I've been sort of at loose ends for a few days. That's sort of standard after I've finished a project - I've been focusing on one thing, and now that's done, and now what?
I'm getting cabin fever. I was writing my cousin that July has always been my worst month (at least since we moved to Florida 40 years ago). May and June can get hot - but not unbearably so. Even through the end of June I was having my afternoon coffee on the back deck, and being reasonably comfortable with the fan on. It gave me the false sense of security that "hey - this isn't that bad. I can handle it."
And then wham! July hits. With the afternoon rains and resulting ridiculous humidity. There is no getting up early to get things done "in the cool of the morning" because there is no cool of the morning. Or evening (one night recently, at 9 p.m. the heat index was still 100). In the early morning, the humidity is near (or at) 100% and I feel like I can't breathe.
By August I've acclimated somewhat. But July kicks my ass. And for most of the last 40 years, I've given myself permission to do the bare minimum in July.
And, of course, the luck of the draw that Bob got diagnosed in July, and it was also in July (coming up, the 17th) that his reef was lowered into the gulf.
I did have an oddly fun day at work Monday. We were all doing the bare minimum of habitat cleaning (at the order of the keepers) because it was raining hard, and bad lightning/thunderstorms were going to be rolling in. So we were all pretty wet - despite ponchos and rain jackets - when we got to the kitchen. One girl, Serai, likes to put on music, so of course we had to listen to La Vida Loca - "She'll make you take your clothes off and go dancing in the rain." And we were all singing along and dancing while fixing the animal diets. I sort of have to wonder how this would look to an outsider - three young black students and one old white woman, dancing around while wielding knives and cutting fruit. Eventually the last volunteer, Ben, old white dude, came in and was somewhat confused at the chaos. I might be a few years older than Ben chronologically, but he's a lot more grown up.
I did do one cleanup today. In a corner of the den I have a cabinet with some of my fiber supplies in it. The overflow goes into the set of plastic drawers beside it (this is in addition to the major stash down in the cottage). I say "in" but they also overflowed and I had a big pile of random stuff on top. Here it is, piled on the floor with Hamish checking it out.
Just random fibers and yarns. While I was at it, I also emptied the drawers and sorted them. But as I was sorting, I was berating myself because a lot of the stuff wasn't properly labelled. And there were several half-finished knitting projects, with no notes. What the heck was my problem???
And then, once again, I realized that I had to cut myself some slack. Some of this stuff dates back years. Spinning and knitting are coping mechanisms for me.
"Grief brain" is a real phenomena - that disassociated feeling, with brain fog. When the loss is of someone close to you, it can take 3-5 years to get back on an even keel. It's a slow process.
Ten years ago my mother went through a long decline, then passed. I took care of everything, including the decision to let her go (Dad, Mike, and Bob all just wanted to let me decide what was best). She died on a Friday; I took care of all the necessary arrangements on Saturday and was back at work on Monday. Even extra work, because I was doing a display of antique clothing at an event the next Saturday. And I had a urinary track infection. One soldiers on.
Not too long after that, Dad fell and broke his ribs, so after he got out of the hospital I had to transfer him to a nursing home and close down their apartment (while I was still working, both at FSU and the museum). Then the endless trips to and from the nursing home until he passed, three years after Mom. Oh - and I lost my job about a year in, which can also be mildly traumatic.
On the plus side, though, that's when we got a red tailed hawk at the museum and I got to glove train her (because if there's too much going on in one's life, the only way to face the music is to turn up the volume)
Considering that we had also gone through the same thing in 2008 and 2009 with Bob's parents, (and, incidentally, it was two weeks after his mother died that I stepped on a rattlesnake) it took us a long time - a couple of years - to finally relax and realize that we weren't going to be running off to hospitals on a moment's notice. We could just hang around and chill out. Then about the time that we were going to start thinking about what to do with our retirement - Hurricane Michael hit, then Bob got diagnosed, yadda yadda yadda.
Oh yeah - toss in Covid.
That's a lot of fog for one little brain. And maybe I didn't label some yarn. Big effing deal.
I've got a lot of cleaning and organizing to do (especially Bob's room and the barn, but the cottage is due for a going-over). And soon I'll get the urge to do some sewing or weaving or some other project.
But for now, it's July. I'm going to do the bare minimum - my museum work, and make sure the cats and other animals are fed, but otherwise I'm just going to goof off and read and maybe eat ice cream. I'll deal with August when it gets here.
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