Day 6 & 7

I didn’t last a week. (insert image of me shrugging) Whatever. I make the challenge, and I can bend it or break it however I want. I am long past the point where I can be bothered to feel guilt for failing a self-imposed deadline.

Call it self- care. Call it laziness. Call it coming to grips with how my mind works. It truly doesn’t matter.

Friday was a long and almost difficult day. I bailed on the Wellington Cask Fest because once all was said and done, it seemed too far to go to hang around by myself. Better to come home and be with Keith and the cats.

Today was the pleasant normality of shopping, cooking, canning and baking. It has not escaped me how much I enjoy and am deeply satisfied by the activities that I mocked so thoroughly for so long.

Middle age is finding out just how wrong you were about everything.

Day 4

Good lord, ready to bail on this already. A whole new record for me. Usually I can keep the enthusiasm going for at least a week.

I am not going to bail. Not sure what I’m going to write about.

Today I could write about how I am trying to feel a slight sore throat and not think, strep throat. I could write about how spazzy I felt all day and how I hit my goram head three bloody times. I could write about how some people turn lovely with age, and how others show their bitterness and snark in every line on their face. I could write about how often lately I’ve been thinking about calling a doctor. I could write about how Keith greets me with tea, and will make dinner while I have a bath, and how much more grateful I am to have him in my life than I have ever been before. I could write about learning a new cast-off stitch for the shrug that might actually look good enough the first try that I won’t have to frog it. Or I could write about the lovely the light looks at this time of night, almost golden hour but now yet.

But I think I’ll go to bed instead. I’m going in an hour earlier tomorrow so I can head to Stratford with Keith in the afternoon and have good Thai food (hey, I’ll do what it takes for a date night).

Things I did not do

The other day, I wrote a long, loooong list of things I can do when I get home instead of reaching for the iPad or phone and plopping my aching body on the couch. Things like

  • write in my journal
  • write a letter
  • knit
  • work on some sewing
  • read a book
  • plan the garden

You get the drift.

And if you know me at all, you’ll know that I’ve done exactly zero of those things in favour of reaching for technology and plopping my sore self on the couch.

I really need to keep working on getting my shit together.

Repurposing

I have hit peak beer t-shirt.

Actually, I think I hit it a few years ago; I’ve been buying patches and stickers as they are cheaper and take up less space.

I’ve gone through my beer shirts and have donated a bunch but it still left me with 30-odd shirts that had been given to me by friends, had been acquired in my travels, or were from places I really liked. I’m not wearing most of them for one reason or another and they are taking up space.

So I’ve decided to make a quilt out of them.

And no, I’ve never made a quilt before.

Going through the collection with Max’s help.

I’ve got a bunch of shirts selected, a bunch of youtube videos queued, a sewing machine and a spreadsheet.

Easy peasy.

30 days

It’s September 1st. I’ve got it in my head to do a blog post a day for the next 30 days; the over/under on me bailing on this idea is about 12 days.
We’ll see.

Nope.

I went on Twitter on the weekend. I was curious.

(No, I didn’t recreate my account. I cruised through a few friends’ feeds.)

Such a bad idea. Four days later and I can only now feel my anxiety start to let go. The hamster wheel in my head has been spinning over people calling one of our beers awful (it’s not. It’s just not for them), over missing friendly get togethers with other friends who have been radio silent since I moved (not really friends then, are they?), over the perception among my peers of this company I brew for and the beer I make, over the fact that I appear to be unliked and unlikeable.

It’s all bullshit though. There is a voice in my head that is a liar and and here I am giving it ammunition.

The last few months on the anxiety medications and off Facebook and Twitter have shown me that I can be happy. Happier. It’s a good feeling. I like it. Why would I jeopardize that for curiosity?

Note to self: don’t be so dumb.

In a pocket

There were two prompts really… One, writer self-care, was to write in a place you don’t usually write, notice the difference in self and mood. I took myself to the river, to the place where the fishermen’s have trampled the grass and left me a place to sit, and the river runs a bit deeper and slower.

The other, the writing prompt, was about what do we carry with us, what is in out pockets or purse. The only thing i really carry in my pockets are work related (knife, phone, paper scraps, malt bag strings), so I’m using the far more interesting talismans I carry in my messenger bag.

The first is an oracle coin; hamsas, clouds and the word YES on one side, a winged skeleton and the word NO on the other. It’s big and weighty, like two toonies weighty. Substantial. I don’t use it often, but I like having it for when I want to put some randomness into my life.

The other is a tiny version of the Travellers Notebook, released for their 10th anniversary. I refused to buy a tin at $40, but bought two at $10. Once I put it together, I got caught in my what if I wreck it what if I run out of pages, it needs to be perfect loop of inaction. After staring at it for months, I hand wrote the Laughing Heart poem by Charles Bukowski in it. It’s my reminder to live my best badass life.

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.
— by Charles Bukowski

Fuck x 28

Fuck x 28

Fuck the inner critic.

Fuck cold feet., both literally and figuratively

Fuck always being either too hot or too cold

Fuck chairs that are never quite comfortable enough

Fuck joints that don’t bend that way anymore

Fuck flimsy keyboards

Fuck having to choose between paying off a credit card and paying for the full experience

Fuck finding my ideal career just before my body is tool old to do it anymore.

Fuck vegan cheese. No…just no.

Fuck anxiety.

Fuck the long tedious task of adjusting medications so i neither feel numb nor erratic af

Fuck writing af instead of just typing as fuck

Fuck weight gain, but only because it means i have to go and buy new clothes, not because i hate my body. I am finally at the point where i love every ploppy bit of it

Fuck missing the poppies at the old cottage

Fuck almost continuous farting

Fuck clenching my teeth

Fuck loss of nouns and vocabulary

Fuck not being connected when i realize i need to order a thesaurus

Fuck FOMO

Fuck the drone of seadoos

Fuck that distracting tickling on my legs when the breeze gusts that means I’ve missed the same spot a few times when shaving

Fuck still shaving

Seriously. Fuck seadoos

Fuck the need to capture a view rather than just experiencing it

Fuck being a 32 year old in a 57 year old body.

Fuck the niggling knowledge that any of this happiness can be taken from me at any moment.

Fuck being too chickenshit to reach out and apologize when you know you’ve been putting it off for years and time is running out

Fuck what if.