The damned wind was blowing again last night and for a good part of today and it got me thinking about irrational fears and phobias. I don't think I've got any irrational fears... anymore... but if you can have an irrational begrudgery and overall distaste of something, for me it would be of wind. And I do have a slight degree of irrational fear regarding strong winds.
I've always been jealous of the wind. It pulls at you and pushes you around like some sort of bully. It makes you wear clothes you're tired of wearing, like some designer who dictates fashion and is full of themselves. It's because of the wind that the same old coat you've been wearing for months is now your uniform and it doesn't matter what you wear underneath because the blinkin coat never comes off, bar during the months of July and August if you're lucky. The wind bends us to it's will, it drives us indoors, it lashes out like a spoiled child and it doesn't care what you think of it. I hate the wind. I used to like it, but that was when I spent regular time on a sailboat. But now, it's nothing but a nuisance and a thing to be feared because it is big on brute force.
I shuddered last night when it howled through the garden and tore at the fence, the same fence it charged through like a rhino two winters ago and left a path of gaping holes all down the row of houses. It screamed like a wild animal having it's limb guillotined off as I slid the door closed behind me and it carried on with a throaty roar of protest when I turned my back. And that's when I knew I have a fear of the wind.
And that made me think of Sundays, which used to be my phobia. I really dreaded Sundays once. I remember my best friend explaining to me years ago that she hated Sundays and I remember thinking it was a cute thing. But for a time after I arrived here in Ireland, I came to understand what she meant.
Sunday in Ireland with a broken heart in a rural area is tough going. I had no car. There were no trains or buses from my village on a Sunday. I had no friends because I was new in the country. I was tethered to my mobile but it never rang (thank god it was a mobile, though. Imagine if I were tethered to a land line that never rang). For a time, I didn't even have a bike. And I had insomnia.
So I would attempt to have a lie-in and sleep as long as I possibly could but to no avail. At the time, it was summer and in summer the sun comes up here very early. I would find myself awake at at least 5 AM and unable to go back under. It would painfully prolong the incredibly long day of time-wasting ahead of me.
If I wasn't injured (which I actually was for a time) I would go for a very long walk/run down the Grand Canal with my cheapy mp3 player, listening to the same 6 songs over and over again. After I had killed a few hours doing that, I would go home and take a long shower, and then dress... slowly. Eventually, I would walk out to the shop, get the Sunday Times, drift slowly to the pub, pick a spot at the bar in leisurely time, and settle with the paper. I would order a very leisurely pint of Guinness (which takes a long time to pour) and drink it very slowly as I read the paper front to back. Then I would attempt to do the cryptic crossword which I am useless at, but it killed time. Eventually, as the day drew on, I would trundle at a snail's pace back home having exhausted my options, and nibble on something on the couch and catch up with Big Brother. I would linger for as long as I could stand in front of the telly, hoping to numb my brain into submission. Bedtime would be late (or early, depending on your point of view). A book would have a substantial chunk read. Eventually Morpheus would come to call. But not for long.
Needless to say, I didn't look forward to Sundays. Eventually I moved closer to the city and there was more to do, albeit still very idle. But this time there were regulars in the pub who I could visit with, there were shops open nearby, and more places to walk or even swim. And the rail system ran on a Sunday. My then new boyfriend lived a little closer to where I was then, too. But Sundays were still a drag because I would set off walking alone, bored out of my skull, jealously eyeballing the families and couples out for a Sunday stroll and waiting for the moment when my boyfriend might be free to see me. Sometimes I would sit beside the sea and cry.
Sundays have been easier since I moved to my current home. I have a family here now in the shape of my doting partner and an effervescent puppy who needs activities planned for her. Sunday has become one of my more favourite days of the week because it's when every one's home, usually.
I guess we can get over the phobias. I don't know about the irrational fears. I still think the wind is going to carry along a heavy piece of something, or take down a tree, and end it all.
1 comment:
I was reading this and laughing because those are the two things Peter tends to bitch about. He complains about the wind in Dublin and how it messes with everything, especially his hair. And he is not a fan of Sundays. And it's not that he hates Mondays because he has an awful job. It's all very irrational indeed. But then again, as I write this, I still can't get into a pool unless there's other people in it because I am scared there might be a shark there. I know. I make no sense.
-N
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