Full moon

I have a few tell-tale signs of a full moon rising that are based solely on my behaviour, thus, I’d like to apologize to my beloved Carpenter for the volatile week, (who am I kidding? Two weeks) leading up to the big, beautiful moon on Feb. 24. 

That whole werewolf thing was not intentional. He should know by now to knock, pause, then wait to be invited to enter the washroom. Instead, he tapped the door and walked in. I’m hopeful he has erased the memory of seeing me pluck chin hairs out with tweezers under the bright vanity lights. That’s on him, though. A knock, pause and subsequent invitation could have spared him the full werewolf experience. 

Now he has to live with that image, like in the horror movies when the girl finds out her high school crush morphs into a furball of anger and teeth at midnight, but she still loves him and thinks her love can change him. Yeah, just like that. Good thing he didn’t walk in on the toenail clipping session, that’s all I can say (future column).

I hope the Carpenter will also forgive my animated dream state in the nights leading up to the full moon, where I apparently entertain by speaking in tongues prompted by the kind of dreams that had me jumping, twitching and yelling out things like “I forgot to defrost the steak!” in the nights leading up to the weekend. 

(Worth noting, I did not forget to defrost the steak. I forgot to buy the steak in the first place. Actually, no, I saw the price of steak and remembered my budget. Nightmares aren’t just for sleep, kids).

When I’m overwhelmed, the dream state is basically a trampoline of memories of subsequent mistakes, failures and regrets stemming from kindergarten to the present day, played on repeat in a loop of torment. Ah, but when I jump out of the depths of technicolour trauma into the awakeness of the 2am moonlight cast by the waning gibbous reflection, I lie there and realize that the moon light is making me volatile. It’s not me. It’s definitely the moon. 

I would howl in unison with the coyotes in the field, but I prefer to lie back and think about how much I would like a steak right now. With mushrooms. Medium. Garlic mashed potatoes. I guess the coyotes are having a coyote version of steak. I bet they don’t dream about public school regrets. Lucky.  

Bless my husband’s rational, borderline-insensitive male heart for beating steadily through the lunar phases, with my irrational moods and overly sensitive outbursts. A cup of tea goes a long way to soothe my inner beast, especially after an outburst like this: “I am one person. I am just one person. I cannot do everything. Am I the only person who knows how to fold the laundry? Am I? Really?” 

(The answer to that question is, yes. Yes I am.)

He knows these moods won’t last. Well, okay, he knows it will calm down to infrequent episodes followed by laughter, because humour is my default, and I don’t often take myself seriously. I’m not always a werewolf. Sometimes I’m totally zen. 

It’s less than a month until the penumbral lunar eclipse, and bonus points, it’s a Monday. Get ready for weird, my dear Carpenter. Remember: Knock. Pause. Wait for the invitation. 

Be afraid (insert howl). Giggle.

WriteOut of Her Mind