They drill the holes at eight in the morning. Loudly, with jackhammers, crushing, pounding, boring. I worked until midnight last night, and now I wake to hear the concrete giving way under heavy machinery. My disoriented dreams are interrupted, and my husband is next to me, already resignedly awake, scrolling. The drilling changes tempo: at times it clangs with the rebound of alarm bells, at others it whirs with implied threat akin to the Dentist’s. I record some audio on my phone; I send it to the gals, “can you believe this?” Somehow, I fall back asleep.

Buttons aren’t made here anymore, not since, if the German wall plaque in our studio apartment is to be believed, the 1990s, after reunification. Cultural adjustments and economic shockwaves ripped through decades of benefic business. (Buttons are good work; even zippers can’t zap them. Velcro is, by comparison, vacuous. And snaps! Unserious.) Alas, the Fall of the Berlin Wall was a stronger connector.

Now, the only button left is a large metal statue: a four-foot, futile ferrous fastening, forever unfulfilled of its purpose. We can’t see it from our balcony, but some folks overlooking the next courtyard down can, and I’m sure it’s very quaint from above. It’s neighbored by a spry little fountain, a bike rack, and some lightly overgrown plants. They must have finished remodeling that courtyard last year.

Ours, by comparison, is a concrete pit, haphazardly layered over with uneven boardwalk. The planked pitfalls change every day, when the construction workers rearrange the path after having freshly rearranged the terrain. “Lift your feet,” I mutter to myself, as the motion-activated light flicks on, about five yards too late into the dark trudge. Stepping with intention, I make it to my door, grocery bags and ankles intact.

I get a hint of commiseration via text throughout the day. I respond, keeping up conversation, connection. Not much is said. Nobody changes the topic. Hours have passed, and I’m safe at home, staring down a blessedly sacred weekend (jackhammers, famously, always have weekends off). And then–

–“[…] it’s not that bad […]” … followed by other gems of helpfully dismissive wisdom.

Of course it’s not that bad. I’m safe, and warm, and fed. I have work that is personally meaningful. I am loved, and I get to see my loved ones regularly. I am healthy. I get to enjoy some of the finest components of our Age. I’m not making buttons, in Berlin or otherwise.

And yet.

Lately, I have been pungently aware that even my casual, conversational complaints are confounded. The positive public veneer is too thick. Instagrammed sunsets and an eye for an angle make the whole world go blind, I suppose. I feel unrelatable, even with those I’ve thought myself dear to for a decade or more.

No, it doesn’t really matter that loud construction woke me up at 8AM. And I’m sorry if I have overused your compassionate ears and eyes lately, sharing some of the inner difficulty that few get to witness. But I am not easily vulnerable, and this year has had massive challenges to match the changes. Overall, yes, I know this is a crumb of an event… but a concrete crumb, and it wormed into my shoe somehow, and yes, I need to pause to shake it out.

Pause with me, or go on ahead–but if you go on, I won’t try to catch up.
I will go at my own pace, regardless.