not proud of myself

I am usually a pretty even tempered sort of person. It takes a lot to get my wild up. In most circumstances I just shrug things off.

Water. Duck's back.

My second line of defence is bottling and escape. I hold it all in until I can get away from a situation and then hide until the anger settles (or, more usually, have a good blubber under the doona and cry it out).

On the rare occasion that all of that fails, I have a back-up plan. I ring/drop in on/email a mate and have a bloody good vent.

Today started off badly. I've had a fairly steady increase in my eyeball symptoms as my doses of steroids have been decreased. This morning I woke up almost back to square one.

It was a wet miserable day and no chance of doing anything outside (my customary reaction to bad eye days). I couldn't read or play on the computer or do the crosswords in the paper. Telly was out. I couldn't drive. All I wanted to do was crawl back into bed and make it all better. I know from experience that this is not an option. I have to stay wake and vertical until drugs and gravity work their magic. In the interim, my only viable options were housework (bah humbug) or sitting and contemplating my navel. I was predisposed to becoming shirty.

Whether Mum knew something was awry and was trying to be supportive or she was just feeling needy herself, she was far more clingy than usual (or I was more sensitive to her presence). She followed me everywhere and kept me company. She walked over newly mopped floors to be at my side. She sat in chairs I needed to move to be close. She shuffled through dust piles as she trailed the path of my broom.

When she wasn't being a limpet, she was sticking to her routine. Regardless of my activities. She dangled dripping teabags across freshly cleaned kitchen benches and floors and munched biscuit crumbs over newly dusted tables. She let banished dogs (and their muddy paws) back inside so that they wouldn't drool over her morning tea on the verandah. She spread her knitting (another one of a seemingly endless series of multi-coloured rugs) all over the floor in the room I was cleaning.

All this would, under normal circumstances, have been enough to get me irritated but not unduly upset. If it hadn't been accompanied by an almost constant stream of helpful comments and advice, my feathers would have remained unruffled (and waterproof).

"This is a dreadful mess, dear. Can't it go somewhere else?"

"You could replace these ugly chairs with some nice recliners to match mine."

"You don't need this big old table now that the kids are gone."

"Have you ever thought of replacing these pelmets with something lighter"

"Blue really wasn't a very sensible choice here."

"This is such an unattractive corner. Why don't you get rid of that?"

"You'll never see Michael again. He'd never know if you threw out his paintings."

"You don't still wear these do you? I'll put them in the rag bag."

And on it went.

I was aware of my answers getting shorter and shorter. I started to get an achy jaw from clenching. I knew I was losing it. I should have gone and locked myself in the dunny or the bedroom or taken a long shower. Anything to give me a break to calm down. I chose, instead, to check emails.

She followed me in.

Then she suggested, in her usual diplomatic manner, that I should think about cutting my Wednesday night dinner mate down to once a month because "I think she's a bit of a user, dear."

I could have gone in many directions. I chose that tried and true response, that pinnacle of debating technique, that most mature and sensible of options. Yep. I went with snide sarcasm.

My response was so childish, it still amazes me. "Perhaps I could just order a rubbish skip and you can toss out everything of ours that you find untidy or ugly or offensive and then we can throw my friends on the top." And then I stormed out of the room.

How's that for a dummy spit?

To give her credit, her initial stunned silence was not followed by a tantrum or weeping or rage. She, instead, turned it into a joke and defused a pretty volatile situation. "I don't think I'm strong enough to lift your friends, dear." I acknowledged her efforts with a feeble half laugh and we both headed into different rooms.

She was polite and unobtrusive for the rest of the day (but not in a false way). I acted pretty much the same.

I think we both realised a line had been crossed in both directions. It had to happen eventually. I suppose it could have been a lot worse.

Age doesn't necessarily bring wisdom. I well and truly proved that today.

I guess we all deserve the right to, on occasion, make a total fuckwit of ourselves. I reckon have have just used up about ten years allocation.