Translate

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Sherlocked By Migraine, Mugglywumpiness

The BBC gods executed revenge in my migraine-addled mind last night—600 mg of ibuprofen hadn’t touched the pain, and I was curled up and crying next to the toilet, whereinto I had spit up half my just-consumed dinner, nausea being a chief accompaniment to my cerebral discomfort—and so I popped 1000mg of acetaminophen and crawled miserably into bed, praying that the Almighty would make the skull-splitting agony subside and let me sleep.  I slept, and slept well (14 hours) but had a long and peculiar dream about Benedict Cumberbatch (or someone strongly resembling him) rescuing a small child who was floating down a river.  It was very odd.  This is no doubt a subconscious rebuke for my having insulted the actor's physique in front of other nerd-girls (if it is appropriate for an almost 40-year-old woman to include herself in that category—my trivia team members are considerably younger and thus qualify).  Several weeks ago, at what turned out to be my last night at trivia, we were exulting between rounds over the return of Sherlock (and talking about the Peter Jackson Hobbit trilogy, wherein Cumberbatch voices two characters and Martin Freeman, aka Dr. Watson, plays the title role of Bilbo Baggins), and one of my friends remarked, apropos of nothing, that Benedict Cumberbatch “Has the body of Michelangelo’s David”. Which I thought was insane, and hilarious, and retorted vigorously: “What are you talking about?! He’s so thin his chest is practically concave!”  The interchange highly amused our fellow fangirls, who convulsed over their beer and french-fries.  My teammates from That’s What She Said/No Man’s Cupcake—all three were a delight to see every week, and between Caroline’s hysterical stories about her old colleagues at the Russian radio station, to Jamie’s travels to ComiCon and elsewhere, and Tessa’s tales of food and family, there was always a drama unfolding, or a creative element achieved, and I will miss them sorely.  I saw Catching Fire with Tessa last Tuesday night, and attended Jamie’s and Caroline’s annual Christmas Ornament Exchange on Wednesday—where I met a girl who’s learning Mandarin, because her boyfriend is Chinese.  She and Caroline had become friends while both were over in the former CIS as Peace Corps volunteers.

Though laid low by the severe migraine, I haven’t been struck to a great extent by the realization that I’m here in Augusta for the duration, not just for Christmas.  I left town when many others of my friends were leaving town to visit family, so the fact that I’m not returning to DC once the holiday is over isn’t really “real” to me yet.  My brother told me, “You’re too damn old for dental school” when I mentioned it, and I hate realizing that I’m already middle-aged, and what I wanted to be when I grew up may be what I am, which is nothing, really.  I’m highly educated, curious about international cultures, better informed about history than most of my contemporaries, and yet I am unemployed, and frustrated with my lot.  My new house is so spacious and comfortable it is actually frightening, because I worry I’ll never, ever be able to pay for it, and apart from wanting to be a recognized and published author, I haven’t any inspiring dreams.  I want to think BIG, rather than settling for sorting through minutiae, which is my fundamental distraction in life.  But right now, the great-grandson of last night’s migraine is shifting in my brain, shoving its beak and claws into the pockets in my cranium, and I feel helpless.  And hungry—all I’ve had today (it’s almost 4:30) is a banana, but I fear that the minute I eat I’ll become nauseated again.  Blast!  A pox upon migraines and all their brethren.

 

No comments: