On the edge of reason

 

Breathe deeply, inhale, exhale. Your body is relaxed. You are floating on a fluffy white cloud. A bolt of lightening rips you open from neck to torso. Hang on, that’s not what the irritating American woman just said. Oh wait, that is the cat determined to disturb your efforts at Shamanic Meditation by trying to get under the duvet. Okay, let’s try again… I don’t know if I visited the underworld I fell asleep at last somewhere in a forest. It was nice. I was then rudely awoken from deep Shamanic slumber by the even more irritating voice of a radio DJ who has the gall to sound upbeat at 5 in the morning. He can’t be human. He must be one of Charlie Sheen’s trolls. Yup, definitely a troll.

 

The need for the whole Shamanic thing was born from the lack of painkillers and sleeping aids in my house. I have 14 days to go until the disk replacement surgery and only 10 Voltarin. I have discovered why the doctor said not to use them every day. If you take them via the alimentary canal you ulcerate your stomach and a similar reaction occurs from the other end akin to eating a large bowl of curry. Trés unpleasant and definitely over share. I can’t avoid thinking about this operation forever and as it nears I am struck anew with a sense of my own mortality. The invincibility of youth has faded somewhat and I must admit I am terrified of being a paraplegic or dead as a result of my own vanity. Although the thought of my high heels, dancing, shopping, sitting in a cinema and watching a movie, picking up my daughter without excruciating agony and taking my dogs for a walk all hold such appeal to me. I must not forget to buy something to wear. I guess silk and satin are out, so perhaps La Senza has something cute, but demure. Hmmm.

 

Enough boring introspection, back to the need for meditation aids. Last night I had to a job alien to me nature – accounting and mathematics. These are not my strong points, never have been. Start showing me numbers and the veils come down. Despite; my dogged determination (some may call it just being stubborn) I did my thing, and then the laptop went completely bananas. So what I learnt yesterday was not to take anything, especially small things for granted:

  • That the maid will come every day, especially on Mondays when I have a sick child
  • That my house will be clean when I return home after spending the day at work
  • That my computer will not fail me in my hour of need
  • That my expensive DSL line is connected
  • That the wireless at the office functions

     

I also offer up my thanks to Nokia for my old cellphone that happily allows me to connect to the Internet and download my mail, which for some reason my Crackberry doesn’t. I am sure it is user error, but I lack the kahunas to go into a shop and beg a spotty teenager for help.

 

How is the sick child you may ask, if you are a caring sort. Sick child is happily at home watching movies and napping in solitary splendour. Being an only child I often craved the company of others in much the same way that my children crave the company of themselves. He waved me off this morning as I left in great trepidation to take his siblings to educational nirvana. The AWOL helper arrived after only 4 impassioned phone calls and an SMS. I must remember to call my sainted mother and ask if she will do the great school schlep this afternoon. Relating the story of the AWOL helper to my colleague he looked at me askance and told me I was a soft touch and a fool for putting up with such appalling behaviour and I should draw the line. I know he is right, but he underestimates the power she has over me. I may pay her salary, but she is the keeper of my sanity and the thin line between order and chaos. Also, I don’t think anyone else would put with us.

 

For some unknown reason a malaise of dissatisfaction has settled over me recently. I long to escape the smoggy crime riddled city ruled by petty politics and cronyism. So, I have spent a happy hour online looking for a job in the Outer Hebrides. Maybe I could open a Nando’s Franchise there or something. Not long ago a chance of a move to Cape Town reared its head and I was suddenly struck by how much I would like to get out of here. Capetonians don’t come to the City of Gold on holiday and say, “Wow, I’d really like to live here.” Nope, only us binnelanders do that. We try to say things like there are better schools and higher salaries up here, but they are just the weak veneer we try and coat the truth with. Short of moving to California and joining a commune of aging hippie vegans I reckon the Outer Hebrides are as far away as I could get from here and it looks beautiful. I could raise sheep. Maybe.

 

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