When I was a kid, I used to go to the playground, get the miniature carousel spinning fast enough to break free from the space-time continuum, and then hop on and lie on my back in the center. The world disappeared into blurry streams of color until the contraption drifted to a stop, and, still enchanted, I staggered off to vomit in the bushes.

That’s how my life has felt for the past few months: an assiduous, all-consuming whirl of activity from which there has been little respite. Now, as things begin to decelerate, and I contemplate my first tentative steps on solid earth, it is time to survey the fallout.

The good news is that the shop I have been working on is gorgeous, and merchandise has been flying off the shelves. And I do not mean flying off the shelves in a spooky psychokinetic way, a detail that begs clarification given that the store is in Georgetown, home of The Exorcist. No, people are enthusiastically picking it up and purchasing it with cash or Visa or American Express. Then are then carrying it home in bags. Bags, I tell you.

The bad news is that I have lost contact with several friends, and every waking moment I am not working is permeated with guilt over not working, as well as whatever I would normally be feeling (which is anxiety about not working, a completely different animal).

But as I said, things are beginning to slow down.

Saturday evening, I showed Crash (who was in Washington for a convention) the fruits of my labor, and then we met Zenchick, who, as it happens, lives in my hometown of Baltimore. I only had time for a quick drink with my fellow bloggers, but it turned out to be time enough to establish a connection. It seems that my former acupuncturist is Zenchick's current acupuncturist. We are siblings in acupuncture, or perhaps step-siblings. We are ships that pass in the night, which occasionally share an alternative health practitioner.

Sunday is notable for what I did not do. That morning, Crash and I (and Goblin) zipped back up to Manhattan on the Metroliner. MAK had off-handedly invited me to a “Sex and the City” party at Bob’s apartment, but he never followed up by sending me any details or directions. So instead of attending a “Sex and the City” party on Sunday night, I stayed home by myself and cried in the dark. Well, actually, the lights were on, and Rob was there, and we had a nice dinner of instant soup and peanut butter sandwiches.

But inside, I was crying.

Now pardon me while I stagger to the bushes.

Update: If you are in New York, don’t forget to come see Rob’s performance at the Duplex tonight! Scroll down for details.