I think one of the most difficult aspects of blogging for me isn’t the writing, the photo editing, the video editing, or the constant need to be “in the know” technologically. No, the most difficult part for me is this black hole time waster called the Internet.
I spend at least 75% of my dedicated blog time asking myself the question, “Why in the WORLD am I reading this?”
[Funny, I often ask myself that same question while here on this blog.]
I got a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law last Tuesday that cut right to my heart. Now, a two-sentence e-mail from me would mean that 1) I am sad/disappointed/angry about something or 2) I am sending the message while simultaneously wiping urine off our bathroom wall and my face (true story). However, a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law means something else entirely. It means that he is reaching out without wanting to seem intrusive. It means that he took time out of his work-filled schedule to let me know that he’s thinking about me. It means that I had better get back to blogging.
So, when I read, “How are you? Haven’t talked to you lately,” I knew exactly what he was trying to say.
Well, friends, I’m back and bedder than ever.
[Typos already. Well, that's what happens when you take two weeks off without writing.]
No, that’s not a typo. It’s an explanation of where I’ve been these past two weeks. Allow me to elaborate…
Brian gave me a Fitbit for Christmas. It’s basically a device I wear on my wrist that tracks my movements (sleep and overall activity level).
First of all, men, I need to inform you that this is an incredibly risky gift for a man to give a woman for Christmas. Particularly if she has struggled with depression.
“Merry Christmas, honey! Here’s a nifty gift that will track how many hours you spend in bed and how stagnant you are even during your few waking moments.”
I just had a flashback to the Christmas where my dad gave my mom running shoes and fluorescent jogging suits. I’ll never forget the look on her face. It’s the look that says, “I know just the perfect place to put this bleepity-bleep-bleep shoe!”
It’s no secret around here that my dear husband doesn’t have much going on “up top.” He started balding around the same time we started dating back in January of 1999.
[That doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me…]
The poor guy hasn’t seen a full head of hair since we were in college. And, as the years go by and our children continually refuse to potty train, his scalp becomes more and more visible.
Yes, Brian’s hair is seriously thinning.
And, if you say it like Charlie Sheen—“THIN-ning”—it makes him laugh out loud.
I know for certain I successfully made it through 13 years of public school, though there are very few things I actually remember. I could probably only recall a dozen or so specific memories:
1) There was the science teacher who accidentally wrote a 4-letter-word on the board.
That’s a pretty memorable event when you’re in middle school.
2) Then the same teacher made us blow up balloons and make decorations for her dog’s birthday party.
3) And then she sat in front of the entire class on a barstool with her zipper down THE entire day. No one told her.
I still feel bad I never told her.
4) And then there was another teacher—NO! Actually, the same one!—who told us that she was a reincarnated peach tree.
I couldn’t make this up if I tried.
5) And then there was the boy who kissed me on the mouth (uninvited, thank you) in front of my sex ed teacher. I was MAD. I may have slapped his face.
And that summarizes absolutely everything I learned in middle school.
Oh, but there was one more thing:
6) I performed a weekly, one-woman show.
One of my classes took place in a trailer, and our teacher would go AWOL for hours at a time at least once a week. I now believe that she had some significant problems in her personal life. Honestly, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t also hide under my desk and shoot rubber bands at the students if I taught middle school. (Yes, that actually happened.)
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, ESV)
For everything, a season.
And it seems that our 3-year-old and our almost-2-year-old have joined together to drag us all—kicking and screaming—through the “break down,” “weep,” and “war” seasons of life. Every day feels like a cage match. Every. Single. Day.
As Brian and I sat in our home office yesterday afternoon with our oldest whining about something (probably about the TV) and our little one running around like a screaming banshee, my poor husband attempted to tell me the same sentence a few times—only to lose his concentration (or mine) in the throes of chaos. He finally blurted out, “We need a date night!”
And he was sooooo right.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever told you guys this, but I have struggled with mild, chronic depression for as long as I can remember.
[Well, crap. That came out of left field. Isn't this supposed to be a humor blog?]
I’ve had lots of different diagnoses—from cyclothymia (mild bipolar disorder) to depression to “that time of the month” (That was once my dad’s formal diagnosis. Once. And then I threatened to kick him in the teeth.). I’ve had lots of suggestions for treatment—from medication to diet to “more exercise” (also from my dear dad).
We have a winner and a consensus:
Sarah: “Definitely Dangly. Gangly is when your arms and legs are long and awkward – to me anyway…” Shoot me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org to redeem your earrings!
And the consensus is that “gangly earrings” is not a thing. They’re dangly. Google is wrong.
Alrighty, it’s giveaway time. And confession time. Don’t worry dad. It’s just a goofy confession about my changing body that not even my closest friends know about me.
Aaaaaaaaaaand we just lost my dad.
[Please tell me she's not about to talk about women's troubles.]
Don’t worry, I’m not talking about women’s troubles. I’m talking about my ears.
[I guess it depends on the woman as to whether or not there's trouble in that department.]
Oh SNAP! But, seriously, cut it out. This is a friendly place.
[Who is Katy always talking to in the brackets? I'm so confused by this blog sometimes.]
So, my ears. They’re just…different. For one, they just don’t work as well as they used to, according to my husband. Whether or not that is a “selective” phenomenon is still up for debate.