It seems that life is sticky as of late.
Usually by this point, I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. I know that if I just hold on tight and make it through March, Spring will be here soon and I can take a deep breathe and release my shoulder tension. Step back and breathe and all that meditation-sounding bullshit. Realign my chakras (this actually works most of the time). Detox my mind.
This year, not so much.
But rather than dwell on that--the disbanding of the IC, the worst HbA1c I've had in twenty years, the crazy work situation, etc.--I have decided to do what I do best.
Be awesome and make a list, of course.
A LIST OF REASONS I HAVE NOT THROWN MYSELF OFF A BRIDGE WITHIN THE PAST COUPLE OF WEEKS, DESPITE THE RELATIVE CERTAINTY THAT THERE ARE MANY PEOPLE ON THIS PLANET WHO NOT ONLY WISH I WOULD THROW MYSELF OFF A BRIDGE, BUT WHO WOULD BE MORE THAN HAPPY TO HELP ME PITCH MYSELF FROM THE SIDE AND INTO THE ABYSS; REASONS THAT GO FAR BEYOND MY HUSBAND AND CHILDREN AND ALL OF THOSE THINGS THAT ANYBODY COULD FIGURE OUT, AND RATHER DEEP INTO THE ENIGMA THAT IS...... MY MIND
1. I have become addicted to watching "Dexter." For those of you who don't know, "Dexter" is a show on Showtime about a serial killer named (obviously) Dexter. Dexter only kills people who have killed others and gotten away with it--technically making him a good guy, while he is also clearly a bad guy. (I love walking contradictions.) Dexter is introverted and weird as hell. I LOVE HIM. I want to run off into a creepy dark cave with him and make little future serial killer babies. Not because he's hot (although he kind of is) but because he thinks JUST LIKE ME. Does this mean that I, too, am likely a sociopath? Probably. I don't care. I love Dexter. If I die, I will never see if he ends up getting caught (nor will I have his little future serial killer babies). And currently I'm only on Season 3, so I've got some catching up to do, and there is no series cancellation in sight.
2. Our wine racks are currently spilling over. Who wants to jump off a bridge when they can first drown their sorrows in twenty-four bottles of wine? Not me. Maybe after the wine is gone I will reconsider, but there is no way in hell I'm jumping off a bridge before I try the bottle of Sobon Estate zin, autographed by the vintner himself, that I bought B for our anniversary last year. No way in hell. Same for the Forever cabernet sauvignon I bought him for Valentine's Day. I can't die without knowing how they taste. It would be a travesty. (And yes, I HAVE noticed that I bought him gifts that he can share with me. That's because I'm fucking smart as ALL HELL.)
3. When I was younger, I used to get envelopes in the mail from my Grandpa, containing nothing but little clippings from magazines about how various publications were looking for writers. Odd? Yes. But my Grandpa never had a reputation for being normal (which could possibly be where I get some of my issues). I have always wanted to be a writer, from cradle to, well, Kempton Park. I have written things that have been published-- poems, journal articles, part of a book--but I have not written my very own, 100% Haley novel yet. Which means if I die before I do, my Grandpa will track me down in Heaven and kick my slack ass. Since I'm not in the market for a celestial beatdown and am pretty sure that would NOT be cool with JC, I suspect I had better start writing something soon, as you never know when your time is up.
4. My dog needs me. She does. If I'm in the bedroom with the door closed and she's not with me, she lies at the doorway, presses her nose to the crack between the door and the floor, and devotes all of her energy to trying to use her Jedi Mind Power to open the door. If I sit down, she wants to lie in my lap. If I cry, she wants to lick me in the face (she also wants to do this if I do not cry). She would be lost without me. (At least, this is what I tell myself. Honestly, she'd probably vaguely look around, possibly notice I was gone, then collapse into a pile on a sunny patch of the rug and take a nap without giving me another thought. Yet I like to flatter myself, so I'm going to continue to claim that she would die without me.)
5. When my family gets together (what's left of us), it is my job to make stuffed waffles for breakfast. Homemade waffles, all warm and soft, folded over a concoction of cream cheese, confectioner's sugar and vanilla, then smothered in melted butter and brown sugar and sprinkled with pecans. THIS IS MY SECRET RECIPE (of course I didn't tell you everything I put in it). Only I can make it. And my family (at least, my Mom and my brother and sis-in-law) LOVE IT. If I meet my demise, they will have to eat Pop-Tarts or Cocoa Puffs, as that is what my Mom makes best.
So you see, I cannot die this week. Things may suck and I may cry, but I (clearly) have shit to do.