And why should I be? Without this particular evolved capacity, we'd reproduce using much less intriguing methods.
So, it's that time of the month. And as such, my hormones are playing their usual mildly destructive game with my ability to respond appropriately to various stimuli. Which is totally fine, I'm simply acknowledging it, not lamenting it. Though, to be quite honest, I'm not convinced that I don't have a little insight into what it's like to be schizophrenic as a result. (Don't say I am, that would be mean. I'm only paranoid.)
It's not all bad, really. I have spent most of my life trying to keep a stiff upper lip. I'm pretty accomplished at it by now, which I don't think is a very good thing (I learned this one real good from my dad. Sometimes being a quick study isn't all it's cracked up to be!). Today, I'm feeling sappy. Feeling sappy is the best possible mood for me at the moment, because in a little bit, I will leave for the gallery at which the Chuck Close exhibit is on display. The last time I went to a gallery while feeling sappy, I about lost it (at the de Young, Gee's Bend exhibit). I can't get too worked up though, because I'm supposed to meet Judy before we head to a DC United game.
This notion of using art as catharsis is universal, fundamental and nothing new. But the actual experience of it is fairly new to me. And seems quite effective. Thank goodness for artists.