Life and how you take it

Being incapacitated irks me no end.  In those hours when I lie on the couch in the living room wishing for a hot fudge sundae and a Bailey’s-and-coffee, I relive every failure of my sixty-one-and-a-half years.  Between bouts of self-pity, I read detective novels, answer e-mail, and fret about finances.

I’m not complaining.  I’m just reporting my state of mind today, after succumbing to yesterday’s injury, canceling a trial, and spending all day snapped into my grandmother’s house-coat with the soft blanket that Jenny Taggart Wandfluh gave me for Christmas draped over me.

The dog lies on the living floor pretending to sleep, one eye slitted open and aimed in my direction. She despises and fears the red metal walking stick with which I creep around the house between drug-induced naps.  I’m eating small bits of food every three hours, partly because the cupboard holds very little to tempt me and partly because I’m feeling as though if I get that nagging last five pounds off my belly, I won’t hurt myself again soon.  A strong core, a healthy body; and all that jazz.

Lately I’ve been sorely tempted to tell a few people what I really think about them.  This blog and the 4-way test of Rotary restrain me from full-fledged tirades.  The latter acts as a stronger bar.  Is it the truth?  Oh yes.  Is it fair to all concerned?  Hmmm.  Will it build goodwill and better friendships?  Uh, no.  Will it be beneficial for all concerned?  No but it would sure make me feel better.

Naughty, naughty.  Not only would spouting in rage at people violate my long-running quest to live complaint-free, but it would cause the Waldo-Brookside Rotary Club to break from its no-fine rule to impose a hefty tax on Mama Corinna.

But more importantly:  The little kernels of anger that my stomach regurgitates choke me.  Flinging them in rage would spread that harm.  Better to spit them on the ground and grind them under my lily-white spastic foot.

I never meant to be at this stage of my life in the condition in which I find myself today.  I look back on the last few decades and wonder what door closed;  what fork in the road tempted me and brought me to this precise configuration of life.  I shake my head.  Whose advice did I ignore?  What warning signs did I not heed?

I’m not complaining; I’m evaluating.  My second husband Dennis Lisenby used to say (and I know I’ve mentioned this), if you can’t be a good example be a horrible warning.  I’m a walking advertisement for mindful living, the opposite of how I ran most of my life.  I’m not sure it isn’t too late to save myself but I’m damned sure going to save some of you if I can.

Take a deep breath.  Look around you.  If you like what you see, find a way to keep it.  If your life contains joy, embrace it.  Turn your attention inward.  Figure out where the happiness lies within you.  If you’ve got brambles snarled inside of you keeping that happiness from growing, take the clippers in hand and clear the weeds.  Don’t hide beneath the rubble.  Don’t bury yourself.  Give yourself the chance to bloom.

It’s the third day of the fortieth month of My Year Without Complaining.  From my airplane bungalow in Brookside, Kansas City, Missouri, I send you my love and good wishes.  Life continues.

 

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