was ready to face the day. My Lundi in Paris.
We caught the metro to Saint Paul station, a twenty step, cross the street, heartbeat away from Angelina’s Tea Room. The day carried unique to me specialness for Angelinas was no regular institution for me, nor anything akin to Angelina’s. This Lundi I was significantly letting my hair down and sweeping my obsession with nutritional value under Angelina’s very expensive rug. I compartmentalised all of the collected stats and facts detailing the nightmare that is sugar to the furthest corner of my mind. I shut the door and for a few hours of unforgettable indulgence, I misplaced my key.
Fortunately, Angelina’s ensures misbehaving acceptable and utterly enticing. And so I misbehaved in a warm sultry teacup of decadence, the world famous Chocolat L’ African. However, I turned my rule break into a rule breaking bender going one step further in my healthy eating abandonment. Unaccustomed to eating breakfast so late my stomach cried for fuel which lead the ordering of a flaky croissant; to balance out the gooey richness of the chocolat chaud bien sur.
Mesmerised by the elegance of the tea salon, in addition to the already spectacularly rich facade, I wooed myself into a contented coma. I sipped, I dunked, I sipped again, relishing in this foreign world of sweetness, devouring Lundi morning serendipity. Like intricate origami my morning unfolded unhurried, considerate and beautiful.