“There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.” – Friedrich Nietzsche
I had no desire to fall in love with a married man, but there I was: enraptured by a perfect stranger. I hadn’t slept in 48 hours. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe through my nose. Dr. Google pointed towards nasal polyps or collapsed sinus valves, both of which apparently required surgery that in most cases didn’t work. I figured treating myself to breakfast sausage on a new moon in Taurus would magically heal my sinuses, while I half expected the universe to make up for the hell I’d been through by hooking me up with my man.
On my walk down to Victoria’s inner harbor, I remember watching a man hand, what appeared to be a young homeless woman, twenty bucks and thinking, I wish someone would hand me twenty bucks. Then I remembered that I could afford to buy breakfast.
Down at the harbor I learned that the Flying Otter Grill (where I intended to eat) stopped serving breakfast a few months earlier. I wanted breakfast, not lunch, so I continued on to watch the harbor ferry ballet while I renegotiated plans with the universe.
When sinus valves collapse, you can’t sit or lay down without your sinuses seemingly closing up on you. Nasal polyps are similar. The solar plexus shifts into overdrive, while the frontal cortex takes a beating so severe that you’d have to be living a short distance from your body not to know that you aren’t getting enough oxygen to your brain. Breathing through the mouth activates the stress response (fight, flight or freeze), which causes stress hormones to surge through the body—shunting blood from the organs to the limbs, and suppressing the immune system. Human bodies were not designed to handle chronic, 24/7 stress. Adrenaline pumping nonstop through the system wreaks havoc on the kidneys and adrenal glands. Sinus problems indicate a lack of peace and harmony in one’s life, according to Louise Hay in her little blue gem of a book Heal Your Body. For whatever reason, I can’t breathe through my mouth and sleep at the same time. I wake up immediately and feel like everything’s wrong in the world, like I could die prematurely—the exact feeling that would affect a person’s sinuses in the first place.
Fifteen minutes passed by and I couldn’t muster the attention span, or interest, to watch sea taxis play ballerina in the water. I couldn’t get past their warm-up. Off to my left I noticed the Hotel Grand Pacific, where I remembered once (or possibly twice) eating a bountiful breakfast buffet with my dad. The Pacific Restaurant stops serving breakfast at 11:30 a.m. daily, which gave me thirty minutes to get there, be seated and load up on food.
In the restaurant, I found myself seated alone at a four-person table facing the windows. I was told to serve myself at my leisure. Up at the buffet table I irritated a tall, unfriendly, married man to my left because I was struggling to scoop up long slices of cantaloupe and honey dew melons with spoons. I couldn’t find a fork in sight. Shortly after sitting down to feast, a good looking older couple (in I’m thinking their sixties) were seated across from me at the windows with three young girls, two of whom were walking. The, I assumed, grandmother was in agony and not making any attempts to hide it. She openly moped between their designated table and the buffet with the toddler faceted to her hip, making whining noises out her whiney looking face, while the man did what he could to attend to the two older girls.
“When are they getting here?” I heard the grandmother whine towards the man several times. He didn’t know. He looked detached, amused and exhausted. I caught the sense that he wasn’t the girls’ paternal grandfather.
The three little blonde girls were adorable but clearly busy. I imagined the parents pulling up in a Subaru Outback, and when they did finally arrive, neither were smiling. I remember the blonde mother wearing hot, black boots, her hair tied back in a braid, and her eyes lined with black makeup. Her face was strikingly pretty. Unhappy looking and on the verge of tears, nonetheless, she slumped down in a chair beside her unhappy (I’m now assuming) mother, both blonde, neither speaking to anyone but each other. The little girls, especially the older two, were elated to see their dad. There weren’t enough chairs at their table to seat the dad, so their waiter asked me if they could borrow a chair from mine.
“Those chairs are for my invisible friends,” I said (with a straight Capricorn face) to the waiter who laughed and hesitated before snagging the chair.
Not wanting to miss a moment of what my subconscious heart had decided was my dream man, I watched in awe as this superstar dad ensured all members of his family were comfortable and feeding. He even held down the fort for his wife like a perfect gentleman while she filled a plate for herself, before visiting the buffet a final time to fill up a plate for himself. I looked down at my plate and noticed that it was nearing empty.
“I figure I might as well eat more bacon and breakfast sausage since I’m paying $25 for it,” I said to the dad, who true to form, stood back while I dished up first.
“Take your time,” he responded, flashing a bright, warm smile that melted my knees. We shared a genuine laugh together. I understand the frontal lobes are involved with judgment, impulse control, and social and sexual behavior, but up close and personal I didn’t want to rape this dad; I wanted to merge souls with him and fill him with all the appreciation I could.
Back at our respective tables I continued watching the reality show before me, unable to understand why the wife wasn’t being nicer to my husband, or why for that matter, my husband was married. I wanted to stand up on my table and yell at his wife to be nicer to him. Meanwhile I was also carrying on a winded conversation with my Virgo waitress about how I hadn’t slept in 48 hours, and that this had been going on for over a month.
“That sounds like a slow form of torture,” the waitress said consolingly. I can’t remember her name, but she had her own story of sleepless nights from a car accident and chronic, debilitating pain.
I finished up my breakfast and left the Hotel Grand Pacific feeling delusional and defeated. I didn’t explicitly say “married man” to the universe, but apparently “taken” was active in my vibration. I would totally marry that guy, I contended. If he gets himself unmarried, I said to the universe, you send him to me.
Why did my dream man have to be married? Was the universe playing a cruel joke on me? To make matters worse, the breakfast sausage didn’t heal my sinuses. So, I walked the shame back to my apartment and smoked weed with a neighbor who thought I might want to have sex with him because we share a birthday.