8 Years Gone

Mike died on August 24, 2016. I miss him every day. Without him, I live in my head way too much. And my head keeps bringing me down.

I think more should have changed by now. I think I haven’t made as much progress as I should have. I think I don’t even know what “progress” is supposed to be.

I should give myself more credit for what I’ve accomplished in the last eight years. But somehow, painting and redecorating nearly every room in the house doesn’t qualify as “progress” to me. Getting myself and Angelic Daughter safely through the pandemic doesn’t feel like an accomplishment — just basic survival.

I’ve worked three jobs in the past eight years, the last one a great one, but none of those jobs paid enough to boost my retirement savings sufficiently to justify my recent decision to retire. And every one of them was just more proof to me of my failure to live up to potential, the hallmark of my eclectic and misguided career(s).

I spent the equivalent of a full day making a set of short stays to go under a regency style gown for a Bridgerton-themed wine tasting I attended last night with a few of my MeetUp group friends.

I’ve gained 25 pounds when I was supposed to be losing them, and blamed it on summer, my least favorite season. I’ve let go of any hope of finding a new man. I’m short, fat, frizzy-haired, and on Medicare. That plunks me firmly in Crone territory. Might as well go all in, and move to a hovel in the forest where I’d cast spells on people (I stole that last bit from a post on my Facebook widows and widower’s group that I can’t find in order to give proper credit here. Comment if it was you.)

Maybe it is just summer. The dreaded 90 degree days are here, after a luscious week of perfect weather that showed Chicago off at its finest. But that kind of weather doesn’t come free around here, so it’s sweat and moan and retreat to the basement or crank up the bedroom AC. Lord, just get me through to Labor Day, and I’m sure I’ll snap out of it, whatever this sullen whiny phase is.

I’ve read that hummingbirds are supposed to be migrating soon. The fuchsia I managed to keep alive inside over the past three winters has finally bloomed, with the help of a little potted plant fertilizer. Mike loved the fuchsias I bought every year, and the hummingbirds that came to visit them. So I’m looking for a wing-whirring sign that he’s still around, checking in every once in a while, reminding me not to take myself so seriously.

It’s been a weird summer. The drought came late. A few trees are already starting to turn. I’m waiting for two fat beefsteak tomatoes to take advantage of this heat and turn red on the vine, while nervously watching out for that wily chipmunk, who seems to have found a way to get through my crop coops and steal an unripe tomato already.

The rabbits are running amok. They’ve eaten all my Asian lilies and most of my coneflowers. Where are the coyotes, foxes, and hawks when you need them? Where’d they go? Just last year I was remarking on how I hadn’t seen any rabbits, and this year, it’s freaking Tellytubbyland out there, with them hippity-hopping all over the place.

I grew abundant yellow squash for the first time this year, while my usually prolific zucchini plants have produced just one vegetable of edible size. My late-planted green beans are only now starting to produce my favorite haricot vert. I drained my rain barrel into the front patio garden and there’s no rain predicted for another four days. And along with the excessive heat warnings, we’ve got air quality alerts until two days from now. And I have to go shopping.

Dreading the walk across the grocery store parking lot, I remain,

your whiny, sweaty, languishing, meh, praying for fall to just come already,

Ridiculouswoman