This week I was afflicted once again by bronchitis (probably). I ran a fever, kept a sleep schedule even more irregular than usual, and would get severely winded walking from my bedroom to the kitchen or even talking to my roommates. I had to miss two days of work, spend a rather ridiculous amount of time coughing, and skip a number of meals due to the unpleasant thought of trying to push any solid food down past my tightened sore throat and lungs.
Discounting shortness of breath and occasionally hacking up a lung, I was beginning to feel like I was on the tail end of it late Friday afternoon and volunteered to take Sarah shopping. We are sitting at the light in front of Target on the Atlanta Highway and everything's fine. The light turns green, we start moving and I hear a peculiar sound coming from outside my window.
“Is that my car?”
I find my way off the road, get out, and my rear driver's side tire is completely flat. I felt this was a very unceremonious flat—I still have no clear idea of how it happened. There was no loud popping, no loss of control. After I unpack my trunk and realize I'm missing a crucial element for this whole procedure—“How do I not have a jack?”—Sarah walks over to the nearby strip mall and solicits help from a father and son picking up their pizza. They drop what they are doing and come over and change the tire for me.
These are the times when I really love being a woman for real. Laying on the ground, wheezing with sickness while trying to jack up my car was not the way I had intended to spend my Friday evening. And I didn't have to!
However, I reminded that while being an ultimate symbol of freedom, Russo (my car) is also now a child I have to take care of, and children are so damn expensive. Their rubber soles wear out so much faster than you think they will, and a month later they need new shoes! Russo doesn't understand how broke his mother is.
This week I have also developed a pronounced aversion to people. Everywhere I go I feel extremely crowded. In my apartment, in the street, in class, at work, everywhere. I would just like to be alone for more than an hour and I am never alone. There is always someone there. Around every corner there is someone I know, someone who needs to say hi, someone who is a presence that is in my way, has to be counted in my train of thought. It is driving me crazy.
I have no rational explanation for this, of course. Mostly, everyone has been wonderful to me. All the people in my life have been friendly and sweet, my roommates have taken great care of me during my illness, my family's cutting me slack all around. I just feel closed in. Pressurized on all sides. Precisely because no one has done anything to make me feel like this, I am trying my damnedest not to explode onto anyone, not to let the sound of voices or the warmth of bodies get to me. I was planning a little “who knows where I'll end up?” excursion with my Sunday to shake some of this off, but seeing as how I won't be able to take care of the tire problem until Monday and driving aimlessly on a spare is probably inadvisable, I'll just have to find some alone time closer to home.
It could just be the illness, but my chest feels incredibly tight. I need some decompression.
...
J: “But I've decided he's just a friend.”
E: (with horrified look) “Why?”
J: “It's just better this way. Easier. He's totally out of my league anyway.”
E: “But you like him so much! No one is out of you league, Jenna.”
J: “The deal is I can keep obsessing or I can move on. I know that it's not going to happen. I can settle for having a friend. And we have the potential to be really good friends, it's there.”
E: “It's just so sad. It's like you are giving up on romance.”
