Bad Days

Bring 'em on

The day started on my chest. It eventually rolled over just enough for me to push it into the mattress and release myself from its heft. The day then followed me to the bathroom and said, “I’m going to be like this until tomorrow comes.” Then the day walked out and let me brush my teeth, leaving me just enough time to plot against it.

I had a plan — I’d immerse myself in something. I’d go somewhere the day could not find me. A friend lent me an old Tascam 4-track tape recorder. It was sitting on the floor of my studio. That’s something to get lost in, I figured. That’s something to beat the day.

But an old tape machine is not a good hiding spot. The thing was a pain in the ass, and I spent most of my time getting excited by a guitar performance or vocal delivery only to hit play and hear warped and warbled sounds played back at me as I tried to figure out if it was something I was doing or something faulty in the tape recorder. That’s a bad sign — when you start asking is it me or the machine? That’s the day having its way with you.

I shelved it, literally and figuratively, and occupied myself with busywork. Emails and nonsense. But I felt like someone had taken my batteries out. Like my brain was a bit loose in my head. And I wondered if it was not the day but a chemical imbalance. That’s a bad sign — when you start asking, is it chemical or is it the day?

It went on like this. I dragged myself from room to room. Feeding the dogs, doing chores, and clicking through albums and playlists searching for an antidote for the gloom. But there was no song that could drown out the day, as it was unrelenting, so I found myself going for a walk at last light, cocktail in hand. The day had warned me, and I did not listen. It was time to raise the white flag.

I walked my neighborhood and realized the day had not had its way with me in a fairly long time. I couldn’t actually remember the last time the day knocked me around like that. I did, however, remember that there was a period when the day used to wake me up like that. How it would push my wrists into my sides and put its knee on my chest and taunt me to get out of bed. And I would claw, spar, and pummel the day. By 4pm, I’d have the advantage. I’d be up, with a good lead. I would go to bed with a sense of victory, only to wake up and start at square one. And this would repeat for weeks or even months — the day always having the upper hand.

I hadn’t felt that in a long time. And so I finally gave in and welcomed it. I looked out at the pitch-blue sky and shook my head, acknowledging that the day had fought a good fight. That the day took the victory on this sullen Tuesday in May. And I congratulated the day. Gave it a little golf clap and said, “Good on you.”

And reached out my hand and we shook like gentlemen, and I thanked the day for not coming around so much anymore.

Bring ‘em on.