I love my life. I love my husband. Our home. The independence we afford one another, and the joy we share when we spend time together. I like the occasional respite when we go to a movie or take a drive. These happen infrequently and are spurty. They don’t last for ever. I can usually adapt.
I’m also a dog. I love routine. Granted, there are different kinds of routine . . . At Home Routine, On the Road Routine . . . but routine nonetheless. Dog owners, have you ever tried to do just one little thing different? Repositioning a favorite ottoman is akin to packing everything up in boxes and putting booby-traps everywhere.
“Plumber? We need a plumber? A stranger in our home? Right by my desk?” My heart speed revved up and it became hard to breathe.
And then it got worse.
Not only did I watch in horror as Christmas tree stands, power washers, and what? . . . encyclopedias? . . . a trash can, and a wet vac made their way into ‘my’ space—I helped commit the crime. A green metal rolling thing with items on it that have no meaning for me also crawled out of the equipment room.
And now they sit. Making me thoroughly appreciate doors that keep these things out of my mind, even though they were always there. I can only hope that when this plumbing event is over, and these things go back into the dark places of storage, I’ll be able to forget they exist. They’re all feeling a little Stephen King-y to me at the moment.
It’s time for me to rise about this upheaval and be brave. Professional. Able to go on. Write. Edit. Do what I need to do.
I feel brave and my chin lifts . . . and then I remember Japan. And Haiti. Australia and the Carolinas. . . .
I’m good.
Really.
CR: Where’s Billie? by Judith Yates Borger, and Heaven is for Real by Todd Burpo, Sonja Burpo, Colton Burpo and Lynn Vincent, and couldn’t be more pleased with both.
It’s all better with friends.