In 1987, my first husband and I moved to Arkansas. Within a year, we changed from urban dwelling in Little Rock to the wilds of Newton County. During our first weeks there, I scoured the Newton County Times to learn about the area.
I read a story that I’ve not forgotten in three decades. In a round-up of news of the prior week, the author recounted how the local high school principal had been out in his field, stepped into a depression, and sprained his ankle.
I stepped into a depression myself this week. I won’t try to explain why, because I couldn’t without complaining. Take my word for it. Events piled onto my skinny shoulders and bowed my decrepit back. I fled into the solitude of YouTube DIY and cooking videos, too tired to read or clean my tiny house and its cluttered cupboards. From The Sorry Girls to Worth-It, I immersed myself in the rowdy vlogs of my son’s generation, from Canada to Tokyo, from IKEA hacks to a thousand dollar cup of coffee.
I owe those people a lot. Because of them, nothing got broken, nobody was hurt, and I made it through my four-day work week. *Heavy Sigh* All those chores await, but my attitude has vastly improved — not to mention, I have some new ideas for cooking eggs and decorating my four-foot kitchen.
It’s the twenty-eighth day of the sixty-third month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.