PlazaJen: Passion Knit

I've been told by two separate people in the past two days that I'm wound up. One of these peeps was my hubby, so it's probably true. However, I like to think of it as returning, a bit, to my erratic, nutjob self that's been swimming in the tarpits of grief for the better part of the year.

It's so difficult to explain, how you go from being happy to crying your makeup off in 0.4 seconds. This is what happened in my brain yesterday morning, as I was putting on my makeup:

I need to make that cherry-chocolate biscotti this weekend. That would be good to give to some people as little presents next week.
I should make at least a double batch.
(Visualizes my Kitchen-Aid mixer)
Man, if I had that super big Kitchen-Aid mixer, I could do a triple batch all at once.
J.Wo wouldn't think a new mixer's a good idea.
I don't use the mixer I have enough to justify that.
What would I even do with the old mixer if I bought a new one? (See how I just skimmed right on past why I shouldn't get one? It's like being on ice skates.)
Oh, I couldn't get rid of that old mixer. Dad gave me that when he bought Mom the big one for Christmas that year.

And then I remembered that moment, when Mom opened her gift, and she looked at him, and he turned to me and said, "Go look under the counter, you get that one." I raced to the kitchen and opened the door - and he had snuck a bow onto that mixer in between dinner cleanup and gift opening, and even as I type this, it's like being punched in the jaw, reeling, seeing his face, just how much he loved to give presents, how he loved to delight, how he enjoyed the shock and surprise of something so unexpected.

And I felt the knife twist, that little sharp reminder that I'd never see him again, or that smile, and that I'd thought Christmas wouldn't be a big deal, but what the hell do I know? Not much. The tears slide, taking off makeup as they run their course.

So I started this post with how I'm wound up, and it's true. I contain my moments of grief, I feel them fully, oh so fully, I turn to my husband who would gladly buy me 100 Kitchen Aid mixers if it meant it would take away this sadness, and I crumple into his arms. And then I brush myself off, wipe away my tears, put on my mascara, and get squirrely and mouthy and brassy and sharp and funny and do my job and knit and love and even bake cookies. I want to invent a new language, because when I say, or hear, "it gets better", better doesn't mean what it used to mean. Better means it's more manageable, not forgotten or easy or non-stop happy. And I know that I don't even understand or know what it's going to mean in another six months. I do feel like I'm living my life differently. And I'm happy that my four poster dull torpor is lifting. I enjoy being wound up, more than ever....