In a spring funk from more than allergies
Achoo! Could allergy season get any worse? My mind has been in a fog for the better part of two months despite an arsenal of drops, sprays and pills rivaling a Walgreens pharmacy that I sample like a Las Vegas, Nev., buffet.
This year has been harder than most, with a case of chronic fatigue akin to narcolepsy. And for the first time, my husband joins me in fits of sneezing and itchy eyes.
It took me about a decade of living here to develop fullblown seasonal allergies, and I’m now a decade in. It appears he is on the same timeline. But I can assure you, my first reaction to his suffering was not of pity. It was a relief that he would finally understand my spring setback and share in my misery.
I remember, during elementary school, the younger brother of a classmate suffered terribly as a child from hay fever and the like. I never understood what allergies were and how they affected one’s ability to concentrate, engage and feel whole in addition to feeling under the weather for weeks on end.
The sinus pressure weighing down on my teeth, the swollen eyes — rubbed so hard I’m sure I’ve developed calluses on my eyeballs — and the tender red skin around my nose from constant blowing have not been kind to me. Combine this with the ill effects of a pandemic, and I’m in a doozy of a funk.
I’m either on the edge of pollen burnout or I’m old, but either way I’m looking at the world through COVID-19-colored glasses.
I hear the condescending tone and curt responses come out of my mouth. Messages and emails go unreturned.
Thank-you notes for kind gestures sit blank, hauled around in a tote bag in my car, should five minutes magically appear in which to write them.
And thanks to the Scrooge running the U.S. Postal Service, every card I do send misses its intended mark by a good two weeks. I should just buy a custom rubber stamp and insert on every greeting: “belated.”
What’s the point of this self-pitying rant?
If Miss Manners is not feeling prim, proper or perky, then you shouldn’t either. It’s not sustainable. It’s not that I’ve set the bar too high; it’s just that I need not reach for it every week. But I like knowing it’s there.
In 15 years of consulting and tutoring on all things etiquette from preschoolers to tech entrepreneurs, I am out of practice and, more importantly, out of love with what I do. I’m not even doing. I haven’t worked with a client in over a year. While I haven’t forgotten the rules, I haven’t exercised my craft in a professional setting for so long that I feel brain atrophy.
Personally, I am loving the time with my children and embracing the comfort of my home, month in and month out. Our small friend and family bubble feels safer than ever with most of us vaccinated. Life is simpler, and I don’t miss having to dress up for an event, packing for a trip or the pressures of planning kids’ activities.
But outside of this column, I’m feeling the void of my profession and the fulfillment work brings.
Over the years, I’ve traveled to Atlanta and London for continuing education to keep up and keep sharp. The challenge for me now is expanding my bandwidth. Every day of the past year, my mantra has been “one thing at a time” because that is literally all I can manage.
While COVID-19 and juniper pollen will linger, the pandemic will end and I will hopefully have the opportunity to work face-to-face with clients again. In an effort to prepare for that lucky day, I’ve signed up for a weeklong course with my manners mentor and fellow alums to polish my silver, so to speak.
Work has looked very different for most people around the globe. Entire industries have been put on hold, and others have reinvented their professions. I miss having a dual purpose of nurturing my personal and professional sphere.
By dipping my toe back in the water, I hope to find my stride again. I could use more steps on my Fitbit these days.
Whatever setbacks you’ve been experiencing during the pandemic, may you feel clearheaded, inspired and whole again.