There are just some days better spent in bed, I think. I have yet to do that, but at the end of some of the more miserable days I really do wonder if it might have been happier and safer for all if I'd just pulled the covers up over my head and snoozed the day away.
Take today, for example. My Beloved and I had planned to go to the All Saints' Day Mass at my church tonight, but as the hour drew closer I started feeling claustrophobic about it. On the one hand I thought I might get some answers I've been searching for since Thomas died, and I was also really warmed by the idea of My Beloved and I going together - as Thomas' parents, united in our love and grief.
But on the other hand, I thought it might end up being a sad and depressing way to spend the evening and I wasn't sure I wanted to take that chance. Not tonight, especially not when I saw the sadness on My Beloved's face when he walked in the door.
Today was a hard day for him. I've had a million of those, it seems, so I knew how much he needed the comfort of home and our safe, evening routine. I knew he didn't need to sit in a church and be forced to feel what he doesn't want to feel today.
So we didn't go. I made a nice dinner and then afterwards I told him I thought we needed apple pie. It felt like a really nice, cozy thing to do. I imagined the house smelling all wonderful and cinnamon spiced, and I pictured us eating our steaming apple treat all curled up on the couch in front of the TV.
But it's me. And it's one of those days. So what did I do? I made a big, fat, juicy, rancid apple pie.
Just so you know, shortening does, in fact, go bad.
My Beloved was very kind about it all. He said, "It's okay - I don't need pie. Really, I didn't ask for pie so it's okay." But I knew he was disappointed. He scavenged a few meager treats to satisfy the sweet tooth that had been anticipating apple pie, but I know it wasn't all that satisfying.
Stupid rancid shortening.
Stupid daylight savings that's making the nights come faster.
Stupid life that dealt us this horrible blow.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Ugh, and on top of it all my hair smells like rancid pie. It's baked right in. What a perfect end to a perfectly rotten sort of day.