When it comes to Key lime pie, rollercoaster rides, and episodes of Mad Men, asking for seconds is the recommended, if not obvious, thing to do. But when it comes global economic slowdown, it’s safe to say once is enough. Unlike pie, though, this isn’t a phenomenon susceptible to choice, and with all the recent buzz about a possible double-dip recession, I’ve been trying to steel myself for another shitstorm.
In truth, I don’t think I can prepare. In fact, I frankly forgot what it felt like to live in a climate of lurking dread, so I turned to the archives for insight, which I found in short order: October 25, 2011, with “mired” as the word of the day. Suddenly, it all came rushing back. That feeling of being stuck, mixed with the press for survival.
There’s also some denial thrown into the mix. You’ll notice I said “possible” double-dip, and that’s an angle I’ve heard echoed in mainstream media. To borrow a line from Cinderella Man, though, what if we’re dead and we just don’t know it? What if we’re already in the dip? Assuming we’re not, it feels like the last quarter mile before the gridlock as you ease off the gas, a sea of still red lights ahead of you. The only thing you can do, I guess, is persist. Punch through it. I’d say my psychic wounds from the first recession have just about scabbed over. How about yours? I just need them scabs to hold.
There was supposed to be a post on Tuesday. That’s the God’s honest. In fact, I was thinking about publishing around 4 AM that very morning, just after sleeplessness officially struck. There’s always a moment, an inflection point during a bout of insomnia, when you’re resigned to do anything but sleep. For me, this happened at 3:17 AM. I remember rolling out of bed, looking at my alarm clock, and wondering why I had just spent 90 minutes in a poor pantomime of unconsciousness. This was around the time I considered blogging, such were the depths of my waking agitation.
Sleep is normally effortless. Based on my proclivity for naps, too, I’d say it’s something I enjoy. But I’ve been restless lately. There is a measure of peace missing for reasons unknown, and the only concrete evidence I have is the fallout: the tossing and the turning, the attempts to sink down, down into my pillow, only to shift to a slightly different spot, minutes later. What I decided to do at 3:17 AM, ultimately, was fire up the Xbox. Don’t really remember what I “accomplished,” short of collecting a shitload of pearls in-game, but it was repetitive enough to incur drowsiness and then–finally–sweet oblivion overtook me.
Growing up, I remember wondering why my old man had to pop sleeping pills to get through night. Doesn’t rest simply call for shutting your eyes? Easiest thing to do in the world, right? Now I know. It’s one of the surcharges of being an adult. I don’t want to self-medicate yet, though, because the drugs in question are designed to fuck with your brain. No, I need something to quiet my soul. Traditionally, this means Taco Bell.
Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, May 31.