Slow and steady wins the race. And so do spurts of super-high energy interlaced with mini-crashes. I know because lately that is how my brain has decided to function. I fear its elasticity has trodden a diverged path, one that was once far less traveled by. And now I, like the traveler in the yellow wood, doubt if I should ever come back. So, you see, the future lies in knowing how to quell the declivity, to add resistance to the spiraling membrane of my mind.
The answer, my friends, is sugar. At work, I poke my head into people’s places and spaces for the sole purpose of siphoning chocolate from them. (Don’t worry, Mumsie, I usually ask politely.) Around 9:37 this morning, I managed to procure two mini Toblerones from Miriam – one milk and one dark. They were promptly consumed. At lunchtime, the threatening decline roared with such voracity that my fists clamored the table, demanding the attention of the staff lounge inhabitants to pay tribute for my presence. But there was not a confectionery delight to be offered.
I returned to my office in a faltering limp, defeated. I tried ever so fervently to focus on my tasks. But the crash had arrived at my doorstep, pausing to wipe the mud from its feet before entering to bestow the gift of Languid Lull.
Then I heard a rap on the door.
“You may enter if you please.”
It was Dave Byrd, our school chaplain and resident pun lord. With a cheeky grin, he placed four Hershey kisses on the edge of my desk and, before turning to leave, reasoned, “I think you need these.”
And that has made all the difference.