After much contemplation, I’ve come to the conclusion
that time is just an illusion.
For once my years marked ten, growing took twice as long,
and age turned all wrong.
So at fifteen, I felt but twelve.. And a half,
and the rest is just a laugh.
Because I didn’t turn fifteen until I was twenty,
and I won’t make twenty until I’m thirty.
Though age demands I take responsibilities,
my heart is still full of possibilities.
I may have a mortgage, insurance, and a loan—
all the proof I’m a woman grown—
I still feel as if I need adult supervision
and someone to give permission.
Perhaps I’ll have to wait until I’m fifty
to feel like an adult at thirty.
I must conclude that once I’m seventy and preparing for an ending,
I’ll be but forty and still beginning.
So recently, a friend of mine, from Twirling in the Rain, reminded me that she had a blog, which, in turn, reminded me that I have a blog. It has not yet been a full year since my last post, so I don’t feel too bad. But anyway.
The impetus for this post is a poorly timed coffee, the insomnia brought on as a result, my very nature, and my whirling thoughts.
I’ve said before that I’m an all-or-nothing sort of person. Either my life is completely falling apart or it’s completely put together. Right now it’s on the “completely put together” end of the spectrum, which includes picking up the things I’ve neglected for way too long (i.e., my blog). But in putting my life back together, I feel as if I tried to take off running without realizing that I’ve had my feet tied down—like in a slapstick comedy where the hapless hero or bad guy falls flat on his face.
As promised in my last post, “Updating Life,” this is the story of our two Meezers, Jitterbug and Lindyhop, but mostly about Jitterbug.
I found Jitters first. I’d been checking every place I could think of for potential fur-babies.
Pretty quickly I found PetFinder. Great website because it partners with a lot of shelters and you can search by animal, breed, age, gender, and distance. Jitters was listed as Sophie and was quite a ways away (a good two hour drive at least), but she was absolutely gorgeous so I had to give her shelter a call.
The lady that ran the shelter was honest with me.
She felt that Jitters would never be a social cat. Jitters wouldn’t interact with her at all and would hiss when she would try to pet her. She’d never bitten the lady, but then, the lady hadn’t really given her the opportunity. We could have her for free, but it was with the understanding that we would never have a nice friendly cat that would cuddle and purr. Her history was largely unknown, except that she’d been found with her sister, Suki, and brought to the shelter.
Well, I wasn’t daunted by that, and neither was my roommate. My family had once said I could tame bobcats, and I doubted I’d lost that touch. And besides, free Siamese cat. Look at her, she’s gorgeous! So we made the drive.
I’m going to suggest a completely absurd thought about writing, here. You might unfollow me for this and say that I’m no real writer.
But have you ever considered the absurd notion that what you wrote might just be absolutely fine the first time? That maybe, just maybe, writing doesn’t need to always be this arduous process of endless writing and re-writing and slaving over several versions of the same piece and trying to decide which one is best?
A friend asked me if I ever plan on writing anything deeper than what I usually write. Aside from the fact that I prefer to make people laugh, and that I strongly believe that continuously pointing out the problems in the world without endeavoring to offer a solution (which I don’t exactly have) only adds to those problems, I usually just write about whatever’s going on in my life and the thoughts that come of that. For example, “Limited Social Capacity” was motivated by the fact that I was going to take a walk with a friend and then she invited one of her friends to join us without giving me advance warning (the time appointed doesn’t count as advance warning), much to my chagrin.
Unfortunately, recent events have been a little bit too deep to share in a general blog like this one. Hence the lack of posts for several weeks—or however long it’s been. I had things to say, but I just didn’t want to explain them as fully as the context demanded. However, there is one deep thing that I am willing to share.
This is kind of a no brainer, but it’s something I realized from an incredibly awkward and ridiculous situation that I experienced last week.
Now, on a normal day, none of this would have happened. It only happened because a set of things that don’t usually happen happened all at the same time (isn’t that the way of things?). I woke up late on Friday. Not so late that I was already late for work, but late enough that I needed to hurry in order to arrive on time. So I skipped breakfast. Now, my dermatologist has me taking an antibiotic for acne. I’m supposed to take it with food (the pharmacist says not to take it near dairy, but the dermatologist told me to ignore the pharmacist, so…), and I normally take it right as I’m leaving for work after I’ve had my bowl of cereal. Friday, I skipped breakfast, but didn’t skip my pill. I had a bag of almonds at work which I was planning on munching on as soon as I got to work.
Have you ever had one of those problems that never happens when someone who could potentially fix the problem is actually looking? That’s an IT problem. It could also be a mechanical problem. Because these problems are most often related to computers or to cars. The best you can do is describe the problem as clearly as possible and keep checking back with the person who understands these kinds of problems until it happens again in front of them.
I have one of those problems. Now, strictly speaking, it’s not a problem; at least, not one that can be fixed. According to my cardiologist, I have mitral valve prolapse. I don’t really understand it, but I’m assured it’s not dangerous or anything I need to worry about. I just need to be aware of it, have tests every few years, and generally not worry. But I can’t actually be diagnosed unless it shows up on an echocardiogram. I’ve had several echoes—I won’t go into how weird it is to have an echo as a 15-year-old girl with your dad and a male doctor in the room—and each time my heart has behaved perfectly normally. But every once in a while, never during a test, I get funny palpitations that are a little bit unnerving. Maybe more than a little bit.
When the experts are looking, the problem never manifests itself.
Isn’t it so comforting knowing that we have a God who doesn’t have to be looking at just the right time in order to know that you have a problem? Who put you together just the way you are according to His design? There are many passages in the Bible that I repeatedly come back to, and Psalm 139 is one of them.
Downtown is, as a rule, less crowded on Monday. And, since it’s summer, the light lingers longer in the evenings. Two explorers have agreed to spend their Monday evenings exploring the workings of downtown. One explorer is decidedly less familiar with the area, but is excited because she has discovered new places to experience. Most notably, a coffee/book shop that’s taken over the ground floor of the old city hall. The architecture is stately, but not ornate. The book shop is on the right and bleeds into the coffee shop on the left, at the back. Old books, not for sale, decorate the walls. The coffee shop offers hard, straight-backed chairs and tables. One explorer discovers that the couches on the left side are free. She missed them because they were occupied on her first visit. One couch is a big, squishy ordeal of fake leather. It smells ever so slightly of mildew. You sink deep into the cushions when you sit on it, and it’s almost like you’re sitting on the floor, only much more comfortable. The other couch is a light colored fabric, tattered in places. Both couches are obviously old, worn, and well-used.
Last year, I noticed that the closer graduation became, the more done I got with doing school things. There was a time of my life when I would have been perfectly comfortable continuing with school for the rest of my life, so long as I had a good long break every once in a while. But that time has come and gone like a freight train (note that the average freight train is not exactly fast). So approximately six months before I graduated with my masters degree, something in my psyche went, “Why are we still doing this to ourselves? It’s time to be done! Staaaaaaahhhhhhp!” (My mental processes often have different personalities, which is why I sometimes think to myself in plural.)
Now that I’m officially done with school, and not just mentally done (nevermind that I’m thinking about taking a class next semester just because I can), my mind has latched on to another thing to be done with.