I am unaccountably exhausted.
It was a busy week, and an unexpectedly busy weekend, and both of them were full of moments of hilarity and moments of irritation. It's a normal mix, but the casing was too small, see? So now I sort of feel a little unstitched, a little like my stuffing is falling out.
I've been yammering for the last few days, at parties and with clients and over lunches and dinners and breakfasts; with a cocktail in my hand, or a pen poised, with an expression of professional interest on my face. I found myself making nervous small talk, and nervous business dealings, and nervous cocktail chatter. I let myself slide a wee bit into that slippery slope that is gossip, and I made consoling noises while I listened to someone's life fall apart. In the wee hours, I found myself on auto-rant, and didn't like what I'd turned into. I have been talking for the last 150 years. And through it all, I just wanted to yell at myself, "Would you please, for the love of God, just shut up!"
I am exhausted, and it's my own fault. If I were a braver girl, or a smarter girl, I'd take a vow of silence, for a week or a day or an hour. But who wants to risk that, you know? Who wants to risk swearing to silence, when there's a chance you might get it right and be charming for a minute?
Must look into the way those monks do it. They seem very peaceful, and at ease. (But can they be counted on a decent bon mot?) Also: does it have to do with the robes? Perhaps elegant stillness has something to do with knowing that your bum is completely camouflaged?
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