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Dear Diary – Time flies whether you’re wasting it or not. Personally I think it’s more fun when you’re wasting it, but who has time to waste? We’ve finally hit the “double digits” – it’s week 10 of 2022. In some cultures, that heralds the start of a new cycle. Based on the past 9 weeks, I’m both elated to start something new and terrified at what new might bring.

March started less like the adage “In like a lion” and more like an angry, headbutting ram. It came with a bang! Literally because Hubby face-planted sleepwalking. While he continues to struggle in the aftermath, the good news is he was scheduled for an MRI in less than 2 weeks. I’ve been waiting for an MRI since the beginning of February. However, I can now move around the house without squeaking and chuffing like a badly oiled machine. That’s progress.

Delight in the little things.

This week I delighted in peach cobbler smothered in fresh whipped cream. I’ve decided that if my clothes are going to keep shrinking in my closet, I might as enjoy the slide downhill from time to time. I also tried my hand at homemade gnocchi. Those potato pasta pillows weren’t pretty, but they tasted pretty awesome!

On Friday evening, I was Youngest Son’s taxi to youth. I forgot how hard it is to kill two hours alone on a Friday night in a small town. I ventured to a shopping plaza to peruse clothes at Reitman’s in a desperate attempt to look like a worship leader who has it all together. They closed at 6. I consoled myself with Tim Horton’s tea and a chocolate bar, and sat in the cold car taking weird photos with my phone.

Delight. Little things.

I’d love to report that I pulled off the “I have it all together” look on Sunday. I not only didn’t look the part, I didn’t feel the part. After a rough rehearsal on Thursday evening and a rough rehearsal on Sunday morning, my nerves were stretched thin. I felt sick to my stomach and I had trouble concentrating on the music before me. Sure enough, self-fulfilling prophecy, I screwed up. I missed a cue (which is one of the reason I don’t like singing to tracks) and panicked. Most people probably didn’t notice, and it actually didn’t sound too bad when I listened to it later. We sang the chorus three times before I found where we supposed to be so I can end the loop. I know I need to stop obsessing about it and just let it go….

Farting is like the song Frozen.
Work: “conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know…”
Home: “Let it go! Let it go! Can’t hold it back anymore…”

Anonymous

Dear Diary – I picked up my new glasses this week but the jury is still out on whether I like them or not. Don’t get me wrong! It’s wonderful to be able to see the stitches I’m ripping out, and to see the countdown on the pedestrian walk sign so I know I’m not going to make it! I mostly bought new frames because I lost my clip-on sunglasses two years ago and I was tired of squinting like Mr. Magoo every where I went. I was limited to 3 options. Door #1 was really ugly. Door #2, the 80’s called and wanted their glasses back. So I had to choose Door #3. What do you think?

Dear Diary – I napped Sunday afternoon. It was a horrible waste of time that just felt so good.

Dear Nap, I’m sorry I was a jerk to you when I was a kid!

Dear Diary – When I started sewing, I didn’t realize I would have to become a mechanic. I was finally making progress on 2 bags with an adorable gecko print, when the machine decided to stick. With my usual mechanic a 2 hour drive away, aka Dad, I had to roll up my sleeves and get dirty.

First, I pulled out the ancient maintenance book and the busted box of accoutrements to look for brushes that Mom had mentioned awhile ago. I found an odd assortment of plastic dials, sewing needles, metal bits, pine needles, sunflower seeds, and mouse poop, but no brushes. So I grabbed the closest thing I could think of – an eye shadow brush and a pair of tweezers. Now I have a container of machine parts, a wad of fluff the size of a cotton ball, oily fingers, and no idea how I got the machine working again.

I’m leaving it apart for now so I can oil it…once I figure out where to buy sewing machine oil.

Oh! And I plan to replace the busted box. Ew!

Dear Diary – Today I get to wear a paper dress and get groped. It may be the most “action” I get for awhile.

Dear Diary – This year the break in March Break is referring more to what’s happening to my grip on reality, rather than a change of scenery. My sore foot, Hubby’s accident, family drama, and all the extras and bunches of little things that normally would just be mildly annoying or inconvenient, feel like a conspiracy to push me over the edge. I mean, I’ve been hanging over it for years, one hand holding on, like an extreme sportsperson tempting fate. It’s just a matter of time. Our passports expired. I was printing passport applications and it refused to give me the last 3 pages. I have to renew Youngest Son’s from scratch because he’s now over 16. Then the printer is rejecting the brand new toner cartridge because HP “no longer supports” it. I am not a good enough writer to make this stuff up.

Now the toilet is refusing to budge, and we only have one…

It’s hardly my first foray into the forest so I know that there are clearings somewhere, with sunlight streaming in where I can rest before the next stretch of the journey. I’m holding on to Psalm 84:

Blessed are those whose strength is in you,  whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.
As they pass through the Valley of Baka, they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools. They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion.

The other day I started singing an old song, one I used to belt out in the car with Eldest Son in the backseat: King of the Jungle.

What I feel Is telling me I’m going crazy
But what is real says God’s still on His throne
What I need Is to remember one thing:
That the Lord of the gentle breeze is Lord of the rough and tumble
And He is the King of the jungle

Steven Curtis Chapman

Some days feel like I’m wading slowly through the undergrowth of a jungle, without a machete (which is a good thing because I’d be tempted to use it). Sweaty and sopping wet, without a clue which way to go. I may end up in an asylum weaving baskets yet, but until then, I’m going to keep singing and dancing, and tripping and getting back up again. Not because I don’t have a choice, but because I do. Sing it with me!