Talking to myself

At about 4:50 the black mood hits. It's a rough day at work, and four hours and ten minutes still lie ahead of me.

My night schedule is extremely unusual for me, and from five to seven I am shelving. I'm not sure if I've ever had two hours of shelving after five. I'm the only person shelving in the whole library tonight and, like I said, I'm in a bad mood. So I shelve slowly and deliberately, nevertheless picking out errors at an astonishing rate, like brambles from the fur of a golden retriever that's been running headlong through the brush.

I stop to start reading the novel I Am Legend about a man just barely surviving alone in a zombie apocalypse.

After a few minutes I say "This is not a good idea." And I reshelve the book.

Sometimes I think surely I have found the bottom of my mood, but there's always further down.

At least so far.

Earlier in the day I was at the front desk, helping an old woman track down a couple seasons of BBC TV shows, one of which existed and one that didn't.

"I'm always glad when you're here to help." She says. "You don't just tell me to go do it myself."

Me too, lady. Me too.