Yesterday was a very odd day.

Friends came over on Saturday, which was fine, and enjoyable. I started a slow simmering anger when I woke up, however, when I realised that not a jot of the housework had been done before my husband had left for work that morning. I dislike being taken advantage of (haven’t we had this post already?), but worse than that, I hate people who just don’t think. So on top of all the things I had to do on my own personal list, I single-handedly cleaned up the entire apartment, did three loads of dishes, scrubbed, swept, and pressed the first man who arrived for the afternoon into vacuuming, since I’m not tall enough to use the appliance (let’s just not go there, okay?), let alone control the mad thing.

I think things would have been all right again if my husband had come home later. Instead, he walked in half an hour after all the cleaning had been finished – an easy day at work, and they’d ended early. He showered and sat down with the rest of us, nice and relaxed.

So long as I ignored him, I was fine. I thought things were all right by the time the last people left and I went to bed. I woke up the next morning, though, just as angry, and in no mood to be in company with anyone at all. This was a great pity, since I had agreed to sit down with a couple of other people to do a bit of writing exercise. I had a choice: I could try to force myself into the right frame of mind to do it, or I could graciously bow out and make it easier for everyone else.

I bowed out. I wrote a short apology to the co-ordinator of the exercise and left it for her, then practically ran out the front door before anyone could ask me questions.

I fled, basically, and didn’t tell anyone where I was going or how long I’d be. For some reason I absolutely couldn’t stand the thought of being around people I knew, or in my own house, or certainly being polite and civil. I ended up wandering through secondhand bookstores, the new Les Ailes complex, and reading in a cafe for a while. It was good for me to get out.

No doubt practical people are thinking, “Well, if there was a problem with your husband, why didn’t you just tell him?” Because, o sage and pearl-dispensing readers, it wasn’t just him. Certainly I had an issue with him, but what would it end up being phrased as? “Why can’t you wash the dishes while you’re waiting for your coffee in the mornings”? It was more than the dishes; the dishes and the clutter were symbols of other stuff, and things that have been building for a while. Until I figured out what the real problem was, I wasn’t engaging in any kind of mutual conversation about the situation.

Since being in my own house was grating, I left it. And it felt rather good just walking out without a backward glance, without leaving an estimated time of return, without an indication of where I might be. I didn’t turn my cell phone on, either. I had no clear destination in my mind; I certainly didn’t want to drop by anywhere where I’d run into someone I knew, so other than that, it was driven purely by whim. I didn’t return until four and a half hours later.

Something I noticed while I was out was other people’s conversations. When you’re out with someone, you’re usually talking with them, focusing on their conversation to the exclusion of everyone elses’ words. If other conversations make it through to your ears, it’s because they’re being loud and obnoxious, and hence you become irritated. Being alone, however, means you don’t have someone else’s words to fill up the space, and you hear what everyone else has to say.

Everyone is unhappy. With themselves, with their lives, with others. And it made me wonder – if no one is happy… why do we even bother?

Other than that, the other major discovery I made was that I am, for some unknown reason, interested in clothes again.

My clothes rarely wear out, and my shape doesn’t change, so I usually get about a decade’s worth of wear out of an article of clothing. This means I buy things that I fall in love with, or t-shirts because I need them. I tend to hate trendy things, so wearing out-of-date styles isn’t a danger. Yesterday, however, I walked into a couple of boutiques, and realised that I hadn’t been clothes shopping seriously for over six years. And, for some odd, unfathomable reason… I wanted to.

My wardrobe can stand with a good, severe cleaning out. And I figure with about six hundred dollars, I can replace it with a decent, sturdy, timeless set of clothing that will see me through for another six years or so, and through whatever career I end up in. I love the tailored stuff that’s out there now, and the cream/chocolate colours that are showing up with all the fall clothes, too, and the long charcoal grey cardigan sweaters with the belts…

As I realised this, I had an odd sort of shock. Clothes shopping is a girl-type thing. I dislike shopping intensely as a rule; I dislike the clothes in stores as a rule as well. Where this urge arose from, I cannot tell, but it is disconcerting in the extreme.

I have a suspicion that I am going through some sort of chrysalis stage. Who I’ll be on the other side is a mystery, though. I wonder if I’ll like myself.