The people with sand on their shoes

They came this week. The people with sand on their shoes. They came to stomp around and line dance and slide on my throat and lob blobs of wet sand into my sinuses and the spaces directly behind my eyebrows. They scraped their sandy rubber footwear on a spot under my sternum and then they laughed at me. I know they were laughing. I could hear them.

Today I am supposed to have a full day of buzzing around, packing, driving, going to the store for a few necessities, doing parish work, meeting with my advisor at school, getting settled into the bed&breakfast for the weekend ... but there is too much sand in my esophagus. No buzzing. Must pack. Loathe the store. Canceled the meeting. And determined to go to this class, dammit. Worried about my friends in Israel. Pleased as Punch for the crop of homeschooling mommas who've had new babies lately. Watchful over parish goings on I cannot attend. Relieved and happy that the son got settled in his new apartment last weekend. Wish I'd been able to get off the couch for long enough to iron my husband's shirts this week, though. Poor man. I didn't even have the umph to make soup for him for the weekend. Ugh. (He gets some of the "worse" that goes with the "better" in married life. I better check for enough clean socks.)
I think the little people with the sand on their shoes have run back out to play elsewhere, and if I have to take my notebooks and pens to class whilst brushing the sand from them, then that is how I will do it. Back here next week. After three days of Transformational Narrative. And then there will be a mere four weeks before a good long vacation. We need one.