I don’t always lose my marbles, but when I do I lose them all.
Not just the one marble.
Every single marble.
It was EPIC!
They scurry across the floor to hide in every corner and with every step I trip over one and land on my arse.
A pratfall (to fall on one’s buttocks).
Many pratfalls.
I pratfell.
I was handling my shit like a septic tank drainer.
I called paramedics for my mum when she broke her leg.
I took her across country to the hospital.
I packed her bags.
I checked her in.
I got her a pillow.
I finally managed after 12 hours to get her a painkiller.
I took her dog to the dogsitter.
And when I got home…
I saw that I had laddered my stocking.
Cue hysterical laughter.
And when I got ready for bed…
I realised that I had got my period.
Cue a few tears.
And when I got to work in the morning…
I realized I was once more in the wrong place and the wrong time.
Cue total breakdown.
I mean total losing of shit.
No pretty romance novel sniffles this.
Nope. Full on gulping sobs, rivers of snot and rising vomit.
Total and complete eradication of all dignity.
I gave up and went home, took some anxiety meds and slept for 8 hours.
Cue Monday.
I was dreading the walk of shame.
And…
No-one said a thing.
Not a peep.
Nothing.
It’s not like I didn’t just fall apart at the seams scattering marbles (of which I don’t have any to spare at the best of times) all over the faux wood floor.
They just handed me back a few marbles that I had managed to miss and we all carried on like nothing had happened.
Not bad for a girl who thought she might sent off to one of those places where they rehabilitate drug addicts and marble losers. A girl, who for a few hours in the dead of night, saw being medically boarded as the next event horison.
Me and my invisible pink spotted-elephant just shrugged and got back to work.
The Blurred Line 