I’m sitting on my couch in chunky-knit socks with holes in them and a stained sweatshirt with the neck cut out of it. I’m watching musicals and eating a Christmas box of assorted chocolates like I just went through a Bridget Jones-level breakup. And I just found out over the past week that times like 2:30, 3:00, and 3:30 really do come twice a day, which I had convinced myself was fictional even though I’m fairly certain I saw them in the “AM” versions on a regular basis in college.
Not to mention that whole autoimmune thing I have going for me. If you’ve never heard of spoon theory, Google that. Then you’ll know what I mean when I say I don’t remember the last time I found a spoon that hadn’t slipped to the floor of the dishwasher. (*I do not have Lupus, which is what the author of the spoon theory story was diagnosed with.)
Why am I wallowing in calories and sweats? Because I’m tired. Do I know better? Yes. Are there fruits and veggies in the refrigerator? Sure. Do I care? Notsomuch. It’s not profound. There is no new tragedy. 2020 is over. It has been over a decade since we’ve raised a toddler. I mean, he’ll be 16 in March and he’s on the spectrum, so it’s not like there’s zero stress, but I don’t have to sleep with my eyes open any more. Mostly.
The main stress I have is being a caretaker, but I can’t complain about that. I’m caring for my husband as he recovers from his ACL surgery. He is trying so hard to be a great patient and I have way more help this time around than eight-ish years ago when he had ankle ligament reconstruction surgery and I had to remove all the wire hangers from the house after I found him unwinding them to stick down his cast and scratch his itchy stitches. (Seriously, I was crazier than Faye Dunaway playing Joan Crawford screaming, “No. More. Wire. Hangers. EVER!” It was a thing.) I cannot express the gratitude I feel for all the people who have stepped up to help and pray.
And as far as caretaking goes, it’s not as hard this time around. He really is a good patient – so far – and I’m not just saying that because he’ll get a notification when this posts and he will read it. He has mostly followed directions, so it is easier than expected.
I’m just… tired. Weary. So I’m taking this as my notice that I need to rest instead of saying it’s due to work, or caretaking, or housework, or whatever else life has coming at me. I’m taking it as my notice to do things I love more and put less priority on the things that can be replaced. I don’t do resolutions because they never work. (I once read a story where the author asked a grocery store clerk how long she thought New Year’s resolutions lasted and without missing a beat or taking a breath she replied with an actual date – January something-teenth – because that was the day people stopped buying kale so much.) But I’m taking the time to do mindless things and not shame myself because I’m not being productive. Rest is productive.
So I’m focusing. I’ll focus on taking care of myself along with my family. I’ll focus on doing things that light me up because I’m more and more convinced that I was created for those things more than I was created to have anxiety about employee issues or how much laundry is still piled up in front of the washing machine and whether that’s an extra forehead wrinkle or if it’s always been there and I just need to drink more water.
I’ll focus on walking, feeding, and snuggling this dog with his frighteningly overpronounced underbite. And I’ll focus on loving my family, my friends, and my people. I’ll focus on work without making it the most important thing I experience in my life. I’ll focus on all the things, including myself, just as soon as I’m done focusing on this box of chocolates and the back of my eyelids. I’ll probably sleep a good 48 hours or so before I can focus on anything else.
Cheers to 2021.
persnicketypen 