Just another crappy Wednesday

It’s nothing really earth-shattering or overly important, but I’m having a very depressed week.
I don’t know what it is — loneliness? Boredom? Burn out from health issues?
It’s been a week since I went anywhere, as evidenced by the huge spider’s web on the side of my car. The spider must have assumed that this stationary object was never going to move. But this morning, I carefully moved the spider to the flower bed and took a little trip back to the spot where I’ve spent a great deal of my time over the last month: Kaiser Permanente’s Santa Clara Homestead Medical Center. Another blood draw, you know. Doctors appointments: my only human contact.
I decided I couldn’t stand another day sitting here in my office in front of a computer screen, so I took an hour and went to Target — see? Can’t leave this house without spending money. The good news: I tried on and bought a pair of jeans with a 34″ waist — that’s down 4″ since mid-July. The bad news? I lost my clip-on sunglasses somewhere in the store, and a replacement (they came with my regular prescription glasses) will cost $60.
I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping well at all. My neck muscles hurt. My brain is addled. I can’t get the theme song from DC Shorts out of my head because I’ve been working on the film festival non stop for weeks.
And damn it, I’m getting really tired of being a single, responsible, take-care-of-others guy. It seems like everyone but me has had an opportunity to deal with my scary heart attack, but I still haven’t. Despite being 40 years old, I feel like I want to be 15 for a day, and just cry about it. I want to not be so completely alone out here in California, worried that if something else happens to me there won’t be anyone around to do anything about it — you know, one of those things where a neighbor calls the police because they haven’t seen me for a while and there’s a bad smell coming from my house and the dog keeps barking to be let out.
Other people have boyfriends and girlfriends and partners and spouses, people who are around to take care of them. And here I sit, feeling more alone than I ever have. I want someone to take care of me for a while. Someone to make sure I’m eating right, someone who asks how my day was, someone who will let me lay in their lap as I watch TV and generally behave like a kid.
Well, at least I’m wearing 34″ waist jeans.