Moonstruck, or cheese-addled? Hard to know.

lunatic
late 13c., "affected with periodic insanity, dependent on the changes of the moon," from O.Fr. lunatique "insane," from L. lunaticus "moon-struck," from luna "moon" (see luna). Cf. O.E. monseoc "lunatic," lit. "moon-sick;" M.H.G. lune "humor, temper, mood, whim, fancy" (Ger.


EXPANDLaune), from L. luna. Cf. also N.T. Gk. seleniazomai "be epileptic," from selene "moon." The noun meaning "lunatic person" is first recorded late 14c. Lunatic fringe (1913) was apparently coined by U.S. politician Theodore Roosevelt. Lunatic soup (1933) was Australian slang for "alcoholic drink."


That full moon was crazy.

Crazy.

I have been out of sorts lately as it is, but the past few days it's dialed up to about a 12. I  have decided to blame it on the moon. I have absolutely no scientific or medical facts to back me up on this, but I feel sure that the moon is the cause.

I posted on facebook that everything this weekend seemed wrong, or off, or just not right somehow. As if events were ever-so-slightly out of control and awkward. Too loud, too fast, too close. Uncomfortable. At times, it felt like I was walking through a really unpleasant dream sequence where I was not only naked in the hallway at school, but also wearing a scarlet letter. On my ass. Because like I said, everything is just a little bit off this weekend. It might be my own damn fault - I was overtired, and then I ate some cheese.

It could have been the cheese. It could totally have been the cheese.

Or maybe it's my neighbors, who spend a lot of time making me feel really uncomfortable every damn time I leave my house. It's enough to make anyone think they are going crazy. ("Is it me? I don't think it's me - I'm pretty sure it's them. But maybe it's me. It might be me. Maybe.") Every time I walk outside in the evening, I feel like I am intruding on a private block party that I wasn't invited to. One that's happening on my front lawn. But like I said, maybe it's me. Maybe I should just set up a lawn chair, crack open a brewski, have a smoke, and let it all hang out. Maybe I don't feel right in my skin because I am so damn uptight.

Or, perhaps it could be that I am just feeling my age, and that the day to day struggles of life/bills/kids are starting to weigh on me in a different way. Much like my tits.



But maybe it's more than the banal, day to day problems of cheese and neighbors and finding the perfect bra. Maybe it has nothing at all to do with the moon.

It could also be the September 11th anniversary.

I didn't know anyone who perished that day. I, like the vast majority of Americans, watched the day unfold in front of the television, and I don't have much to say about it. What I did, what I didn't do, where I was. But it's hard to avoid - anyone who was alive and aware of the events transpiring on Sepember 11 2001 was affected. Watching it happen, live. Not knowing what was gong to happen next.

I rarely talk about that day. For starters, I refuse to refer to it as 9-11 anymore. Because it is not lost on me that all of the emergency responders on that day - the ones who were killed trying to save others - were there because they were answering cries for help that had been called in to 911. 911, what is your emergency. How do you even describe that sort of an emergency? What do you say? Who do you ask for help in that situation, when a plane has just come out of nowhere, dropped out of the clear blue sky, and flown into a building? And then another. And then several states away, another. And then in the middle of rolling farmland, another.I can only imagine how it must have felt for the operators, to be getting those calls, to hear the fear and panic. To know that people needed help, and at the same time been so helpless. So unable to respond. I was in Massachusetts, far from the horror that was unfolding in front of me on NBC, the insanity that sweet Matt Lauer was trying to explain that morning as he watched with me, both of us seeing it for the first time, at the same time, and*I* wanted to call 911. 911, what is your emergency. My emergency was that there was some crazy unimaginable shit going on, and someone needed to get a handle on it - pronto. To his credit, Matt Lauer did not stand up and scream "WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?" which is what I was screaming. There was nothing I could do. As I held my baby boy that day and watched the TV in shock and disbelief and absolute fear, and during all of the days to follow, I realized that in this world, there were many things I was not going to be able to protect my child from. I always wonder when I see 9-11 if the people who made those horrible plans thought of that when they were choosing the date. Did they realize the connection? I hate to give them that much credit. 

So maybe, I was just remembering that - maybe my body was having some sort of involuntary reaction, related to the photos and footage and news reports that swirled around the weekend, bringing back all of the memories, the loss of control, the not knowing and the what-ifs.

Or maybe it was just the moon, and I need to stop being so damn dramatic and count my blessings and say a prayer for all of the people who lost someone, or lost themselves.