The Gift of Petty Grievances

The Gift of Petty Grievances

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Thursday night I was the second to last parent to pick up my daughter from the middle school football game because I went first to the wrong school and sat there in the crowded parking lot while I talked to her on her friend’s cellphone, wondering why she couldn’t see my car right in front of the main entrance where I said it was.

And Wednesday morning my mother texted me to ask if she and Dad could stay at my house another night because their brakes were suddenly shot and the mechanic told them it was unsafe to drive back to Alabama, where they live now and spend the majority of their time fixing up the house they just bought and taking care of my elderly grandmother, who needs them like I presume my daughter still needs me.

My brother has been looking after their golden retriever, who requires a thunder shirt when it rains. It rained three nights ago in Auburn, and the thunder shirt could not be located.

The day I moved into my house eight years ago, a hornet flew in and landed on a second story windowsill in a clear story unreachable by any normal sized ladder, and it died there and the crumbled remains remain.

The air conditioner stops working on the hottest day of summer. The water hose disconnects from the washing machine and floods the basement. The fruit flies return. The email piles up, then disappears (along with the IT guy) in an email vortex. You disappoint a colleague and annoy your spouse. You run out of clean pants.

God, the petty annoying stuff of life is always there, but we don’t even notice it when we’re freshly in love, beginning a new job, or packing for vacation…

And then the minute routine kicks in, so does our sensitivity to irritants, until sadly someone we know is diagnosed with something terrible or otherwise dealt a hand irrefutably uglier than a crowded inbox, kid waiting at the wrong school, or large repair bill. Suddenly, the daily bullshit things are reminders you’re still here in this game, still fighting and mostly winning.

A cat falls asleep on your feet, a teenager trusts you with a secret, your boss calls you a star. Life is good, and you can see that it is. You kiss your darlings good night, and you sleep tight without Ambian or alcohol.

Let The Bad Times Roll

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For several weeks now, I’ve been struggling with anxiety around the idea that 2014 is going to be unbearably hard, like worse than trying to hold my awful cats Livre and Lola at the same time.

There are real and real-ish reasons to think this:
– I have an incredibly challenging job leading a startup organization with a new business model, using skills I am still developing. (That is a politic way of saying that while I’m convinced we have a great idea, and I know we have great people, I AM TERRIFIED TO NO END that I’m going to screw it up before I figure it out.)

– My daughter is turning 13. I remember being her age. I was many things. Rational, consistent and even-tempered were not among them. Some closest to me might say I have been rebooting my 13-year-old self lately. Thank god my hair is not my 13-year-old hair.

– Mom and Dad are getting older. I’m not worried about their health; Dad makes more unsolicited comments about their sex life than a 15-year-old boy would about a lack thereof. But I do worry about their obligations to others. They’ve more or less moved in with Mom’s mom (my last living grandparent and anxiety soulmate; related: when I am my grandmother’s age, I expect my daughter’s daughter to soothe me with iced Bailey’s and her handsome boyfriend). Anyway, selfishly, I miss my parents and wish they still stalked me on Facebook like they did the year I was getting divorced. More on that in a bit.

And also right now, it is negative a million degrees outside. It is awfully hard to imagine, at the moment, a day in spring when the 400 bulbs I planted in October will have arrived for the kind of party with sundresses and asparagus dishes that I love.

But to my saving grace, I have been writing woe-is-me stuff since I was about eight. I can pull a random journal off my shelf from pretty much any year and read for very little time before I’m reminded of this amazing pattern: The times I thought were hard – indeed, the times that were the toughest – turned out to be the best.

Take this one, from March 2011, two months after my divorce was finalized:

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Things Thought and Mostly Unsaid at the End of the Year

A dog went for a walk before the sidewalk set, and left his impression in the wet concrete. A little boy noticed this and etched his initials nearby.
The boy enjoyed the moment, but I wonder what the dog thought.
Among the things I think about on when walking alone at the end of 2013: It would suck to step barefoot into wet cement.

Also…

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