Now well into year two of Covid craziness and all that comes with it, I find myself dealing with another “situation.” The details do not matter. The layer upon layer of challenges – they don’t matter, either. All that matters is that here we are. We are on the path to being better, stronger, wiser, and all that other crap, but in the midst of it, nonetheless.
Anyone who has ever read a word I have written knows that I am no stranger to situations. In fact, I am so familiar with them that I am almost unsure of what to do with myself when I am not in the throes of one. And, while I fully understand (and even appreciate, sometimes) that my life is, in actuality, an embarrassment of riches, I am feeling smote and smothered by this one.
In all the times I have found myself – or someone I love – in a situation, I have always risen to the occasion, pulled up my big girl panties, and run roughshod over everything that stood in the way of getting us out of said situation. Given the fact that I – and all the folks involved in past and present situations – am here, and writing about it, no less, is testimony to my 100% success rate. That fact, however, is not to be confused (commingled?) with the other undeniable truth: situations are never easy. As in ever.
I take pride in my advocacy, unwillingness to accept no for an answer, and being well connected enough that, in the absence of my being able to fix something, I know someone who can. Every time.
I know what I can make happen and what I cannot.
I know where my superpowers end and someone else’s begin.
I am a super communicator.
I am a super advocate.
I am a super make-shit-happen-when-things-are-a-hot-mess-and-you-need-to-be-strong kind of gal.
I am also vulnerable. And eventually, although usually after-the-fact, find myself overwhelmed.
My pendulum of communication swings wide: Either I cannot stop talking about it (the situation) or I shut down all together, nose to the ground, plowing through in self-imposed isolation. Neither is optimal. But it’s just me being me.
I have an incredible support system.
I have a husband who, although he might not understand my (sometimes, but not often flawed) methodology, is willing to listen and sometimes even shift his own thinking. ❤
I have a mother, brothers, and children who would move heaven and earth for me. And have. More than once. ❤
I have in-laws who have taken me in as their own. I know because they’ve told me. And, way more to the point, showed me. More than once. ❤
I have friends, some of whom I have known for more than 40 years, others, newer. Each of them has reached out and forgiven me for not reaching back. And I know that, when I do reach out, they will be there – in a judgement free zone. ❤
My mother recently told me about this article in The New York Times which defines the blah many of us are feeling, and it is called languishing. (Glad, kinda, to know it isn’t just me!) Gotcha. I am languishing. Big time. Duh.
Am I languishing from Covid? Everyday life? Our current “situation”? The every-other-day shitty weather? I would say yes.
Languishing.
The problem being: languishing is not good. But, also and at the same time, by definition, isn’t even necessarily bad. Think enervated. Dispirited. Weak. Blah. Not good. Not bad. Just going through the motions. Slowly and with less enthusiasm, but doing nonetheless.
I am well aware that I am not alone in feeling this way. I mean, The New York Times wrote a whole story about it and I am pretty sure the good people at the newspaper of record don’t know me from Adam. So, in a strange (hello 2020/2021) kind of way, I feel a little bit, dare I say, better?
Now, what am I gonna do about it?
I am reading a lot. Not fine literature (who the hell can concentrate on that while languishing?) rather mysteries, psychological thrillers, and chick lit. Perhaps now would be a good time to try erotica?
I am exercising. Sort of. During the height of the pandemic, I religiously walked between five and ten miles every day. I also put on jeans and a belt. Then I got lazy. Now I am coming back. Thankfully, my jeans and belts still fit. Well, most of them do.
I am not hanging out with people. Not because of Covid (happy to be fully vaccinated) but because I just.don’t.have.the energy. You know, languishing. Note to self: last weekend we (very last minute) went out with two other couples. It was the best night of the past 18 months. Remember that feeling.
I am not traveling. Again, not (necessarily) because of Covid (although it plays a role), but more from lethargy. Or, more aptly described: languishing. Note to self: take hubs up on having a weekend away. Someday. Like when the current “situation” is more under control. And before a new one has the chance to arise. Please.
I would never be so bold as to assume that any of you are also languishing, but, for those who are – or even think they might be – hang in there, y’all. We will get through this. Just like every “situation” every one of us faces.
In the meantime, those that are frustrated by my uncharacteristic (although not unheard of) shutdown: bear with me. I know you are there for me. And hope you know I am there for you.
Now you will excuse me while I take on the day – languishing and all.
❤
P.S. You might be wondering about the photo of Brigham’s Peppermint Stick ice cream. Quite simply, it is delicious, cures everything nearly as effectively as do McDonald’s french fries, and serves as an attempt (however lame) to shift from languishing to experiencing joy. #icecreamismedicine
Me. You. Us. 