I worked later tonight, not on purpose. The area where my office is located had a huge inter-departmental pot luck buffet in honor of the Super Bowl. While this would sound like a very short consumption of my day, perhaps an hour over lunch time with a bit of time to clean up the leftovers and restore order.
However, in practice, this was an 8-hour production in which people were either discussing the food, how good it smells, how much it will make them sleepy afterward, how certain folks chose not to participate and how some of the heavier among us wanted to get their portions sooner and tried to find ways to get access to the food before anyone else.
All that is fine, but it meant that I got practically nothing done. So, I managed to get a few things knocked out before heading home. The building was practically dead as I carried the clinking empty crock pot out to my car. They have been enforcing the employee parking at my job, since there are many violators who have been parking in visitor/patient parking. What that means in reality, however, is that when I arrived at my normal time, there were no parking spaces. I ended up parking about a quarter mile from my office. I was about 30 minutes late, by the time I found a spot and walked across the entire campus to get to my office on the other side.
As I rounded the weary last few turns to my house, I caught the song Same Old Lang Syne on the radio:
“We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to now, and tried to reach beyond the emptiness, but neither one knew how.”
Suddenly my eyes welled up with tears. How hard those lyrics hit home, the loss of innocence has been on my mind a lot lately. Something I’ve been trying very hard to work on within myself, to get to a place of forgiveness and acceptance, but to first feel the actual anger at its loss to begin with. Trying to reach beyond the emptiness but never really knowing how.
After that, being mad about work, parking or having to stay late, none of that seemed as relevant as what was stirring just below the surface. At home, I try to pull it together, but as soon as I sit down to write this post, I can’t hold back. As I’m typing, my husband tries to share with me the delicious smelling marinade he’s using for our dinner, but I’m too much into my own head space and nonsense that I end up snapping at him. And, for lack of an ability to articulate the magnitude of what I’m trying to work out, I just break down in tears again.