So every weekday I roll out of bed around 6:30 a.m., leash up the dogs and stumble out to the back yard for the morning canine constitutional. And every, every blessed morning it happens: I feel something stringy and creepy brush my cheek. Auugh! I've walked through the spider web again!
Shuddering, I brush frantically at my hair and face, certain I can feel web matter sticking to my eyeball; unlikely, since I wear glasses. I turn around and see the rest of the web, an intricate, finespun work of art stretched across the far end of my clothesline post.
Every morning there is a single strand of web stretched from the post to the blackberry bushes. Every morning I walk through it.
If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, who is crazier here, me or the spider?
My money's on the arachnid. Her money, of course, is on me.
This is probably an excellent metaphor for life in general and my life in particular. Whenever I want or need to make a change in my life I tend to chase my tail for awhile, doing the same things over and over (with subtle variations), making myself insane when the results don't change before I exhaust myself, step back and evaluate what I'm doing and what actually needs to be done.
Is this an alcoholic thing or just a being a garden variety human thing? Could someone let me know? I must confess to a secret hope that it's an alcoholic thing. Then I can say, "See, I can't help it! It's an alcoholic thing!" To which my friends in recovery will say, "Yes, it is an alcoholic thing. And you are responsible for changing it." That's the trouble with living this sober life. I have to be a responsible adult. Ironically, that is also the gift of this sober life. That, and my kickass friends.
The solution to the web/face thing was surprisingly simple: DUCK! This morning I finally remembered to duck before I got webbed.
But here's the best part: I didn't need to duck. This time that thin filament of web had been strung higher. I could walk right under it and never touch it.
Now who's insane?
Don't answer that.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Big Night
I am Deb, office worker, walker of dog, washer of dishes, mower of lawn, doer of laundry, hanger of curtains, hauler outer of trash! Leaper of tall buildings! All in a single day!
All right, fine, I am not a leaper of buildings, not even ones made of Legos.
But I am feeling pretty darned good about myself at the moment, as I really did accomplish all of those other things today. My acute awareness of how good I feel makes me realize that I haven't been feeling all that peppy over the past few days. I felt lazy. And surly. There was a reason, of course. A girly, hormonal reason. (Any guys who might have been reading this have just clicked over to Mafia Wars or CNN.) And maybe I was recovering from my big night out last weekend.
On Saturday I did something I hadn't done in years: I went to a bar. My friend Jan was fired up about a blues band playing in town and invited me to join her. "If you can stay awake that long," she said, not unkindly, knowing my propensity for nodding off around 10 most nights. The band was starting at 10. Yikes.
But you know, I was tired of being weekend on the sofa girl. Yes, I said bravely. Yes, I will abandon my traditional popcorn and "Law and Order" rerun in favor of a night out.
It felt strange, but not uncomfortable, to be out late in a bar on a Saturday night. The strangest part was the fact that Jan and I were old enough to be the mothers of three-quarters of the clientele. Not to mention the staff. The girls were for the most part uniformly pretty, wearing either short, wispy summer dresses or tight jeans and foot-killing high heels. The boys' fashions ran the gamut from camo hats and Carhartt T's to suits and fedoras. Most of the girls carried purses the size of saddle bags. Almost everyone carried cell phone and checked them often, the pale light of the screens cutting through the darkness of the room.
Jan and I nursed a couple of Cokes, enjoyed the music, chatted, and watched as young men and women who didn't look old enough to drive, let alone drink, progress from tipsy to hammered as the hours passed.
"I'M SO DRUNK! I'M SO DRUNK" a girl chanted like a mantra, her voice reaching its upper registers. Jan and I grinned at each other; yup, we used to be her. Another girl swayed alone on the dance floor, moving when the music played, but not moving to the music.
A small cluster of young women danced jubilantly, each of them wearing a glow in the dark bracelet, the kind with liquid inside that you snap to activate. The only other place I'd ever seen those was on little kids on the Fourth of July.
"There ought to be a law," I said loudly to Jan over the music, "If you're young enough to wear a glow bracelet you're too young to be out at a bar."
Not all of the people were drunk. In fact, most of the young people were noisily social, wandering through the room, exchanging hugs (girls) and fist bumps (guys). I felt not old, but removed. This was a kind of fun I'd never had. I drank to get drunk, period, right from the beginning. There were fun times, but it didn't take long before a night at the bars meant me getting so wasted that it wasn't fun anymore. Ask any of my friends who remember my crying jags, or the time I got thrown out of the Alibi because I passed out on a table and broke a glass.
This night was a different kind of fun, the tamer, manageable kind. I'm grateful for the indescribable amount of fun I've has since I've been sober. Let the kids have their day, God bless them and keep them safe. I've been there, and I'm happy to still be here. And pretty happy to say that I stayed awake till 2 a.m.!
All right, fine, I am not a leaper of buildings, not even ones made of Legos.
But I am feeling pretty darned good about myself at the moment, as I really did accomplish all of those other things today. My acute awareness of how good I feel makes me realize that I haven't been feeling all that peppy over the past few days. I felt lazy. And surly. There was a reason, of course. A girly, hormonal reason. (Any guys who might have been reading this have just clicked over to Mafia Wars or CNN.) And maybe I was recovering from my big night out last weekend.
On Saturday I did something I hadn't done in years: I went to a bar. My friend Jan was fired up about a blues band playing in town and invited me to join her. "If you can stay awake that long," she said, not unkindly, knowing my propensity for nodding off around 10 most nights. The band was starting at 10. Yikes.
But you know, I was tired of being weekend on the sofa girl. Yes, I said bravely. Yes, I will abandon my traditional popcorn and "Law and Order" rerun in favor of a night out.
It felt strange, but not uncomfortable, to be out late in a bar on a Saturday night. The strangest part was the fact that Jan and I were old enough to be the mothers of three-quarters of the clientele. Not to mention the staff. The girls were for the most part uniformly pretty, wearing either short, wispy summer dresses or tight jeans and foot-killing high heels. The boys' fashions ran the gamut from camo hats and Carhartt T's to suits and fedoras. Most of the girls carried purses the size of saddle bags. Almost everyone carried cell phone and checked them often, the pale light of the screens cutting through the darkness of the room.
Jan and I nursed a couple of Cokes, enjoyed the music, chatted, and watched as young men and women who didn't look old enough to drive, let alone drink, progress from tipsy to hammered as the hours passed.
"I'M SO DRUNK! I'M SO DRUNK" a girl chanted like a mantra, her voice reaching its upper registers. Jan and I grinned at each other; yup, we used to be her. Another girl swayed alone on the dance floor, moving when the music played, but not moving to the music.
A small cluster of young women danced jubilantly, each of them wearing a glow in the dark bracelet, the kind with liquid inside that you snap to activate. The only other place I'd ever seen those was on little kids on the Fourth of July.
"There ought to be a law," I said loudly to Jan over the music, "If you're young enough to wear a glow bracelet you're too young to be out at a bar."
Not all of the people were drunk. In fact, most of the young people were noisily social, wandering through the room, exchanging hugs (girls) and fist bumps (guys). I felt not old, but removed. This was a kind of fun I'd never had. I drank to get drunk, period, right from the beginning. There were fun times, but it didn't take long before a night at the bars meant me getting so wasted that it wasn't fun anymore. Ask any of my friends who remember my crying jags, or the time I got thrown out of the Alibi because I passed out on a table and broke a glass.
This night was a different kind of fun, the tamer, manageable kind. I'm grateful for the indescribable amount of fun I've has since I've been sober. Let the kids have their day, God bless them and keep them safe. I've been there, and I'm happy to still be here. And pretty happy to say that I stayed awake till 2 a.m.!
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sliding into summer
And so the long, lazy summer slide begins.
I usually reserve Sunday mornings for housecleaning. Nothing industrial, just your basic tidying, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting. I preface this burst of domesticity with several cups of coffee, the Sunday paper, and the gently thought-provoking "Sunday Morning" on CBS.
Yesterday I had the coffee, the paper, the show, but the cleaning was limited to washing a few dishes and giving the downstairs a cursory pass with the broom. Several passes, actually, as small clumps of sand and dust exert some strange magnetic force on my dogs and cats, drawing them ever nearer, and eventually straight through, even the tiniest accumulation of floor ick. Thus, I often sweep the same area several times, racing to get it into the dustpan before paws big and small trounce through.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the vacuum. I found myself not caring an awful lot whether or not my carpets were clean. I set aside the vacuum (for later, I dutifully promised myself) and sat down at the computer.
I blame summer. Even though Sunday's weather - overcast, rainy, downright chilly - didn't feel summery in the least, just knowing it's June seemed excuse enough to choose recreation over housework.
Summer encourages you to kick off your shoes, pull on a T-shirt and ditch those claustrophobic winter blues. Hey, summer says lazily, what's the rush? The housework will still be there tomorrow, but life is short and so am I. Come enjoy me while I last! Who are we to argue? Beach days, barbecues and trips to the ice cream stand are short-term pleasures for Yoopers. Carpe sunblock! Cast aside your to-do lists! Revel in the long days of sunshine, the tangy smell of cut grass, the muggy, starry nights. Better to celebrate with wild abandon than to look back and regret that you didn't. The broom, the rake, the paintbrush, they'll wait.
As if in cosmic agreement with my summer state of mind, by lunchtime the clouds had departed, the sun was beaming down and the temperature inched up to bearable.
And while you're out there reveling, pay attention. Flare your nostrils and breathe in the sweet damp scent of blossoming flowers. You'll look a little goofy, but it's worth it. Don't be afraid to get a little silly. Run down the bike path - not jog, run, like a joyful little kid. Wade into the lake and splash a little when you're walking along the shore. Skip a few rocks. Buy yourself an extra large ice cream cone and ignore the drips on your shirt.
Grab hold of summer and squeeze the bejeebers out of it. Kiss it full on the mouth. You're alive and it's beautiful outside. Fling aside boring grown-uphood and embrace Mother Nature's limited time offer. See you at the lake.
I usually reserve Sunday mornings for housecleaning. Nothing industrial, just your basic tidying, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting. I preface this burst of domesticity with several cups of coffee, the Sunday paper, and the gently thought-provoking "Sunday Morning" on CBS.
Yesterday I had the coffee, the paper, the show, but the cleaning was limited to washing a few dishes and giving the downstairs a cursory pass with the broom. Several passes, actually, as small clumps of sand and dust exert some strange magnetic force on my dogs and cats, drawing them ever nearer, and eventually straight through, even the tiniest accumulation of floor ick. Thus, I often sweep the same area several times, racing to get it into the dustpan before paws big and small trounce through.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the vacuum. I found myself not caring an awful lot whether or not my carpets were clean. I set aside the vacuum (for later, I dutifully promised myself) and sat down at the computer.
I blame summer. Even though Sunday's weather - overcast, rainy, downright chilly - didn't feel summery in the least, just knowing it's June seemed excuse enough to choose recreation over housework.
Summer encourages you to kick off your shoes, pull on a T-shirt and ditch those claustrophobic winter blues. Hey, summer says lazily, what's the rush? The housework will still be there tomorrow, but life is short and so am I. Come enjoy me while I last! Who are we to argue? Beach days, barbecues and trips to the ice cream stand are short-term pleasures for Yoopers. Carpe sunblock! Cast aside your to-do lists! Revel in the long days of sunshine, the tangy smell of cut grass, the muggy, starry nights. Better to celebrate with wild abandon than to look back and regret that you didn't. The broom, the rake, the paintbrush, they'll wait.
As if in cosmic agreement with my summer state of mind, by lunchtime the clouds had departed, the sun was beaming down and the temperature inched up to bearable.
And while you're out there reveling, pay attention. Flare your nostrils and breathe in the sweet damp scent of blossoming flowers. You'll look a little goofy, but it's worth it. Don't be afraid to get a little silly. Run down the bike path - not jog, run, like a joyful little kid. Wade into the lake and splash a little when you're walking along the shore. Skip a few rocks. Buy yourself an extra large ice cream cone and ignore the drips on your shirt.
Grab hold of summer and squeeze the bejeebers out of it. Kiss it full on the mouth. You're alive and it's beautiful outside. Fling aside boring grown-uphood and embrace Mother Nature's limited time offer. See you at the lake.
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