For those of you following the saga, our bathroom is still technically nonexistent. Sharing a bathroom with T-man has gone relatively smoothly and, frankly, it’s far neater in there than the other option available so I’ll take it and count my blessings. Still – and it’s not an insignificant “still” – juggling shower time with a 13-year-old (and BrightSide, too, ‘cuz fun times) is a delicate dance.
To say I’m looking forward to the day when I have both my own commode and shower is an understatement akin to “Gee, this water coming out of my kitchen faucet sure is handy.”
I’ve lost my funny, you guys.
It tiptoes around the edge of my consciousness like the wisp of a dream I can’t quite remember. Bits of ideas, a sentence or two, but nothing I can grab onto with two hands. Nothing that turns into a paragraph, let alone a blog post.
I got a big fat nothing.
I’ve been pretty sick for the last week or so – gotta love those sinus things that morph into full on ugly – but it’s more than going through a box of tissues every other day. It feels like the solemn has dug in deep and settled in the pit of my stomach.
It seems like day after day of disaster. Riots in our cities, terrorist attacks across the world. Flooding, hurricanes, people whose lives have been torn apart. A country where some people enjoy more equal rights than others, and then yesterday’s news that we had yet another mass shooting on our hands.
I stood on that street with my kids this summer. I pictured them and I pictured the mayhem, and I just checked out.
Time to work on righting my world again.
What? You think just because I have an English degree that I can’t do statistical analysis? Have you seen how smart I look in my glasses?
Wicked smart, man. I mean, that lady looks nothing like the ham who puts ridiculous posts out into the world every week. She looks like she sits behind a desk, hair in a bun, creating spreadsheets and drinking coffee.
Let’s crank out some numbers, baby.
We’re all born with a bit of superpower in us. Some hone it a little more finely than others, but we all have the skills. Otherwise surviving this traipse across the planet would require an unlikely amount of luck. Me? I’d say I have my fair share helping me along.
…I dig in?
What if I just tell my body to f*** off? That I’m not ready to feel weak. That I can be strong again if I work for it. That I want more.
What if I Just Said No? No to the aches and pains, no to the weariness. No to the idea that going downhill after forty is inevitable.
What if I dusted off that determination? The drive that pushed me through school, picked me up when I was down, and kicked me into blogging.
What if I used that drive to change my life? Diet, exercise, coping with stress – all of it. To find my best self.
What if I said I was ready?
What happens then?
I’m a middle child (thus the Riddle from the Middle blog name) who grew up experiencing both the joys and sorrows of following a sister and leading a brother. Apparently we even have a national “day” now – August 12th has been designated National Middle Child Day, an occasion for celebrating the child without a role.
Well, until they decide someone else needs it more.
When I was a girl I loved hopscotch, the Brownies, and my cat. I played soccer like a champ and ran like the wind and felt soaring pride when I beat boys on the field. I had a bike with a banana seat and curved handlebars, and my pack of elementary girlfriends all watched Wonder Woman.
When I was a teen I rolled through a variety of stages, some of which probably aged my parents exponentially. I cringe to think of that skintight black miniskirt I sported for a while, a phase my folks managed to ignore. I worked lots of jobs but never saved my money, though I couldn’t tell you now what on earth I bought with it. I had great friends who stood by me in good times and bad, and I managed to graduate high school with excellent grades and no misdemeanors.
I was all psyched about getting back to normal. And then the migraine hit. And the headache leading to full on sinus issues. Add in miserable days and sleepless nights and losing my voice…I mean, come on.
And then, as sista-friend so eloquently put it, we discovered a portal to the bowels of hell under our master bathroom. (Thanks for that laugh, girl, I desperately needed one.)
Proceed to ripping out tile and walls and sub flooring, finding more and more mold & mildew along the way, and you’d think we’d hit the end, right? Surely we were getting ready to turn a corner. Surely there weren’t any more big surprises in the works.
Oh, but you’d be wrong, because that’s when my face exploded.
Well, technically not my whole face, just my eye. (“Just” my eye.) Red and oozing (sorry, gross), swelling until I could only see out of the tiniest slit. Even if I’d felt like writing (I didn’t), I couldn’t see the freaking computer screen. Sidelined. Urgent care. Then eye doctor.
The good news is two days of antibiotics has already helped. Not in a “people don’t stare at me like I’m contagious” sort of way; it’s more of an “I don’t feel like digging my own grave” kind of thing. But I’ll take it.