Ahh the old ‘emotional melding’ syndrome. Closely followed by the old “Post Mortem Party” syndrome. Check. Check. Oh to be able to saunter home, rinse the experience and conversations and energies shared, away in the shower, snuggle under that duvet, and sleep soundly. Without waking to re-trace every conversation, regurgitate and play back the minutiae of what transpired 6, 7 hours ago. And not wake in horror that Paula may have mistook what I said, has been traumatised by my sense of humour at the partay, and will now henceforth never speak to me ever again, and in addition, ensure I am quaratined from the rest of the group, shunned and never to be invited back.
Oh how the hours spent fretting have etched their worry into my face, my muscles, my gut. At my age. Makes me want to be that alcoholic recluse. And to a fair extent, I am. Til I crave the sustenance of human contact so much I cannot hold back and throw myself once again into the foray, usually too hard, and too fast. Only to find myself awake in that restless stressful wake, at 2am, Post Mortem.
Actually, I think we are special little snow drops. But it would be handy not to melt.