This week I've burnt myself three times. Accidently, of course. I've scalded myself twice. Also accidently. And I bent a fingernail so far back that I may never recover.
I have walked into corners, stubbed toes, barked shins, poked thighs, and, once, took a counter-top corner in the whoopsy, which wasn't nearly as thrilling as it sounds. But it got my attention.
I forgot to wish my mother-in-law a happy birthday. I gave my niece a gift card for zero dollars. I made a lasagna for the Dol (while making one for myself), as a thank you for hosting us for Christmas, which was nice of me except I sent her my leftovers instead of the fresh one. Yup: nothing says thank you like a used lasagna.
So now, it is time to ask the universe a question:
Universe? Are you there? What am I missing?
Ever since I read that self-help book, you know one of the multitude that lulls me to sleep each night, I believe that when I hurt myself or have an accident or generally find my life resembling a Three Stooges episode, it is because I am either punishing myself, over-committed, or on the wrong end of karma.
Sure, sometimes an accident is just an accident. But a series of accidents, well, unless you're Bookgirl, that's life out of balance. Sorry, Bookgirl, I'm perpetuating the stereotype; but let's be honest, if I hadn't said it, you would have.
My house is clean, my closets are organized, and for the first time since Secret Lulu was born, there is no pile of papers, pictures, and debris on my desk. I am feeling centered. Well, I wish I were feeling centered. Instead, I'm feeling a little left of center.
What surprises me more than anything, and nothing really surprises me, is that I can't actually rest until Amvets comes to take the old stuff away. Forget the fact that my closets would pass a military white glove inspection and leave drill sergeants feeling a little afraid of me. What I want is complete and total closure, a clean break with the past, an irrevocable resolution to the stuff that was once truly mine and is now in castoff limbo in my garage.
Not that the stuff I'm donating isn't good stuff. I promise that it would shame most garage sales. I just don't want, use, or need it anymore. But this time last year, all of this stuff made the cut and got to stay so it's only just recently fallen out of favor here. My policy is to pass it along while it is still stylish. Or whatever.
But it's emotional and I don't like emotional. For instance, I am donating some baby stuff, and some old apartment stuff, and some first really cool leather coat stuff. At some point it was all new, useful, and wanted. At some point, it made sense in my life.
Only my life moved on.
I don't think I've got the brain power to think about it anymore tonight. I just hope I make it until donation day with all my fingers, eyebrows, and teeth intact.



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