“There are two kinds of people in sales. The ones who grab the bull by the horns, pick up that phone and make call after call. And then there are the timid ones, the lazy ones, the silver spooners, those without work ethic. The question is, which one are you going to be?”
I started writing about love last summer. I sat in the cold basement of the Door County farmhouse owned by Mike’s aunt and uncle, perched with my laptop on a wobbly wooden stool next to a fridge covered in old photos and the year’s calendar. The washing machine hummed along and my kids were unaware of my exact location. It was the perfect setting for a little navel gazing.
I’ve been feeling stressed as of late.
The things that interest me…
I did not set out to be a co-sleeper or many of the things I’ve now become, for that matter. Before having kids I made such bold statements as, “My kids will never sleep in my bed!” And most horrifying in its naiveté, “I will never hand my kids a screen to shut them up.” It’s a miracle onlookers, some of them seasoned mothers, did not slap me silly. The audacity of my claims is mortifying in retrospect.
My little Magpie frequently begs to go through the boxes at the top of her closet. When curiosity gets the best of us, I drag them down and open each box’s lid. Memories flood the room as old cards, work papers, ticket stubs, and bent-cornered photos come tumbling out.
My anxiety has been a constant for most of my adult life. Some days it’s a low hum in my body, just some static on the radio before switching the dial. Other days it’s a loud incessant barking, the rabid sound my next door neighbor’s dog Buddy makes whenever I’m out in my yard. “I live here too, you know!” I want to shout back. But like Buddy, my anxiety never listens.
I used to have this thing with appliances. Maybe it was too many years of fire prevention education in school, or maybe it was a touch of undiagnosed obsessive compulsive disorder. Whatever the case may be, in elementary school and later, into adulthood, I would often find myself lying in bed at night thinking about appliances, specifically the ones that when left turned on, could start a fire.
The other day, I did a Deep Dive, looking up old acquaintances, checking in on bloggers I used to follow, and getting to know the digital personas of people I’ve recently met in real life. I even reactivated my paused Facebook account, which I found I hadn’t really missed after all.
Almost nothing makes sense these days.
For example: This week my 90-year-old neighbor put a Trump Pence sign in his yard. I tend to think Trump is the devil incarnate. No, not really, but I will say everything he stands for is so contrary to the gospel I believe in that there does seem to be touch of evil there. But my neighbor is the same person I recently brought morning glory muffins to after his wife died. Who for nearly a decade has tolerated my unkempt front yard despite his lawn service and the lush green splendor it delivers. Who accepts how worked up his tiny dog gets when my children are playing outside a little too closely to the fence despite my yelling out the back door, “Get back! You’ll rile up Buddy again!!”