Every once in a while, a week ends with a perfect moment.  You finish a truly crackerjack novel, letting the book fall into your lap while your mind drifts through the cadence of the last, lovely, poignant sentences.  The joy of its magnificent writing carries through the next day, inspiring you in your own work.  As the afternoon ends, you turn off your computer, having completed all of the items on your task list.  The office door clicks behind you with a satisfying snap.  A half-hour later, a friend pulls into your lot with a lovely chair that complements the color scheme and feel of your small sitting room.  

Sometimes I feel as though I could be that old fashioned type of manic-depressive that got recast as bi-polar disorder.  Sometimes I waft on the clouds, joyfully partaking of each tender moment.   Then life overwhelms me; hopelessness overtakes me.  My only proof that I don’t’ suffer from the disorder lies in the objectively difficult nature of my days.   (Full disclosure:  Some days pose more challenge than others; and I understand that my life holds many riches especially by comparison with, say, those living in poverty, war, or famine.)

Two nights ago, as I read the last chapters of that stunning novel set in Iceland, my glasses and phone slid from my lap to the floor.  The room had dimmed around me as evening faded into night.  I can’t read while wearing my glasses because I’m incredibly near-sighted, so they had been lying on my lap.  Forgotten, they eased themselves downward.  My phone followed, leaving me unseeing and with no way of summoning assistance. With no light and no sight, I had to lower myself to the floor and grope.  

One second before I despaired, my friend Tim called to see when I wanted him to bring the chair.  His call lit my phone, which I spied and quickly grasped.  Laughing, I thanked him; giddily choked out an explanation; and made arrangements for delivery after work the next day.  Then, using my phone’s flashlight, I located my glasses.

I could see again.  But I still had to haul my crippled, thirty-pounds-overweight body from the floor.  This took me twenty-five minutes, during which my friend Kim Dealy-Carlson texted about plans for the theme of the next Sunday Market.  I tried to attend to her queries, but had to confess that I couldn’t chat in the moment.  I could picture her response to my disclosure:  I’m on the floor, struggling to lift myself; I can’t talk right now.  As usual, the thought of her chagrin prompted a cascade of giggles.  Invigorated, I commanded myself to get off the damn ground, and within a few minutes, I did just that.  Thanks to Tim’s timely call and Kim’s imagined horror, I managed to salvage my evening if not my dignity.  All good.  I survived to enjoy the weekend, and I intend to do exactly that.

It’s the twenty-sixth day of the one-hundred and thirteenth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.