Two weeks ago
I watch a movie on Netflix and one of the ladies has curly-ish hair with bangs. I think of little other than this lady and her bangs for 24 hours. The next day I open the movie on my phone, pause it over her image and pull my scissors out of the bathroom drawer. Ta-da! I feel just like the lady in the movie now, except I don’t read poetry in Italian like she does.
Cold and rainy day here in the holler. Chief is stupefied that I won’t go out with him to throw his raggedy tennis ball. I point outside – “See? It’s SLEETING. I don’t go out in this,” I tell him as we both gaze out the front window, him dejectedly, me matter-of-factly. I pat his head and bend down to nuzzle my nose on his snout. It’s like velvet.
We’re in the process of building Benson an office. Just a littler cottage than the one we live in to be positioned ten steps away. But now that it’s happening, I don’t want him to go. Six months ago I was going bonkers tiptoeing around his workday and began voicing my disdain for his laugh, which I took to calling a guffaw. No more. I’m savoring every guffaw, missing them already.
I’m even conniving different uses for the littler cottage. “Maybe it could be like a master suite?” I cheerfully throw out during his lunch break today. “Then you could still office in the house…”
I watch a guy named Kent drive a large piece of machinery over a cedar tree in our front yard. I say front, but since we built our house backwards in order to face the water, some could call it a backyard. Anyway, we call it the front yard, and Kent is busy clearing the way for the office.
20 weeks from now
Big plans. We’re putting in a pool!
Benson’s crocheting. I picked it up about a month ago – ordered yarn and some needles and clicked on a YouTube video. I watched as two hands crocheted and a British accent instructed me how to stitch. “This is mesmerizing,” Benson said, watching over my shoulder, and ordered his own yarn. Now we’re crochet pals in addition to husband and wife. I even joined his cousin’s Facebook group -The Hookers Club. Ha!
The Rest of My Life
I had assumed that there would be a time of mental unwellness and a time of “Look a’meee! All bright and shiny!” It’s been years though, wandering through this bit of unevenness (and to even be able to call it unevenness is loads of progress, loads).
I might always feel a bit hobbled. Maybe not. Here’s what I’m learning though: everyone is a bit hobbled, meaning hobbled is just another word for normal.
I also know that a rough week this week looks a lot smoother than a rough week a year ago. And a rough week the year before that – oh dear reader, did I ever tell you that I was sleeping in the closet back then?
Two years ago
Paralyzed on a closet floor.
One year ago
Pretty stumbly, I’d say.
Me, squashed in a chair so that my cat has room to sleep beside me, rambling on about a life that really is quite lovely.
Categories: This and That