Time to kick cranky to the curb

I might be cranky. Wait here while I check.
I won’t be a minute. Pick up a magazine or pour yourself a coffee or cut the grass. Not my grass; I have retired from having a lawn.
Okay, I’m back. I’ve run a few tests and the results were somewhat conclusive: I am indeed cranky. So, at least we know what we are dealing with.
I didn’t see it coming. I left the door ajar last evening while I carried in a shelf I have been working on and aside of the 30 million mosquitoes that scurried in behind me, I suspect a dose of cranky crept in and hid under my bed.
It may have wrestled with me in the night because I had less than a stellar sleep and then when I swung my legs out of bed this morning, cranky leapt from under my bed and grabbed hold of my ankles and inched it way up my spine to occupy my brain, like a cranky sit-in.
At least that is what I have presumed happened. There is really no other logical explanation.
I have brushed my teeth and hair. I have shaken my head vigorously and I can’t dislodge cranky. It’s here with the rain and the damp and the bugs.
I started out making what was supposed to be a lovely batch of banana-walnut muffins for a dear friend who is learning to dance with grief and loss, a dance we are never quite prepared for.
In my not-paying-attention mode I forgot to include the sugar in my dry ingredients and as a result the muffins lack a certain acceptable flavor when one is delivering them to provide cheer and comfort.
I can slather them in blackberry jelly for my own use, but . . . I am not exactly sure which came first though, lack of sugar or cranky, because I would like to blame cranky for the missing sweetener instead of myself, but that may not be a fair charge.
Whatever the reason, I am cranky and I’m not a fan of cranky. It interferes with my motion and productivity.
It is hard to shake off a cranky when it is raining.
It’s not impossible, but more of a challenge when the sky is heavy and dark and when the rain is relentless.
It’s hard to imagine forest fires anywhere when it is so very soggy here.
Cranky is like an acquaintance who pushes into your house when the door is opened under the guise of friendship, wanting to complain about everything and whose posture blocks out the sunshine and takes more of their share of the oxygen in the room.
Cranky is invisible and hard to pin down, but I think the solution is to call it by name and motion to it to come close.
Start up a conversation with cranky. “Come here often?” is said to be a good ice-breaker, though I have never thought of a suitable response to said query.
Invite cranky into a slow dance that gathers tempo and then while spinning cranky around, open the door and fling it outside, thanking it with robust sarcastic insincerity for dropping by, while confirming you are much too busy today for the likes of it.
Au revoir, Cranky. Namaste. Adios. Auf wiedersehen. Arrivederci. Nakemiin, which I can’t even begin to pronounce but it is Finnish and I have an obligation to my dear Finlander friend.
I shall use any and all other translations of goodbye that I can think of and now I shall get on with my day.
I think I might hum or pretend I can tap-dance or . . .