It’s CD2, although I’ve been in a funk since those first blushes appeared on Wednesday. When Hubby suggested last night that we go to the growers’ market today, I wanted to believe it was a good idea. I wanted to peruse the rows of colors and smells. I wanted to turn ripe produce in my hands, examining the firm flesh for any signs of infestation or decay, choosing the perfect plump tomato or ear of corn.
Then I woke up with cramps. I was slow-moving and pissed off at yet another reminder of what I don’t have. But I dragged myself out of bed, I forced myself to get ready, and we headed out.
As we approached the triangle of green where the organic farmers and growers convene–along with the crafters, soap-makers, artists, and bakers–I already knew I’d made a mistake. At the height of the growing season, the market is packed. I’m not a huge fan of crowds as it is, but this particular crowd was just too much for me today.
There was no safe place to look–nowhere I could avoid settling my gaze on a hugely pregnant belly, a newborn snuggled in his mother’s arms, toddlers in strollers, or little girls running around in sundresses. The reggae didn’t help. “Don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing is gonna be all right.” Yeah, sure it is.
So I made the whole experience unpleasant, not just for me, but for my husband as well. Rushing the one who is normally rushing through that place is no small feat, but that’s exactly what I did. Because I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.
And on the car ride home, I felt terrible. I kept thinking, “I just want to be able to enjoy myself. I can’t even do that.” I tried to explain to Hubby that it wasn’t just the cramps (or my allergies) that made today so difficult. That it was so much more than that. But my words seem to fall short, and I know he doesn’t grasp the full weight of what a day like today does to me. I can’t expect him to.
But you do. And that’s why I’m here.
I may just go back to bed. Or have a good cry. I hope your Saturday is going better than mine.