There is No Normal

It was one of those days that was like a dream. A nightmare, more like it. That dream where you're svelte, young and fit and back in high school, but without the cellulite or the self doubt. You're lined up for a race. The gun goes off. You begin to run, but you can't. It's like your legs are mired in thick mud. No matter how hard you try, nothing will move any faster. 

It was that kind of day.

I was wearing multiple hats, starting off with a paint job that wouldn't end. The client couldn't open her beautiful, new shop until I finished painting all the cabinetry for it. What I intended to be a three day job was turning into five, with no end in sight. Every which way I turned all week, things got in my way. Wrong equipment, another run to the store for supplies, underestimating paint needs, doctor appointments, an urgent biopsy, Snowpocalypse 2017 (which means, in Georgia, a dusting of snow over an inch or two of deadly ice), my Daddy got rushed to the hospital, and in between all that, I had three real estate closings looming in the next couple of weeks. On a good day, I'm not really a multi-tasker. I tend to get very zoned in on what is right in front of me. But just to make things interesting, when I found myself slogging through the mud and unable to get anywhere, I decide to drag my husband to Forest Park to buy a used table I found on Craigslist. $40 and it was exactly what I needed for that black hole in my living room. 

We rushed through 50 miles of Atlanta traffic to get over there, some kind of surreal and weird justification on my part since I was getting it so cheap. My Daddy is in the hospital and I need to be there, but I made an appointment to look at junk so I have to hold up my end. Sometimes when craziness begins to creep in, I think the human answer is to do stupid stuff. Halfway there, I began to relax. Ken was playing 70's rock and roll on the radio and kept saying things to make me laugh. He reminds me of all the times we've driven across the state to look at somebody else's bad idea and all the times my Daddy would haul us as kids with him to look at old lawnmowers and cars. I'm from a long line of cheapskates. But it's always an adventure.

It was getting dark when we knocked on the wrong door. The neighborhood was sketchy, with hoodlums on corners looking hopeful when we appeared lost. Once we found the right house, the owner hollered at us from the other side of the door. I told her who we were. We heard a lot of commotion from inside the tightly shuttered domicile. Then, as the door opened, she turned off the interior lights. Yes, I said "off." The table was right there at the door. I had to turn on my cellphone flashlight to see it. The table wasn't even made of wood, but plastic with a big chunk taken out of it. I offered her $20, figuring I could work some paint magic on it. They refused and we walked away. I hoped Ken wouldn't be irritated, having spent a whole evening and 100 miles of gas on a wild goose chase. But he wasn't. He laughed and said it was a cheap date. We made our way back home, to leftovers and taco soup (from my sweet client who has endured my distracted life). 

The day was fraught with insanity, but after a long, hot shower and hugs all around, I thought about that muddy dream I occasionally have. In the middle of it, when my feet won't move fast enough and I am hearing things coming from behind, I start flapping my wings (I always have some sort of appendages in the midst of these things). I'm still moving slow, but eventually my feet begin leaving the ground and I find myself flying, escaping whatever was chasing me. I love it when that happens, that dream. Maybe that's what leaving this life is like and I'll be shedding my feet of clay and winging it on up there. Meanwhile, I gotta get back to work...