Miscellanea, Part 7

Have any of you with a substack of your own noticed an uptick in likes from weird accounts? They’re not creepy “military” men like I get on Instagram, but at least once a day as of late, I’ll get a like on an old post from an account like StoicMan or KnightReads, or just this morning Art Life, or something similar. When I click over to their profile, they seem very bot-like. One even purported to be Shmelon Schmusk¹ and bot or no, I blocked that account with a quickness. I said I wanted more engagement, but I guess I should be careful what I wish for.

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It is a special kind of hell to put a people pleaser (me) in a position where because of a decision that they have to make, they are going to piss someone off, badly. And if the situation goes on long enough, they’ll end up pissing both people off. There is a relatively high stakes² situation at work that I won’t ever really be able to talk about, but it has really messed me up. My anxiety has been through the roof. My stomach has been a mess, I can’t sleep, and I have no appetite. I have that slightly panicky feeling in my chest that feels like I could run screaming into the night at any moment. I haven’t felt like this in ages and I forgot how truly terrible it can be. This whole thing is going to come to a head soon and right now I’m just trying not to look directly at the thing that’s happening like they tell you not to make eye contact with a wild animal. I just need to get through a few more days and hopefully everything will settle itself out.

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I recently encountered this article, When Grief Came for the Gravedigger, (gift link) on the New York Times website and found it moving. Note that this does involve Hurricane Helene, if you need to limit your exposure to such content. I’m sort of fascinated with grief and the rituals we observe around death and dying, so the title was intriguing, but it was so much more than I expected. If you’re also interested in these rituals, one of my favorite books is called American Afterlife, which looks specifically at ways Americans acknowledge death, starting with the Victorians, who really did death and mourning the right way. A year of no social responsibilities after the death of a loved one. Yes, absolutely.

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And now for something completely different. There is a story about me that when I was young, aged two or three, on my birthday I woke up telling my mother that I didn’t want anyone to sing happy birthday to me. I’m thinking three if I’m verbal enough to express such a thought. Anyway, no one paid any real attention to what I said apparently because when they did sing happy birthday to me, family lore states that I got out of my chair and stomped down the hall, away from the party.

I came across this photo recently.

I’ve always loved this photo because in it I’m wearing my Hee Haw overalls, which I loved (and wish I still had, frankly, though in an adult size). When I found this picture again recently, I noticed for the first time the number of candles on the cake. This could be photographic evidence of the day I rebelled against being sung to. I’ve never been told whether I was forced or coerced into coming back to the table — I mean, there was cake so it’s not out of the question that I could be enticed back — so I don’t know if this is before my exit or after. I certainly look annoyed, but I think that also could just be my face (and still is).

1. You all know who I mean, right?

2. High stakes for my job.