I threw a tantrum the other day. Yep, a full on, grown-up tantrum.
I thrashed around my entryway, snarling obscenities and ripping a 2020 calendar to shreds. Then I collapsed atop the scraps of shiny nature scenes and ugly-cried.
Fucking 2020, with its continuous threat of suffocating death, not to mention loss of childhood innocence and “air-hugs” and socially-distanced friendships and civil unrest and partisan warfare and glitching Zoom meetings (god, I hate Zoom meetings).
I just can’t anymore. I mean, I know that I still CAN and I begrudgingly will, but I wanted to flail around on the floor for a while, destroy something and scream. It’s a good-enough coping mechanism for my kids, and none of my adulting skills seem to be fixing anything, so why not try it out.
In retrospect, I don’t know if it helped, but I don’t suppose it made anything worse. Who needs a stupid calendar in November anyway? And, in typical 2020 fashion, all upcoming holiday festivities and traditions will likely be cancelled (or moved to Zoom, a fate worse than death IMO). Plus my kids and pets got to see how mommy operates when all the gears and springs have come loose.
I must admit this wasn’t my first 2020 tantrum, and I can’t say it will be my last. After all, we still have several more weeks of eLearning, virtual holiday dinners, flu season and Elf on the Shelf to look forward to. Guess I’ll need to find more calendars.
For a little humor, read An Open Letter to the Month of February by the author: