In which I fling my comfort zone off a cliff

(and it only took us 1-1/2 hours!

I've been a bit distracted lately.  Most days, it feels as if I'm not fully present at all.  Blame it on overwork, stressful challenges, or lack of a vacation, the result is still the same:  I'm missing out on my own life.

As if to punctuate the fact that I've been living in a fog, I mistakenly put body wash in my hair the other day instead of shampoo.  There's nothing like smelling the scent of "Energizing Citrus Ginger" where it's not supposed to be in order to jolt me to attention.

Realizing that I need to make some changes in order to restore some semblance of balance, I began examining the way that I've been living.  If I'm honest, I'll admit that I'm rarely mindful of whatever I'm doing, and I tend to hop from activity to activity at a frenetic pace.  I'm rushing through life and missing out on its joys.  I need to slow down, plain and simple.

At the same time as my stop-and-smell-the-roses epiphany, my son Evan began bugging me about accompanying him and his class on an overnight field trip.  There will be lots of driving, chaperoning other people's children, and, most distressing of all, sleeping in a tent.

A tent!  Doesn't he realize that I seriously love electricity and indoor plumbing? And what about the woods?  I'm a poison ivy and wolf spider magnet!  My biggest worry, however, is kind of embarrassing.  Thinking of it makes me feel old and out of shape.  Of course, it  doesn't help that I AM old and out of shape. 

When my stiff and aged body meets the hard, unyielding ground beneath that tent, I'm not sure what's going to happen.  I mean, I'm far from being anything resembling flexible.  What if I go to sleep on the floor of the tent and can't get back up?  I imagine a muscle spasm so severe that I'm forced to lie there,  paralyzed, while everyone else contemplates whether or not to bring in the Jaws of Life to free me.

But then, there's my sweet boy, wanting his mom to go with him.  At age twelve, he's becoming more of a young man and less of a child every day.  I'm not sure how much longer he's going to feel this enthusiastic about having me around.  What if this trip is the last time?  How would I feel if I miss it?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I signed up for the trip.  I can do anything for one night, right?  Even if it does mean sleeping in a tent and putting myself out there as bear food. 

Best case scenario:  we won't get eaten by bears, I won't get stuck in the tent, and I'll make some happy memories with my kid.

Worst case scenario?  I'll have plenty of stories to write about.  Just as soon as they free me from that tent.

 

*photo by Lisa Kern

What the Great Recession didn't take

 

 

I may have mentioned a time or two (or twenty, if you ask my kids) about my relentless case of poison ivy - how I’ve had it all summer and how it won't go away no matter what I try. 

My frustration finally led me to see my doctor.  This is a very big deal considering I have no health insurance and the cost of an office visit throws my monthly budget right off of a financial cliff.

The diagnosis was indeed poison ivy, and a round of prednisone was prescribed.   This, of course, created an open invitation for the kids to poke fun at me:  "Hey!  Mom's on 'roids!" 

'Roid Rage, PMS, it's all the same outcome:  at least they’ll leave me alone for a while.

The prednisone worked until it didn't, which, unfortunately, happened to be the day after I stopped taking it.  Soon itchy little blisters once again covered the areas of my skin that had attempted to heal while I was taking the steroid.

I called the doctor's office and was told that they'd call in a prescription of a steroid cream for me.  No office visit!  I just had to go to the pharmacy to pick it up.

My joy was short-lived when I arrived at the pharmacy and learned the cost of the prescription. Nearly $50.00!  I didn’t know what to do.  I only had $20.00 or so in my checking account until pay day. 

To make matters worse, I’d just learned a few hours earlier that our Internet and telephone were shut off.  While engaged in the Great Recession sport known as Competitive Bill Juggling, I must have missed making the payment for it.  I’d already spent every single moment prior to arriving at the pharmacy stressing about how to get the funds in order to have the phone and Internet turned back on.  I certainly didn’t need an expensive prescription thrown into the mix.

 

As I stood there, seeing the cost of the prescription displayed on the cash register and the clerk waiting ever so patiently for me to pay, I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

I don’t want to cry!  Not here, not now!

But it was too late.   I’d reached my emotional breaking point and tears were now rushing down my cheeks.  Not only were my financial struggles once again bearing down on me, but now I’d never get rid of the poison ivy rashes that were psychologically torturing me.

                “I’m so sorry,” I choked through the tears.  “I just can’t afford this.” 

As I turned to leave, the pharmacist rushed over to the counter.  “Here are some lower-cost prescriptions that you can ask your doctor about.  They work just as well as the prescription she ordered for you.”

She handed me a paper with a couple of different drugs circled.  “Why don’t you call your doctor when you get home and see if she’ll prescribe one of these?”

I was so relieved to know that there was an option for me.  I nodded and took the paper from her.  I would call the doctor when I got home.

My husband Dan had been waiting with me and heard the whole conversation.  We walked out of the store silently and empty-handed.

In the car, Dan suddenly erupted in laughter – the kind of uncontrollable laughter that spills out of you in spite of your best efforts to stop it. 

                “What are you laughing about?” I sniffed.  “There’s nothing funny about this situation at all.”

                “I’m sorry,” he snorted between laughs.  “It’s just that I realized the ultimate irony in all of this.”

                “Irony?  What do you mean?” I asked.

Dan still couldn’t stop laughing.  “She told you to call your doctor…”  More laughter erupted.

                “Yes.  So?”

                “…but we don’t currently have a phone!”

And with that, I suddenly burst into laughter as well:  wonderful, healing, clearing, belly laughter.  There we sat, in the car, laughing our crazy, broke heads off.  It was the perfect illustration of how challenging life had become for us, yet in that moment, we were both overcome by the sheer implausibility of all of it.  There was my never-ending skin rash, our never-ending financial quicksand, and now, the cherry on top of this terrible trifecta, no phone to call the doctor. 

In a strange way, it was comforting to accept that there wasn’t anything we were going to do about any of it in that present moment.  Perhaps solutions would reveal themselves tomorrow, but for now, there wasn’t anything to do except be with one another and laugh until our bellies hurt.

 

(photo by Lisa Kern)