Mood: Wake and Ache
Drinking: Tea Time
I have no idea, really, whether the glass is half full or half empty. Seems to me that it’s changing all the time, so it’s difficult to accurately gauge that sorta thing.
Boy would probably say that my glass is half empty. And he’d be right, half the time.
I do tend to see the darker side of Sears. The monsters in the closet, beneath the bed, outside the window. But I have a soft spot for fluffy bunnies, too, so I don’t fit in the box quite so easily.
I have this thing, a superstition, really, that if I can imagine the worst possible outcome, then it won’t happen. When I drop Boy off at the airport, I imagine his plane will crash. When I leave the LeeLoo at home in the morning, I imagine she’ll be dognapped. When I’m riding my motorcycle, Shirley, I imagine a semi will blow a red light and smash us to pieces. Set me up with any situation, and I’ll take all of two seconds to think of the worst that could happen.
In this way, I’m protecting us all. Because if I think it, I’ll jinx it, and it won’t come true. Twisted logic, I know, but it works for me.
My superstitions don’t run the usual course of black cats and broken mirrors and listing ladders. Mine are much more violent than seven years of bad luck. But so far, my imagination has kept me and mine out of trouble.
So it’s not really a half-finished glass. I imagine the nightmare because I want the dream. And usually reality lands safely somewhere in between. I guess I’ve learned, over the years, that if you own up to all the terrible things that could happen to you, every single day, then you’re happier in the end because they *don’t* happen. So you’re grateful. You’re aware of what you have.
You don’t take your life for granted.
You don’t believe me? Here’s a recent example…When I broke my wrist in February, out in the sand dunes at Pismo Beach, I spent much of the agonizingly bumpy ride to the hospital imagining horrible things. Amputation. A shrivelly, withered appendage. Floppy, useless fingers. I covered them all.
So here we are, 6 months later, freshly discharged from therapy, and my wrist is decidedly not what it used to be. It works, but it’s not quite right. When I make a fist, it looks a little funny. My flailing hand gestures are much less eloquent, a little more robotic. I can’t get enough extension to ride a bicycle painlessly or pump out a pushup. And compared to my fully-functional right wrist, my left looks like a gimp. BUT. It’s not withered or useless or amputated. So! Bonus for me! It’s no dream, but it’s not a nightmare, either. So I’m celebrating in the middle ground somewhere in between.
Whatever works, right?
-Lo, who always thought a lucky rabbit foot wasn’t really so lucky for the rabbit.