It might have been the shoes. I had picked out a comfortable pair, not my most comfortable pair.  I wanted to look nice but I needed comfort.  My closet is full of fabulous shoes.  High heels, wedges, flats with bows, red patent leather.  My own particular brand of denial.   But this is not a story about shoes it is story about art and Wine and not knowing.

It might have been the wine I had been tasting all afternoon.  .  It was going to my head, but not in a good way.  It might have been the overpriced art; the photographs that looked like paintings, the brightly painted pottery or the over abundance of glass pumpkins, but an hour into the art and wine festival things were stating to go very badly for me.  Of course I knew this was a possibility.  Strolling is bad for me.  The leisurely walk, the stopping to look at a necklace or chat with friends, that’s what usually does me in.  But not always.  And that is, I suppose why I keep going.

It might have been the fact that I hadn’t exercised in weeks, or stretched in days.  It might have been the afternoon of baking.  Standing in the kitchen stirring, beating and whipping.  Maybe it was the fight I’d had with my husband.  I had cried a lot.  Maybe it was all those tears.  The sadness filling up and pouring out, a never ending flow it sometimes seems.  It might have been the nightly spasms I’d been having from a too high dose of medication, my body jerking so hard I thought I would throw up.  It might have been the other pills I’d had to take to calm my nerves.

It might have been the self pity; the unfairness of it all.  The frustration.  I didn’t want to climb a mountain or run a marathon. I only wanted to stroll.  It could be all the wanting, and the whining.  All the art I couldn’t make, not because I didn’t have the talent, or the desire, but because I didn’t have the stamina.

It might be that I haven’t tried hard enough, or that I’ve tried too hard. That I’ve held on too long or not long enough.  It might be karma.  It might be dogma, the bullshit I have laid on myself for forty-six years.

It might be mother’s fault, my father’s fault or some faulty wiring I was born with.   It could be God or me not believing in God.  Maybe it’s toxins.  They are everywhere.  It could be cancer, but it’s not.  It could be Chronic fatigue, or chronic pain, or chronic lyme disease.  It might be fibromyalgia, or arthritis, or spinal stenosis.  Maybe it was law school or wheat or dairy or getting married too young. Maybe its multiple sclerosis or not enough multiple orgasms.

It might be chronic fear. Fear of failure or success, or too much time too think.  Too many symptoms felt then googled, googled then felt.  A chronic overload of internet sites and you tube videos.  Maybe it’s the lyrics in the songs I’ve heard too many times. “The Road Goes on Forever and the Party Never Ends.”  Maybe I’m too serious, over sensitive and needy.  Maybe it’s the lack of nurturing, the mother’s milk I didn’t drink.  Maybe there was something in the water.

It could be that I’m a hypochondriac.  Maybe it’s all in my head.  Maybe it’s because there are places in my brain where the blood doesn’t flow. Maybe this is true for everyone; they’re just not vain enough to have a picture taken of it. Yes, it could be vanity. It could be jealousy and envy.

Maybe if I had read The Artist’s Way, been an interior decorator, followed my bliss, figured out what color my parachute was, maybe then my body would be happy to stroll leisurely through the crowd, admiring the beauty of the world, the ocean right in front of me; the birds and flowers etched into a ceramic bowl.

And then again, maybe if I had done everything differently I would still be right where I am.