The Slippery Slope of Aging and the Need for Larger Fonts…


A few years ago, I noticed that I would have to hold a book further and further away to read. When I needed to stretch further than I could reach, I realized that I had arrived at the age of “readers”.

While picking up party supplies at the local Dollar Store, I casually slipped a pair of readers into my basket. That night, reading my book in bed was a joy! The words were clear and bright. It was marvelous and also my own little secret. Like grey hair. Those little suckers were quietly covered up too.

My secret soon became public. I was at the gym peering at the stair climber console trying to squint my way through getting started. Likely more urgent was that I liked the TV on the console and couldn’t see the channels. No matter how hard I squinted, it was one big flashing blur. Nothing screams “OLD LADY IN THE HOUSE” more than wearing a pair of readers on your head during a gym work out. True story because when the younger members saw me come in, they quickly turned down the music and switched the station to hits of the 80’s. At least it wasn’t “golden oldies”. Ugh.

My readers went from an occasional companion to having a pair in every room, two pairs in my purse and the emergency pair in the car. “Don’t leave home without them” was not about my children or American Express, it was my readers.

With failing eyesight, I can’t see dust or grime or chin hairs until it becomes overwhelmingly obvious. Not terrible when it applies to dust or grime but discovering a lone chin hair that has gone rogue is a totally different issue. “How long has THAT been growing?” and “why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Plucking eyebrows is also tricky. I have to lean into the mirror, inch the readers slightly down my nose and then carefully angle the tweezers around the rims. The trick is being able to balance the readers so that I can see the dissident hairs and pluck appropriately. Without my readers, things can go bad very quickly.

I need things supersized. This includes labels, directions to medications, the font on my phone and menus. Even the best readers can’t help me in dimly lit restaurants with a romantic candle. Get rid of the candle and could someone please bring me a flashlight!

The struggle continues in the shower. At hotels I have to strategically place those little itty bitty bottles around the tub. Front right corner is the shampoo, front left is the conditioner and rear right corner is the body wash. One slip of the system and I am washing out of order. Even at home this is a problem. Finally, I got smart. C is for conditioner and S is for shampoo.

Readers were easy solutions but they were just one visual form that announced the aging process had begun. Tank tops are another.

I always wondered why women of a “seasoned” vintage wore tank tops in the winter. I get that wardrobe choice now. It’s not fashion, it’s survival apparel.

It takes real self discipline to be in a meeting and not bat an eye when suddenly your body catches fire. Staring straight ahead, you continue with the meeting. “Nothing to see, everything is fine“. No acknowledgement that your body is about to combust into flames. Beads of sweat start to form on the upper lip and brows; armpits become open taps and water cascades down the back like a waterfall. Quick action is required because at any moment people are going to start noticing the puddles pooling on the floor. Diversion strategies are critical. My favourite is to point towards the ceiling and ask “is that a spider“? I just need those few seconds to mop my brow, whip off the jacket, flap the blouse like a fan and regain my composure. These are the superpowers that I wasn’t expecting in my 50’s.

C is for Crisis.

The readers, the tank tops, the grey hair and the new spare tire were public admissions of getting older. I felt moments of “ageism” creeping into my reality. Parts of me were breaking down including knees and shoulders. I question hem lengths of appropriateness and I sure can’t attend exercise classes that include an excess of “jumping”. Was the best of me now behind me? There lay the sadness. I saw readers as the start of the decline and the years ahead were a hell of a lot shorter than the years behind. A point of life crisis.

Somehow I had let the “adulting” wear me away. I traded in my hopes and dreams for “respectable” and “responsible”. I gave into the concept that a “good mother” wouldn’t put herself before her family. A “good mother” would be last. The last to eat, the last to bed and the last to take time for herself. I bought into this invisible code of ridiculous conduct and now I was faced with the fear that my next decades of life would involve a tasteful wardrobe made up of ugly flowered blouses, comfortable shoes and bad light jazz.

C is for COVID19 and Courage.

A pandemic has brought panic but also an abundance of time to rethink my drink and recheck reality. Many self-help authors are more than willing to share their secrets of their incredible success but I am not sure I relate to “them”. Where my real inspiration has taken place is with those that are my friends. Here is where I found courage in action.

One friend has started an athletic apparel company, another is following her dreams and starting a business that involves cooking for seniors while others are embracing new careers and making moves to pivot their business models in response to the new economy. I am in awe of those who are winning with their fitness goals, starting new hobbies and I am humbled by those who have chosen to consciously “stop” and give generously to the needs of their family and friends. These people are not collapsing but rising and rising strong.

And if that wasn’t enough inspiration, Google has more! Judi Dench became the darling of the screen in her 60’s, Mary Kay kickstarted her career in her 50’s and even after a brief stint in jail, Martha Stewart rose to a new level of stardom in her 70’s.

C is for Change.

To follow along my theme of bravery, I need to reset my perspective. I am the one that chose to conform to some nebulous playbook; a weird form of societal convention and that has to change. My choice moving forward is to give life to the 18 year old that still lives within; to bring back that gal who loves to crank the music and dance on tables. Maybe my “readers” are to see that the best is yet to come thanks to a life full of experience and well lived life lessons.

To you my friends, thank you for the inspiration to be more than I thought I could be. There is power in reaching the age of the “reader” and I vow to rock the tank top!

With love to all.

Shelley

And Then We Bought Pigs…..


I feel a need to note that when I was growing up, my dream was to move to Toronto. I would be in business, my husband would be a lawyer and we would live in a lovely condo that came with a delightful cleaning lady. There were no children but several pairs of shoes. The kitchen would be fantastic but never used because we would only eat out.

I am unclear where I took a wrong turn because I live in a town of less than 2200. There are no stop lights, no sidewalks, no five star restaurants and if one wants to go shopping, there is a Fields where nothing is more than $20. Grocery shopping for even three items takes an hour. You have to visit with everyone. Even during a pandemic. In a small town, everyone knows your name. Chances are, you will be called out on some scandal. Likely it won’t be true but in a small town, reality TV is played out in the supermarket. I’m hoping that someone might think I am having an affair! The chances are slim to none but in small town gossip, to think that someone might be sweet on me at age 52, I will take that call to fame!

However, I am not having an affair. I am also not in Toronto in my condo with my lawyer husband and my cleaning lady. I am in BFN (bum f@ck nowhere) with Grizzly Adams as my husband, our three children, two dogs, one cat and an abundance of unfinished projects. Also, I seem to have taken on the role of the cleaning lady.

In a condo, I would have had double closets. In rural BC, I have chickens.

  • The Chickens…..Mabel, Mavis, Beatrice, Gertrude

We named them, we talked to them and they would join us on the deck for cocktails.

A bear arrived. The chicken coop was nature’s version of “KFC” and take out. It is a myth that black bears are vegetarian. They aren’t.

Black bear waiting for “take out”.

Since we had become attached to the “ladies”, it was sad to just find their feathers. We could imagine them talking. “Has anyone seen Beatrice?” “She was just here”

My husband was particularly indignant. We raised these chickens from the moment they arrived in a box on the bus. We brought them home and for their first weeks, we raised them in Tupperware inside the house. They were kind of like pets. I know, that is just so weird but true and when they were under attack, my husband pulled out the big guns. Literally.

Wayne spent hours waiting for the bear. He was going to protect the “girls” but that bear was tricky. It was almost as though he knew when the “hunter” needed to “rehydrate” and leave his post.

Farming means losses. We have watched bears use our coop as “take out”, cougars hunt for fun and much to our chagrin, our new puppy thinking the chickens were playthings. Imagine feather pillows…..

But back to what I thought my life was going to look like and what it actually is. It’s a pandemic, the world is upside down, I’ve joined the ranks of the unemployed and I have embraced food security.

Since I have a new found abundance of time, a growing sense of panic for the future coupled with a potential addiction to a cocktail hour that starts at noon, I really felt I needed to revise my focus.

Many might take this opportunity to indulge in yoga or some sort of peaceful practice that would invoke inner harmony. I likely had one too many glasses of wine and ordered pigs. I also ordered 40 more chickens (meat birds….yes, they will eventually be housed in the freezer), 24 laying hens, 72 tomato plants, a redneck version of a greenhouse plus new gumboots. Clearly, I should ease up on the wine.

I can cope with chickens, tomatoes, a greenhouse and new gumboots but pigs??? What was I thinking?

They have arrived at 30 pounds and it is anticipated that we will butcher at 300 pounds. Did you catch that? I easily said “butcher at 300 pounds”. Here’s the problem. I don’t know how to butcher a pig and I have real concerns that Wayne’s version will be messy!

Where the hell is the cleaning lady and my condo and how did I end up learning how to disembowel a chicken? I think it’s also appropriate to mention that I don’t even like pork!

So where does this leave me? Well, I vowed at the beginning of the year to be brave. I promised myself that I would challenge myself to take on new projects and learn new things. Likely I was thinking more along the lines of poetry and trying new cocktails but too late now.

My true confession is that I actually believe in food security and I worry about borders and food quality and international relations. Likely it is far fetched but This pandemic is generating feelings of paranoia but it is also the catalyst to wanting a new sense of community feeling self sufficient. Overnight it felt like a darkness came and stole our lives and robbed us of our means. This pandemic has taken various forms of prisoners and left no one uninjured. Self sufficiency on even the smallest scale feels like regaining a sense of control while the world is still spinning madly.

Everything is changing and large food production plants are closing down due to health concerns. The government has confirmed bridging aid but there is a small murmur that suggests we give up our fetish for shoes and trade them for gumboots. A backyard garden is a powerful source of sustenance. There might even be some newfound satisfaction in providing not only for ourselves but also for each other.

It seems impossible that we live through a pandemic that crushes the global economy and not emerge with new thoughts and new skills and perhaps a new outlook. What if we found new ways to look after each other and it was granular and basic and was delivered as baskets of freshly picked lettuce or maybe homemade bread or jam? What if our healing took place in the earth? Where our hands connected with dirt and we watched it sift through our fingers and we took satisfaction in planting and caring and growing? I think I need this healing. These quiet moments when the tending of gardens and animals immerse me in something greater than dreams of a condo and a closet of shoes.

I can’t say I’m expert because I’m not. I am used to being busy and being “productive” but lately I have been drifting and feeling a tad lost. I am hoping that by learning how to create from seed, will give me a renewed sense of soul.

It intrigues me that as the weeks of “self-isolation” pass, new life lessons emerge. It echoes what I “thought” I would be versus who I am “becoming”. My connection to the earth and food source is actually quite freeing. I used to depend on the “economy” but that clearly didn’t work out. I am wondering if I have to learn how to rely on myself? Frick. That’s a game changer for sure. I wasn’t always sure of myself and was often found looking for “Easy Street” and now I have pigs. I think of the iconic movie “Sliding Doors” and wonder what my moments will be. Fate or said destiny? Maybe it is just the deeper yearning that is starting to take hold?

So. The pandemic saw me clean my house, fight off waves of panic, embrace day drinking and now I feed pigs. It’s week 6. I am nervous as to what week 12 might bring. However, if I was totally honest, I would also admit that being “still” and doing “nothing” is hard but calming. I feel drawn to the silence and feel its ok to enter the abyss of the “the wondering” of what’s next.

BC (Before Covid19) I always rushed. I pedaled fast and the scenery of my life was nothing but a blur. I just went along for the ride. I lost that part of me that believed in my dreams. After all, aren’t I “too old” to change, to reroute and restructure a life that seems “fine”?

And then it all stopped. The pandemic arrived and now there is no rush and what was a blur is clearly in focus. The stopping has allowed me to hear that whisper that calls for new growth. I wonder if I shifted too far when I took my life turn. I look in wonder at a new grounding that is taking place all around. I see deeper relationships with family, friends even with oneself. I feel a tilting towards balance and a sigh of relief.

I vowed to be brave this year. I am scared to be unemployed and to lose my badge that comes with a title on a business card but as I work through my fear, I find new courage to meet myself on new levels. I wonder if I actually might like myself more?

I dreamed of Toronto and I find myself with pigs. Life is funny that way. Maybe Forest Gump really had it right when he said “life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you are going to get”.

I never thought I would get chickens or pigs or even kids and yet, I do and they are all an adventure.

I am still scared. I wish they would tell me what happens at the end of a pandemic. If this were a book, I would totally skip to the end. I wish I knew when “normal” would return and I sure wish I could hug those I deeply care about. I feel adrift because I crave connection but I console myself with the fact that maybe my best new connection is now with myself.

I wish you peace amongst the chaos and love with yourself and with others. I’m going to believe that it’s going to be ok. May we each grow something new and try something with courage.

With care and love,

Shelley

And Then I Tried on my Pants…..


My friend Amy said that during quarantine, we should be putting on our jeans every few days to ensure they fit. Excellent advice but I wasn’t sure if by “putting on jeans” she meant just one leg or actually doing up the buttons. I would also seek clarity if this referred to the jeans that had been worn several times or the ones that just were washed…..

I braved the moment and with some encouragement, the button finally connected but the bigger issue was that I found myself busting out of the blouse.

I either need new clothes or a new exercise program. Since I am a natural shoppping disaster, I opted for a new exercise regime.

I dug in and looked at the options. Not that this was hard. It seems my entire social media feed has been hijacked by spandex. My favourite articles leaned towards “more is less”. These articles are fairly firm that I have wasted hours and hours at the gym. I could have told you that but it was nice to have it confirmed by perfect strangers promoting their own program for a mere $69.99 per year. Of the zillion programs to choose from, I really leaned towards “change in just 7 minutes”. So did my husband. I told him that the seven minutes I was looking at required clothes.

The devil is in the details. Seven minutes was only going to be effective if I also adjusted my diet. Fair comment. I chose the Mediterranean diet; specifically French. The French like red wine and cheese. Me too! In fact, I like French bread so much that I bought a bread maker I also expanded into Swiss chocolate.

So many changes and yet….. the button still had to stretch to find the hole. What do the French do differently? Oh, right. The benefits of regularly smoking.

My adapted version of the Mediterranean diet was more like being on vacation. If I was serious about more buttons finding the hole, I needed stronger action on the exercise and food front.

This led me to contemplate running. Ugh. Has it really come to this? Running hurts. Those first 10 seconds could kill me. Just thinking about it makes me crave Advil. I used to like running but then, I used to be 30.

If I run, I might feel like a blender. There is a chance that all that wiggle and jiggle might be whipped up and purified creating redistribution either that or I will die on the roadside.

Confession. Running reminds me of who I am and who I used to be. This is likely why I love the Mediterranean diet; so many comforts that cushion deep rooted denial of reality.

It’s time to let all that go. I really have no more excuses. I am unemployed, in quarantine and have reorganized the cutlery drawer. I used to wear the t-shirt that said “No Time” but even that doesn’t fit anymore.

So I laced up and ran. The first 10 seconds almost killed me. The second 10 seconds weren’t any easier but I focused on fresh starts. I also looked for any platform of inspiration. Imagine my surprise when inspiration came in the form of a podcast featuring J. Lo and shaking it big time at the Super Bowl. I was so intrigued that I googled. OMG! She just turned 50 and she has the MOVES! Also long hair but that’s another story.

If COVID19 has taught me anything, it is that there are second chances and opportunities come disguised as challenges.

I will admit that somewhere along the line I got fatigued with a sense of failure and sinking into bread, red wine and chocolate was infinitely nicer than making the effort to try again and risk defeat. My button hole wasn’t just about the fit, it was finding my whole fit in the bigger picture. It’s about taking steps towards living the life I want to live; that life that I had stuffed into the drawer and labeled “one day”.

So I opened the drawer and “one day” started “today”. One foot in front of the other. Small steps that go from 10 seconds to longer. And by the way, my “one day” gets to dress in leggings!

Here’s to opening the drawer and getting the button to fit plus a little bit more…..

With love,

Shelley

And Then I Panicked…..A Covid19 Moment


How did the 1993 movie Groundhog Day go from “iconic movie” to modern day reality? I used to think that movie was hilarious. I now think the plot line sucks.

Every day is the same. “Get up, make coffee, have a shower and get dressed”. This is “success” for 2020. For the super achievers, they put on pants. The rest of us are still in leggings.

The new monotony of Groundhog Day is sucking the life out of me. Yesterday I sat in the car and turned it on just to see if it still works. Today I might take it for a spin around the driveway.

“Be still my beating heart” is not just love reflection, it is also one of the first signs of panic.

In the past three weeks, due to C19, I have joined millions in losing an income, likely losing a business and certainly losing my mind. I used to feel productive, useful and engaged. Now I get dressed and call it a day.

Part of my panic is wondering what I am going to do PC19 (Post Covid19). What is life going to look like? What skills do I have that will be relevant? What if I take a chance and “follow my heart” only to find out that it’s a bust? What am I going to do for work?

A friend sent me a text saying she was thinking of becoming a Phone Sex Operator. Likely a good idea. Can you imagine? No one would even have to know. You could be in the bathroom, screaming loudly “OH GOD!!” and everyone else in the house would listen and say “I’ve got to remember to put the lid down”.

Will I have what it takes for the next step? I’m from Generation X. We have been reinventing ourselves for 3 decades and I don’t know if I have another costume change in me. Gen X has survived three recessions; early 1990’s, early 2000 and let’s not forget 2008 when everything went to shit which gave us just enough time to recover for COVID19. Anyone else want to start drinking at 10am?

Yesterday I was feeling the pain of having to work up the energy to face that mountain and climb it once again. I hate that mountain. It is mean. It has steep slopes, jagged edges and quite frankly, I’m not sure that there is even a view from the top. I feel sad, angry, overwhelmed and somewhat distraught. It is uncomfortable living in the “unknowing” of what comes next.

When facing the peril of panic, I turn to podcasts and cleaning my floors. Podcasts inspire me and cleaning the floors reminds me that I will always have a job.

The podcast I chose was from Brene Brown (BB) and she talked about how people “show up” in times of anxiety. That got my attention. I learned that I am an “over-functioner”. I am not sure that is a word but I love it and it describes me. When there is a “situation”, I whip open the closet door, throw on my cape, grab my broom and fly into action. Forest fire that we have to evacuate for? Not a problem. Pack, label, organize and create a spreadsheet database. Community economic meltdown? Easy. Throw together dinner for 200 and done. Manage through a worldwide pandemic? Nope. I’m stuck.

For an “over-functioner” who is having to “stay home”, I have way too many hours of doing nothing but watching my hair get long and grey. I don’t feel I am contributing in ways that feel useful. I don’t actually “do” anything these days. What BB pointed out is that my need for “doing” was actually my way of avoiding “feeling. Oh f@ck. Now I need serious therapy.

Doing “nothing” is causing me to think and feel in ways that are uncomfortable. Instead of reveling in a life that has slowed down, I am projecting worse case scenarios.

I wondered if I should start breathing and practicing calm. Could it be that a world wide pandemic is the perfect time to figure out what I really want to do with the rest of my life? Maybe, a pandemic is a peek in the door to see what I might like instead. Maybe, tomorrow is a second chance and that fresh start I thought I might never have.

There are parts of my life that I don’t love but I typically stuff them in the drawer of “let’s not think about that” or shove them in the closet called “no, it’s not that bad”. What if post pandemic, I emptied the drawer and cleaned out the closet?

I’m not 100% sure where this thought might take me but while I dust the lightbulbs I will think about it. How bold could I be with my answers if I honestly asked “what if…..” and let my imagination run free? The possibilities suddenly seem more exciting than my panic.

I promised this blog would be about admitting to my stumbles, my awkwardness, my fears and much more. If you have moments like me, I want you to know, that you are not alone. I am scared and I am going to try and overcome that. I am also going to try wearing pants. Small steps.

With love and care,

Shelley

Cleaning & The COVID….


“….and by cleaning, I mean drinking wine and spraying the house with Febreeze….”

~ Somee Cards

Today I thought I would clean the fridge. I’m not sure what inspired me to clean the fridge. I think it was because I needed room for more milk. I don’t normally pay attention to the fridge. It’s like the laundry basket, a safe spot to store things until I have time. I rarely have time but COVID 19 has given me an abundance of time. Typically I would put the milk in and if space was skinny, I would just jiggle things around until everything forcibly fits. Denial is powerful and effective.

However, I now have time and as such, I made a mistake. I looked to see what the problem was. It was the jar of antipasto from Christmas. Dammit. Now I have to clean the fridge.

I am not going to lie, it was easy to tuck that jar of antipasto to the back of the fridge where it had sat quietly for months. Sometimes I would notice it and think, “I should do something about that” but quickly moved on to more serious things like “where is that bottle of white“?

Why bother with things that are quiet? Just let them be because somehow making room for the milk, led to “I should clean the fridge” which led to “I wonder why the back of the fridge is leaking”….. You know this doesn’t end well.

It’s an older fridge and I accept the imperfections, just like I do with my husband. My fridge could be a metaphor for my life. Sometimes I would like a new one; something shiny and makes ice. Oh wait, that’s the new pool boy I want.

So there I was looking at my older fridge and contemplating ignoring the leak (and the jar of antipasto) but I decided to use my new found wealth of time to once again make use of Dr. Google. Worldwide pandemics really do cause chaos.

If you are asking yourself if you should try this at home, don’t. Save yourself. Leave the antipasto to visit quietly with the weird homemade jam.

I wasn’t so wise. I opened Pandora’s box.

I had often wondered where dust went when the broom comes out. It turns out that it runs under the fridge, flies up the back to hide on the coils. It was a shock to move the fridge and find an entire Dust City, the equivalent size of Vegas. Residents have now been relocated and coils are now free to cool.

While I was pleased with my problem solving prowess, I still had a leak. The second suggestion from Dr. Google was to locate my fridge drain which might be clogged or frozen. A fridge drain? Don’t things just “work”? Apparently not. “Adulting” just got real.

I defrosted the freezer. I couldn’t find the drain. Our fridge drain is behind the plastic cover. I will share that frozen plastic is brittle. I am sure that if I keep the bags of peas and carrots strategically stacked, my husband won’t notice a thing.

I hear you. It’s reasonable to ask “why don’t you just call a repair person?“. The problem is that we live in a small town of 2200 people and the nearest city centre is almost two hours away. The only repair guy in town is the same guy who sells moonshine out of the back of his truck. I kid you not. I’m on my own with this one.

Move forward about two hours. I will note that I still haven’t cleaned my fridge but I have become very familiar with parts of a fridge that I had never expected to meet. I was trying to rally a feeling of accomplishment but I likely needed a swig of moonshine to illicit a false sense of success. I persevered and slowly, I found the problem. I also found that there was no way in hell I was going to fix this. This was way above my non-existent pay grade.

I looked at the time, I looked at the fridge and then put a bowl in the back to catch the drips. I decided that the antipasto and the weird jam needed a pool to sit beside. I then put the milk outside. Problem solved. And since I found the bottle of white, I can now move to happy hour which is a more effective use of time!

There are some things we shouldn’t try during a pandemic. Fixing the fridge is one, cutting our own bangs is the other.

Here’s to new things that are fun and outdoors and shared with friends and family! In the meantime, be well and be safe.

With care for all,

Shelley

Only Count The Happy Hours….. March 29, 2020


Only Count The Happy HoursIt’s COVID 19 and the world is staying home.  Yesterday I was washing the windows and my husband said “you know, when you do windows you normally do the inside AND the outside…..”.  I looked at him, rolled my eyes and said “we could be isolated for months, I am pacing myself”.  Idiot.  Only an overachiever would try and get everything done in the first week.  At least I know at day 45, I will still have things to do.  One drawer, one window, one day at a time…..

Each day is now new.  I applaud those who are leaning in and taking this time as a personal challenge to do things that they haven’t done before.  For me, I thought I would give up wine.  I’ve never done that before.  I then thought about it and decided that maybe the drapes should be washed instead.   I could even try to properly fold fitted sheets.

Nothing seems the same and each day brings a new experience, new way of doing things and a new way of “being”.   Some things I am coping with but other things aren’t so easy.

Copying all my photos from my phone is proving to be a challenge.  So is panicking that I have COVID 19…..

Is anyone else doing this?  I have these inner dialogues that are like a bad movie with a terrible script.  This was my self-talk yesterday.  “OMG, my chest feels like it is being crushed by an elephant.  It’s here, I have “IT”, I just know it.”

I quickly checked with Dr. Google and spent an hour researching my symptoms while taking my temperature every 10 minutes to chart the “spike” that never came.  Wayne, my husband, walks by the computer and asks “why do you have a thermometer sticking out of your mouth?”.  Not wanting to admit that I am quietly planning how I can get myself to the hospital, I seamlessly say “I’m just checking to see if its working”.

John Hopkins University:  “If you have chest pressure but no sign of a fever, you likely have another condition”.  Great.  Now I have cancer.

This is why I have to wash my drapes and not give up wine.  A world pandemic is new for me.  I’m not sure of proper protocol and appropriate levels of worry.  I have to push back all the panic and stop asking myself questions like “how long before we starve”?  “If they take the house, will they take my husband AND the chickens or just the house?”  

The new daily routines are important.  It gives me structure to build walls against losing my sanity and falling into the pit of panic, alarm and psychosomatic symptoms.  I need  a book.  Something like “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”, except that it would be called “What to Expect During a World Pandemic”.  And no, the books on the Spanish Flu don’t count.  I am not reading that.  I’m also not watching  the Titanic.

We all have questions about this damn virus.   How long will this last?  What’s going to happen?  Will Trump get re-elected?  When does the curve flatten?  Should I renew my passport?  Will I get “IT“?  If I get “IT“, will I live through “IT”?  Will someone I love get “IT“?  Will we survive?  Should I put myself on a waiting list for a hair appointment now now or wait?  Big questions that can’t be answered.  Well, except I do think I should put myself on a waiting list….

I wanted to write this morning because the wave of panic washed over me and I wondered if I was alone.  By writing down the thoughts that have seized me, I could maybe normalize the darkness.  I need to stop hearing the song “What If” play in my head and build a new playlist to give things perspective and find a new groove.

One drawer and one window give me structure to get through each day.  It’s one day at a time.  OK, maybe that’s a bit deep.  One drawer, one window, one glass and one pour!  May you have what you need to count all the hours to happy!

In peace.

Shelley

Airport Rules…..


Today this made me laugh:

“Eighth day of self isolation and it’s like Vegas in my house.  We’re losing money by the minute, cocktails are acceptable at any hour and nobody knows what time it is”.

Am I the only one that thought that Monday was Thursday?

I have heard the concept.  Daytime jammies and nighttime jammies.  The struggle is real.  I am like many of the masses and have suddenly found myself without work and am using up my holiday time.  If I have to pretend that I am on holiday, I am now in Vegas and my bathtub is now the pool.  If I ask nicely, my youngest son is the cabana boy and brings me Mai Tai’s.  As for gambling, I’ve got that down pat.  There’s a 50/50 chance that dinner will be ready and with enough mai tai’s, there might even be an evening show.

It’s hard to explain, this new reality.  I no longer set my alarm.  What’s the purpose in getting up?  Spring cleaning was never high on my list so why start now?  My day has found a gentle rhythm.  So gentle that I often need a nap but I will persevere!  I get up, make coffee, listen to the news and then make a list that consists of “make bed, have shower and get dressed”.   Ok, that took an hour.  Maybe it’s back to the pool and the land of pretend!

All kidding aside.  I am watching the alerts.  I paid special attention to “essential services’.  I am aghast.  Who made this list?  I’m sure it was a man who was going prematurely bald.  There can be no other reason for leaving hair salons off as an essential service.  I mean, really.  All this stress and on top of it, I have to go grey?  I think we need to revisit the essentials.  I say REDO!  Essential service must include those that need color in  these very dark days!

On a positive news, the liquor store is still deemed essential.  Thank God.  I can’t imagine my pool boy bringing me soda water with lime and pretending that this is Vegas fun.

So these are my days.  Dull and somewhat dreary.  I read another meme that made me laugh.  “Where are we going for holidays this week-end?” and they showed a blueprint of the house.  For me, I am going back to my bathroom and lathering with sunscreen in hopes of ultraviolet lights!

These are times that deem the need for airport rules.  It’s not easy and you need to do what you need.  Yes, I have a cabana boy but I also have a back deck where I am trying to perfect the plank and get my heart rate up.  If I have to go grey, at least I don’t have to be droopy.  It’s bad enough that in the middle of the night I have to ask if my rush of heat is COVID 19 or just another hot flash.

Be kind to yourself.  If your bathroom must be Vegas and your hair is of concern, just push it aside.  Although the times are grim, I celebrate that new found time allows me to connect with those that I adore.  If my life includes “airport rules”, I am so glad that I have virtual travelers who follow my path.  Thank goodness for friends who all make me laugh.  These are the people that are the true wealth of life.  If they were to disappear, my soul would be poor and my life adrift.

I wish you  all to have travelers that join you in your journey.  People who bring you joy and build up your spirit.  The times are tough, the salons are shut but I wish you connections that bring you solace.  May your bathroom be your Vegas and may these dark times teach us that life is rich because of those that we love.  To all of you, I wish you courage to face the days and may each day bring you glimmers of sunshine, of blue oceans and long sandy beaches.  May we celebrate small moments of gladness and may we feel blessed with connections.  Together we are stronger.  Vegas is never fun as a solo journey.  We need group love because that is where the memories are found.

To each of you, I wish you the strength you need.  Know that you are loved, that you make a difference in the world and that your influence matters.  Connections are our life line.  That, and a good cabana boy!  Airport rules are a once in a lifetime experience, indulge and enjoy!