By now some of you have heard that my partner and I will be closing our cookie shop this month. It’s honestly such a relief to get the announcement out there.  Sitting on that kind of information is exhausting, people.  It definitely colors all your days, having this little hum of anxiety hovering around the base of your brain. It made me twitchy and suspicious. Even lighthearted conversations have been suspect and fraught with hidden meanings.

     Well-meaning acquaintance, pleasant as can be: “How are you today?”
     Me, inappropriately intense and squinty-eyed: “Why? What have you heard?”

I’m a rip-the-band-aid-off sort of girl. So thinking about closing has been worse than just closing the doors…Although I haven’t done that yet, so maybe I’m just being stupidly optimistic. That’s my emotional landscape these days; sudden, wild swings between naive optimism and misanthropic distrust and depression.

And anger. Let’s not forget anger.

Still, I’ve had some time to make my peace, so it’s getting better. My shop is closing, and mostly I am fine with it. Except when I’m not. And I’m sure that whoever ends up leasing our space will be absolutely lovely and I wish them only the best. Except when I don’t. Most days, the future looks shiny and optimistic, except when it doesn’t.

My dreams have started to mirror this see-sawing of emotions. A few nights ago, I dreamt that dragons were decimating the human population. Just ripping us to shreds. I awoke refreshed and happy, oddly enough, with the memory that in the face of such a slumberland menace, I had responded splendidly. I had faced off against the dragons with bravery and nobility. All in all, a fairly successful night.

Then last night, I dreamt that my much loved Grandfather returned…as a reanimated corpse. He looked a little worse for wear, but -Hey!- it was my Grandpa and I was just happy to see him. I even bought my Grandma an electric blanket, because I reasoned that the undead might make chilly bedtime companions. Unfortunately,  I couldn’t give it to her, because she had taken her 89 year-old self out duck hunting and now me and my Zombie Granddad had to go find her.

It was the most awesome dream ever.

So, mixed blessings, I guess, is the message my subconscious is sending…in its own, graphic and disturbing way.  There’s always a silver lining. Sometimes, the zombie turns out to be your own, dear Grandfather. And sometimes even in the midst of utter destruction you can rise to your best self. So you’d think that the little business of a cookie shop would be an easy obstacle to overcome.  It’s got to be better than dragons, right?

The Rise & Fall of a Momocracy

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