It’s been a down kind of day.

We all have them. If we pretend we don’t, we need to have our genes tested for research purposes. If natural cheeriness and delusional tendencies could be bottled and sold to benefit the common good, then we might stand a chance at finally achieving world peace.

That makes me think of “soma,” the fictional substance taken by the masses in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.

And now I’m thinking of my favorite brand of underwear, and I hope that someday I can once again wear my beloved and comfortable Soma bras.

It’s been six weeks to the day since my mastectomy surgery, and I have every reason to be grateful and happy.

Instead I woke up feeling frazzled with plans to cook some breakfast treats for a small but important workplace meeting that I had planned and organized. 

At said meeting, I was interrupted and spoken over multiple times.

Not only that, but they demolished my sausage balls. I was counting on some leftovers.

I am called “dear.”

I am first named by professional co-workers. “Marla” would be perfectly fine, but I am Miss Marla. 

This is not Vacation Bible School. It’s a school system.

I turned my thoughts to state laws and the need for updated policies. Another downer. 

Every legislative session brings with it new and improved laws to govern things we already do quite well without the need for additional bureaucracy. On the plate: cell phones, dual enrollment, a new diploma option, and an overhauled funding formula. And the session isn’t finished yet. 

But I’m feeling down, and it’s a Friday afternoon. I’m not going to put much thought on a Friday afternoon into possible policy changes. 

So I went to a school, where I learned that the earth is flat.

Not according to the teacher, who relayed the story to me. A student took the Bible verse, “God created the heavens and the earth,” to mean that God created Heaven, and God created Earth, which is flat. There is not even any outer space.

What about the sun and moon?

They’re just projected by the government.

In other news, RFK Jr. announced today that he is leading an effort to determine the cause of autism by September. I gotta give the man credit. It’s a noble goal, but we’ll probably take longer than that to overhaul our policy manual.

Enough. If I go any farther down, I’m gonna find myself hanging by my toes on the wrong side of a flat world. 

I’m not depressed. I’m not having an existential crisis. It’s just been a long day at the end of a long week and I’ve got a long drive ahead of me this evening. I’m writing this on the road as Sweet Husband drives the first leg. I’ll take over when the sun goes down. 

In moments like this, a playlist is usually my preferred medicine. Nothing like some great music to speak life into a bad day and set the tone for putting some miles between you and your troubles.

So we have the B-52s “Love Shack,” a road trip anthem, one that lifts my mood instantly. 

I’ve got some T-Swift, whose mild reprimand is quite welcome:

Hey, hey, hey 
Just think, while you’ve been gettin’ down and out about the liars 
And the dirty, dirty cheats of the world 
You could’ve been gettin’ down to this sick beat

And from the one and only Dolly Parton, who penned the working woman’s hymn and gave us this diamond of a chorus:

Working 9 to 5 
What a way to make a livin’ 
Barely gettin’ by 
It’s all takin’ and no givin’ 
They just use your mind 
And they never give you credit 
It’s enough to drive you 
Crazy if you let it

I won’t let it drive me crazy. No way to fix all the world’s problems. All I can do is fix is my attitude toward it all. 

So keep your soma. I can handle the good, the bad, and the stupid.

But please, give me some good music.

“Don’t Stop Believin’” just came on and it’s impossible now to hold on to my downer of a mood as Steve Perry warbles, “Ho-oh-ee-ohllddd o-o-onnnn!”

But the last song before our first stop of the trip is Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “September.”

How ironic.

Maybe it’s on RFK Jr.’s playlist too.