I’m on the cusp of …. something. That feeling that you get when you’re at the very top of the hill of the roller coaster? That agonizing anticipation when you know the big drop is coming but you don’t know when…. that split second before you descend, when your body is torn between squealing with exhilaration and throwing up? Lately I’ve felt that way all the time. I’ve been on the brink of tears (sometimes happy, sometimes sad) ever since the last little bit of Christmas was packed away. I’ve been jumpy. Distracted. And when I say distracted: My normal attention span is that of a overtired toddler. Eating an ice cream cone. At Disneyland. On the fourth of July. So when I say I’m distracted, I’m reeaalllly distracted.
I’ve been preoccupied with a health scare that still could very well turn out to be nothing. I’ve been scratching my head over a disturbingly rapid succession of things failing on us… first Mike’s truck – twice – then the dropped juicer, then the clothes dryer. I almost wince when I so much as plug in the coffee maker. My blog got hacked (AGAIN), this time so badly that my host actually disabled it until I went in and fixed all the damaged files. I ended up having to completely start it from scratch.
I need to call a surgeon to make an appointment for a consultation for Spencer’s shoulder.
I need to call my surgeon to reschedule my next follow-up.
I need to email my physical therapist a copy of the prescription from my doctor because I forgot to bring it to my last session.
I need to cancel Directv before we get charged for another month.
I need to bring the clothes in from the line.
I need to clean the bathroom.
I need to get the kids to gymnastics.
I need. To. Breathe.
My birthday was last week. Have I mentioned that? Somewhere in the middle of the dislocated shoulders and doctor’s appointments and broken down cars, I turned 39. I actually had a really lovely and uneventful day (ie: nothing broke). I made myself some out-of-this-world chocolate stout cupcakes with whiskey ganache filling, and Baileys cream cheese frosting, and Mike made me a huge and perfect Cobb salad for dinner, my current I-could-eat-it-every-day-and-never-get-sick-of-it favorite food. And my sister, because she possesses that sixth-sister-sense that lets her know exactly what I need even before I know it myself, came over with a gift the same day the dryer died:
I’ve been a fan of journaling since forever. But my journals have always been… neat. Orderly, with perfect penmanship, written with the perfect pen. This journal is like the anti-Jen-journal journal, with instructions to break the spine, step on it, drag it, cut it, rip it, splatter it, doodle on it, poke holes through it, shower with it. It has pages for when you’re angry, pages for when you’re happy, pages for when you’re feeling creative.
I suppose there’s a time for neat and orderly. But – and my apologies to my husband who is neat and orderly all the time – this aint it. For reasons that aren’t yet clear to me, I’m getting stretched right now. And pushed, and pulled, and dragged, and dirty. I’m so far out of my comfort zone that I don’t even see it anymore. And on the days that are hard or scary or uncomfortable I’ll just remind myself that outside that comfort zone… in the land where it’s okay to spill and break book spines and write illegibly… that’s where all the magic happens.