Saturday, May 10, 2014
I didn't sleep well last night. I've dreamed about Dad pretty much every night since his diagnosis, and last night's dream was especially unsettling: Dad was asked to fill out a questionnaire regarding his beliefs about the afterlife, something we really don't talk about at my parents' house.
It wasn't a bad dream, per se, just unsettling.
In any event, I woke up quite early, cranky and out of sorts, and headed downstairs around 6:30 a.m. to do some church work — which, in case my recent posts haven't made clear, is consuming WAY too much space in my brain this week. The election is in one more week, this too shall pass. But I am heartily sick of the people I've christened the Disgruntled Group; trying to anticipate and be ready for whatever they might do to upset my carefully constructed apple cart is making me stressed and jumpy. I just want to YELL and SWEAR at them!!! which of course isn't churchly at all. (As my buddy Big Bad John says, "This Hatfield and McCoy culture just has to stop.")
But this is pretty much my mindset:
I had idly considered attending a free zumba class this morning taught by my new teacher Sweet Shy Jeny, but by the time Husband came downstairs I was already on my last nerve; "I don't think I can go to zumba, it's only 9:45 and I'm exhausted," I said. To my shock and horror, I started to cry a little.
And then it hit me: These are exactly the times that I should go to zumba. I am completely strung out by stress and grief, and while I'm doing a pretty good job of keeping it at bay most of the time, it hits me at the darndest times. Exercise is my best coping mechanism.
So I went, and it was great. Finally, finally, I feel back in my zumba groove, even though I still can't do everything. But I worked up a great sweat and got that glowy endorphin feeling, and I was so happy afterward!
I talked to Dad yesterday, for the first time in quite a while. He sounds good, just tired, but it was an awkward conversation because all I could think to ask was how he was feeling, and he didn't want to dwell on that. It will be unspeakably good to see him soon.
In other news, Husband accidentally bought an extra gallon of milk, thinking it was soy milk, which Mimosa drinks (it is not), so we have a fridge stuffed full of milk, and I decided to make flan to go with our dinner tacos. Picture me stirring a hot pan full of sugar water, trying to get it to turn into a dark-amber syrup . . . but instead it became rock candy. I dutifully added more water, then more sugar, and kept trying . . . and got rock candy again. I finally gave up and dumped rock candy into the bottom of the custard pan, then poured hot eggy milk on top. Maybe it will be like creme brulee, I dunno.
My house is clean but I am not. Time to take a shower, paint my nails, drink a glass of wine, and make a few more church calls. This will all be over soon. Soon, soon, soon. This is my mantra.
I am so hoping that my zumba groove wasn't a fluke and that I'm finally back where I belong. I'll keep you posted!
— Lady C, dancing queen