Through difficulty it’s good to question, “What have I learned?” It’s healthier than the pity party we’re tempted to plan, less fun than drinking your way through, but every once in a while you hit on something.
Husband dies. Life falls apart. What have you learned? You can take care of yourself. You may not want to but you can. Cancer rears her ugly head. What have you learned? Pay attention to your body. Live your life. Actually live it. That one’s harder than it sounds.
Now there’s COVID. What have we learned? Stay home. Wear a mask. Slow down because you don’t have a choice.
And then there’s the lesson of time. Before the birth and spread of the pandemic, I rose promptly at 5, wrote precisely for one hour, got ready for work, was at my desk desk by 7:45. Stayed there ’til 5:30 sometimes later, came home, made dinner, took a bath, watched Housewives from the day before since I can’t stay up that late, and went to bed to start all over the next day.
It was bliss. There are those of us that adore routine, shun surprise and embrace the wee hours when no one is making any noise so we can coffee in peace. Some label that OCD. But we’d have to have clean kitchens all the time for that to be true.
It was March 18, part way through the day, when I was sent home. That night, I watched a Housewives in real time and slept the next morning until 7. The rest is sloven history. A few days past the Ides of March brought a pox upon my house. I’ve eaten willy-nilly, gone days on end makeup free and driven the cat to hiding to avoid another hug and twelve kisses to his forehead fifty two times a day. I call his name and hear little paws scurry for the safety of the bed’s underside.
So what have I learned?
I need to be overbooked to run on all cylinders. Given the opportunity, I am not a high powered, git ‘er done kind of girl but instead something of the sloth variety ambling through the day in pajama bottoms and a bare face. Give me too much to accomplish in a day and I whip through the to-do list with ease. Put time on my hands without having to factor in a commute and I am bereft of the ability to write a report while getting the oil changed. In pumps and a sheath dress.
Perhaps it’s lack of uniform. Is it possible that the power is in the dress? In lipstick and lashes as dark as my soul?
And there’s the circle. How long have I preached–paint on a red lip and scare the hell out of everyone? Matching bras and panties hide real queens and the click of a heel coming down the hall is where the real authority lies.
So what have we learned? That if we had all listened to me from the beginning, we’d be ruling the world, coronavirus or not. If you can get your damn dress past your expanded hips, put it on and go back to ruling the world. Pfft.