 I know I’m a little late with my post this week, but I’ve had a stressful couple of days.
On Sunday night, one of my dogs got very sick, to the point where I was on the phone with the emergency vet at about 1 a.m. And then at 7 a.m., I got the call that my 96-year-old great aunt, Jean Schipper, had finally passed away in her sleep in the wee hours of Monday morning after years of steady decline. I've written about how I am abnormally attached to my dogs, so you know that when one of them doesn’t feel well, it’s extremely upsetting to me.
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 This is my last week at a salaried job, and I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. Chaotic. Frenetic. Batshit crazy, if you will.
I’ve got tons to do to wind up my full-time gig, plus a couple big deadlines on the freelance writing front as well. And it just dawned on me that I have also managed to book myself for both work and social activities every single night this week. Can you say, “overextended?” Shoo. I am exhausted already. Oh, and have I mentioned that my first week as an entrepreneur, beginning March 11, is jam packed with deadlines and meetings, too?? No rest for the wicked, apparently.  At the risk of sounding morose, I’ve been spending a lot of time contemplating mortality – mine and others’ – these past few weeks.
One reason that life and death have been on my mind is because of recent interactions with an aging relative. My last living great aunt just celebrated her 95th birthday, and this milestone seems to have coincided with a rapid decline in her health. She’s in assisted living, can’t walk or use the bathroom on her own, her eyesight and hearing are nearly gone, and most recently she has begun to experience some pretty intense hallucinations, which we’re told is a sign of accelerating dementia.  I have teased my mother for years about how susceptible she was to self-improvement trends back in the ’80s.
While I was trying to survive middle and high school, she was tearing through what seemed like an endless string of books and cassette tapes on codependency, relationships, parenting, exercise, health and wellness … you name it. A few paperbacks are still prominent on her bathroom bookshelf all these years later, and I can’t help but roll my eyes when I see them.  I don’t drink anymore.
In November, it will be three years since the last drop of Shiraz passed my lips. Or Pinot Grigio, for that matter. Red or white, I wasn’t picky toward the end. As long as it was 12 bucks or less and came in a 1.5 liter bottle, I was all good. When people ask me why I quit, it depends on who’s asking as to how I respond. Professional acquaintances get the most diluted, simple explanation: “It became a problem, so I stopped.” A major component of the Amy Reinvention and Reconstruction Project of 2012 is getting myself healthy. Well, healthier, anyway. Prior to embarking on the ARRP, I smoked a pack a day and ate all kinds of fried food, sugar, salt and general crap. I sat on my behind at every opportunity and ran only when chased. Only by the grace of God and good genetics was I not an overweight sloth with high blood pressure and hypertension.
In June, after the dust had settled from the breakup of my marriage (more on that later), and with my 40th birthday looming (July 31, to be exact), I looked in the mirror and thought, “Girl, you have really got to get your shit together.” I had lost a lot of weight because of the stress of that long and painful breakup, and I had zero energy. I looked scrawny, pasty and pitiful. And frankly, it pissed me off. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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