Procrastination

I'm not sure what this says about me, but:

I finished painting the upstairs here at my house three weeks ago; it took me about three weeks to paint the four rooms up there. I took a few days to pat myself on the back, then tried to talk me into getting back to work, to do the same spiff-up to the first floor.

Didn't happen. I mean, I only had a few weeks until I left to visit Kate. That wasn't enough time to finish up the entire project, and thus and therefore, I couldn't possibly even start. And that was that.

How do I motivate myself when my old tricks to motivate me no longer apply? When I have all of the days free, how do I know which are work days, and which are rest days? All I know right now is that the last three weeks have all been rest days. 

I took particular delight in not doing any of the things I should have done this past Monday. I stirred, and before I was quite awake, thought I needed to go in to work. I thought I had a busy day ahead and started to mentally review the things I hoped to get done between interruptions. I then woke up the rest of the way, realized I was retired and had exactly zero pressing deadlines for the day, and snuggled back under the covers for another thirty minutes, watching the sun glint on the stained glass art in my window. 

When I finally got going and went downstairs, I ate breakfast, looked at my actual to-do list, and picked up a novel. I climbed into my comfy chair, reveling in my rebellion against the 'shoulds' I'd laid out for the day. I snuggled in under a blanket and spent most of the day reading my story, stopping now and again to remind myself it was Monday and I didn't have to go to work. It was a delightful day.

I've known for ages I'm not good at relaxing, so I'm counting this one as a win. It matters to no one, including myself, whether the paint project gets finished before or after my California trip, as long as it gets done before it's too hot to open the windows and clear out the paint fumes. Why NOT take a few days (weeks!) off? I dunno...

I'll keep working on it.

In the meantime, my upcoming trip beckons. I was feeling a bit uneasy about the whole thing, and wasn't sure why. I've missed Kate, and have been looking forward to having some time to spend with her again. Then the lightbulb went on. The last time I went to California, the whole world shut down two days after I got there. I mean, if I started an unprecedented pandemic last time I flew out there to relax and figure out what I want to do when I grow up, what's to say it won't happen again?

I'll just have to take my chances.

Where There's A Will

There's nothing like a session with a lawyer to update my will to get me thinking about life, death, and the meanings thereof. It wasn't so much the will itself that set me to pondering things; that part's pretty straightforward, and it just deals with stuff.

It's the whole end of life health directive part that made me think. What do I consider quality of life? Under which circumstances do I want to invoke the happy pills and pain pills only clause? And, since I'm thinking about being in that state, planning for the possibility even, that means I need to consider that I just might get there one day. Given the givens of this COVID year, it's almost a relief to sit down and think these things through; I think they've been taking up some subconscious mind-space for a while now.

Somehow, putting it all down in black and white makes it more real. I've not been in total denial about things - the ins and outs of my life for the last decade don't lend themselves to thinking it can't happen to me - but I haven't exactly thought them through, either.

Turns out I'm not the hang on to every minute of life sort of person after all. I don't want my body to stick around if my mind is gone. I don't want to live all of the days after all, if living means just delaying the inevitable for a few days or weeks, and those days will be spent in pain. Nope. Bring on the happy pills and pain pills, and let everything else go.

As I thought, I tried to picture the faces of those I love as they will be when they hear I've gone on to whatever-it-is that comes next. Their tears tore my heart, but the images also brought me a measure of peace.

I've been to my share of funerals, but the one that most haunts me was that of a woman I didn't know. This was back in the days when I was cantor at church, and they called me in to sing for her service. She was young-ish, in her early sixties, and there were just seven people present at the mass. Seven. Such a small world she must have lived in, that so few would come to wish her farewell.

I WANT people to miss me when I'm gone, because that will mean I touched their hearts while I lived. It will mean I managed to bring a little light to a world that can seem overwhelmingly dark some days. It will mean I managed to be on the side of Good, at least some of the times. (It turns out that being an agent for Good, at least some of the times, is important to me.) It will mean I found a way to give back in return for the gifts I was given.

Now, with any luck, that day will be many days in the future. (I can hope.) Still, it feels good to know I've thought some of this through; that I can leave a guide for people to follow. They won't have to waste energy wondering what I would have wanted if tough decisions need to be made, because they won't have to guess.

That's something.

Josh's Bad Day

Last Friday was a beautiful, sunny day. I'd taken time out from my current project (sprucing up the paint on the inside of my house - eight years later, it's showing its age) to run some errands. I'd just finished up, proud of myself because I'd completed the stops in less time than I thought I'd need, and was leaving Costco, when, crunch!

It was one of THOSE moments. I was in the drive lane, heading out of the parking lot, when backup lights came on in a big old van and it started out of its spot. I was already in the line of fire. I tried to avoid him by swerving to the left and laying on the horn, but to no avail. The van kept coming and backed right into the corner of my StealthMobile, my bright yellow convertible. 

Argh! It took a moment for him to figure out why his van stopped, but then he pulled back into his spot. I just sat there, fuming at the driver's carelessness, ready to spit, as the driver got out of the van and came around back. As soon as I saw him, my anger evaporated. He was just a kid; looked about eighteen.

He was nervous - this was the first time he'd been in an accident, and it was clearly his fault. He just hadn't looked for cars coming from my direction. He asked what the procedure was, and I told him I needed his license and insurance card. He pulled out his license and handed it to me, then started to pull up his insurance information on his phone.

That's when his face turned pale. He poked buttons and more buttons, to no avail. His most recent payment hadn't gone through, and so his insurance had lapsed. *sigh* Josh was having a very bad day.

I still couldn't be mad. I did stupid stuff when I was eighteen, too. (and, truth be told, plenty of times since then.) I didn't want to call the cops and have him get a ticket. That wasn't going to fix my car or anything else in this scenario.

So, I took pictures of his license plate (the accident hadn't even scratched his bumper!) and driver's license. I got his phone number, told him we'd figure out a way to work things out, and went on my way figuring I was soon to be out the deductible on my insurance because the cost of the repair would fall on me. *more sighs*

I snagged an appointment at a local body repair shop for Monday, and took my car in, expecting them to tell me I'd need a new bumper and fender, to the tune of several thousand dollars. To my pleasant surprise, they said new parts weren't necessary - they could repair the damage without replacing the parts! The total estimate came in at $1600.

I texted Josh to see what he wanted to do next; he said he'd be a bit - he was at the vet with his mom because the cat just died. (????!!! Talk about a bad day.) When he called an hour or so later, I gave him the good news on the estimate. I told him he had two choices - he could pay me the deductible for my insurance, and I would turn in the claim and his insurance rates would skyrocket because the system would know he'd been driving without insurance at 18, or he could pay me the money for the repair.

Somehow, he'd gotten some money over the weekend; coincidentally just enough to pay for the damage to my car. (hello, Universe???) He sent it to me via PayPal on the spot, and it was a done deal. I have an appointment to repair the car in two weeks, and also have a refreshed, improved attitude regarding the goodness of others. I trusted him to make things right, and he did - without his parents stepping in to fix it all for him.

I'm sure he had other plans for his windfall, and I'm also sure it'll be a long time before he backs up before checking behind him in ALL directions. I'd also be willing to bet he'll check every month to ensure his insurance payment has cleared. 

I talked to him for a bit while we were working out the details. I told him I was proud of the way he'd stepped up to the damage he'd done and worked with me to set things right; proud of the adult he was becoming. I meant it. 

Lessons provided by the school of life are never easy, and always come at a price. But, all in all, we agreed, it was a relatively inexpensive way to learn the lessons of the day.