Honesty, anyone?

I’ve been crabby all week – the kind of irk when you don’t really know what to do except to grouch, complain, whine, wrinkle your nose and wonder at yourself. The kind of irk where you are more tempted to roll your eyes at your fellow man instead of offering the olive branch of conversation. The kind of irk where all things that used to be amusing become annoying, and all the things that your friends say make you want to slap them, instead of hug them.

And the worst part about such moods is that they are only exacerbated by trying to analyse them. I’ve sat myself down and tried to give myself a pep talk, tried to diagnose the deep-seated issues, tried to assess the annoyance. And all that careful poking and prodding of my psyche has only served to make me more persnickety. I tend to want to fix things, to pick scabs, to get at the very roots of the problem.

Sometimes, the only cure for a crabby week is a well-placed, delectably modulated cuss word. Pardon my French, dahlings, and thank goodness for hers. Yes, I am talking about a delightfully disgruntled French woman who fixed me with a Gallic stare and uttered, like smoky music from a black-and-white film, the most beautifully spoken “Bullshit” I have ever heard. Oh la la! Just like a curl of smoke from an elegant cigarette, my worries wafted away into the past on the strength of that single swear.

I can’t explain it and I do apologize for any offence taken by such faithful readers of this blog as my dear parents, but in that cursed moment, I felt like I had stepped into an entirely different movie – one where instead of being the central, self-involved character, I was just another merry player at the mercy of time and damn good dialogue.

In fact, I’ve had a decadent week. A week where I have had the luxury of puzzling over my own mood – a week where I have had time and space to curl up in bed with a cup of tea and be a grouch. A week where I have had the pleasure of pouting. All this time, while I thought everything was going vaguely awry and irrevocably awful, I’ve been living the high-life.

And now, this decadent, dark mood has simply passed over and moved on in its own time. No major life crisis, suppressed secrets, or deep-rooted unhappiness. Just a petit-soupçon of bullshit. Once recognized, it simply got up from the table of my emotions and waltzed carelessly away, leaving me to enjoy, once again, the ever-changing menu of circumstance and comedy that each day serves up without fail.