This morning, as I was trying to get myself together for work, I discovered that my favorite sweater had suffered badly over the summer to provide tasty treats for baby moths. I’d gotten holes in it before, but they had been easily fixed and barely noticeable. This time was different. There were large holes that dotted the chest, offering selective but unmistakable glimpses at whatever I decided to wear underneath. In a way, putting it on felt a lot worse than being naked.
As I stood there looking at my moth-eaten splendor squalor, I started thinking that the sweater could make for a good metaphor of my life, or at least how I’m feeling about my life today. While it could be beautiful and comfortable, somewhere along the way my poor planning and neglect let things go terribly, terribly wrong. I’m left with something that is still mostly usable, but doesn’t hold quite as much warmth and looks terrible to those who see me in it.
Of course, I like sweaters for my ability to hide in them, but that’s a whole different discussion I’m not sure I’m ready to get into. Suffice to say that there are chinks in the armor, or, even better, that my undies are showing. I feel vulnerable.
I’ve concluded from this that I should get more sleep. I rather dislike settling into this kind of melancholy, and my recent nights of "Undead TV" have not helped in the least.