It was sometime last week when my mood packed its bags and went south for a vacation. I can't seem to coax it back no matter how many pleading calls I make. She hasn't even sent a postcard.
During the last couple days, I've been flirting with panic. I stuff it down and keep it shackled behind my breastbone because I really am trying hard not to worry about anything; I've given that up a ton of times on my weekly/monthly/daily resolution lists. Also, I don't know what to do with worry when it's outside of myself. I don't even know what I'm worried about, exactly. I've been working on a new Project Team at work where I've had to pull my broker-ball-buster skills off the shelf. I throw these skills around half-heartedly because I'm rusty and because I just don't like to be so damn aggressive like that any more. Customers want A Miracle every hour on the hour. They want things before work and after work. It doesn't ever stop. Their demands gush through a spigot with no stop value. I used to love that kind of pressure. It's just draining and seems pointless now; near ridiculous.
It's at night when I feel the worst, just the last few nights. Panic dulls and hopelessness swirls in a freefalling spiral below me. Awake, I try to shake it off, but the room looms and contracts in eggplant-charcoal shadows. My mind slows and becomes heavy in my head, pressuring my eyes. All the lists and plans and strategies cease; I don't know what I'm doing. The desperation to make a career change seems to have reached a point of hysteria. I picture myself baking and baking myself into a frenzy until I've collapsed on the kitchen floor with matted hair and lipstick spread across my face, not a dime made, not a future in sight. What am I doing? I rarely cry. But I let tears relieve me a little today.
Not to simplify my feelings, but I realized last night the major source of this recent doom. It's the sugar. Sugar from frosting, sugar from cakes. I haven't been gorging as much as one would imagine, but it's been enough to throw me into this ditch. In my Escape-Through-Baking high, I suffered sugar amnesia; I forgot that I have never done well on sugar. It always --100% of the time -- leads to this exact feeling of mild depression. I'm so sadly desperate that I thought I could just overlook it. How much does that suck? Does this thwart the cupcakeria plans? I tell you when I claw my way out of this hole. I mean, it certainly changes my cupcake-eating plans.
I used to work with a girl we called Epiphany Tiffany. She was in her early 20's and fantastically wide-eyed. Her enthusiasm fell just short of infectious and stayed on the side of entertainment for us. Every month, she had a brilliant and drastically new Life Plan. The range of ideas was spectacular:
Bangs make her face look better/Growing her hair out is really what's best for her look. Quitting her job to waitress and go back to school is really the only way to follow her dreams/Cooperate American knows where it's at; the structure and security is important. She's moving in with friends to save money/Getting her own place is better to find independence. Skirts made her feel feminine and pretty/Pants really are the only way to go. Smoking is terrible and she's giving it up!/Ah, she's young and has time. She needs a pet, a cat would bring her happiness/A cat deserves more time and love. Forgiveness is key to happiness/No one is gonna shit on her anymore!
The best part about Epiphany Tiffany was that each life-changing announcement was so solid, so robust and bursting with intention. Each announcement was a shock to us because we really believed her during the last epiphany. "You go, Tiffany. Find your bliss, girl." We meant it too because good for her for right-angling her way all over life's map to find out what had meaning to her.
As I mount age 40, I've turned into Epiphany Tiffany. All my grand ideas to skyrocket me into Change and Realness and . . . blahblahblah. It's embarrassing to type it out. Let's recap:
* I'm gonna be a successful vegan baker when I've had no past experience or past passion for cooking. And sugar slips me deep into Funk, so deep my butt's asleep. What a rich idea! Oh and my 1970's apartment oven took a dump on me yesterday mid red velvet cupcakes, which is not helping the discouragement.
* I was going to have a successful bangle business. I gave that a go for a bit and the bangles were brilliant and lovely -- and it took 6 hours to make only one, and I was too embarrassed to ask for 6-hour/bangle high-end assessory money. My inner Tiffany told me to try something else, again.
* Hey everyone, I'm an athlete/runner/active type at 40. (I've actually been sticking to this one.)
* Hi, I went back to school to study holistic nutrition because, y'know, 50 billion things to do in a day is really not enough for my inner soul. (Ok, I've kinda stuck to this one too though it's slllooowww going. I'm not giving up on this yet, Tiffany! However, all the lofty plans revolving around My Nutrionist Career has to do with volunteering up the information. Ok, so volunteer work and selling $2 cupcakes really doesn't sound like a plan to make rent, does it?)
* My writing epiphanies limp along loyally. They ebb lowly and rise violently. But I can't seem to abandon them entirely. Writing was my first and true epiphany. Or was that basketball?
*'Member when I loved yoga a lot. That one time?
* And let's not rehash my countless religious epiphanies . . .
There's more, I'm sure, I'm just too tired to remember them all.
So, anyway, I'll be fine. The sugar levels are going down, and making fun of myself made me feel kinda better. My mood called and she'll be on the next flight home. And you know what that means . . . more epiphanies and realizations to come!
P.S. In the mail I just now received a batter dispenser that I had ordered last week. I suppose it's a good sign that I can't wait to try it. Maybe if I kick the oven a few times it will work better.