I have been busy (which is why I haven’t been around). Not busy working, having lots to do and going to bed tired but happy after a productive day. Oh no. I have busy stressing out.
At least these days I’m more controlled about it. Not that I ever ran around like a chook with its head cut off. Give me a good crisis and I rise to the occasion like a trout to a fly. But in the past, periods of prolonged, non-critical stress have not been kind to my tooth enamel or my muscles, whereas now, it’s more a matter of slow leaks in my motivation. Particularly as it’s now too cold to swim.
The problem? No problem, really. Just process (and Mercury retrograde, if you subscribe to that) grinding away at our ability to stay optimistic and positive.
See, a few months ago, my eldest daughter and her husband decided to leave Sydney and move up here. So they did. Which is excellent. They stuck their worldly goods in storage and came to stay with me while they organised jobs and a home of their own. Which is also excellent. They are delightful guests notwithstanding my 2 b/r unit, and I enjoy their company. But then the bank got involved – what more need I say? – finding pinholes invisible to the naked eye in the paperwork for their mortgage, requiring countless resubmissions of documents they already had, and issuing instructions incomprehensible to anyone without a doctorate in bank-speak.
As a result, it has taken six weeks to exchange contracts on the house they want (god bless the sellers for their patience) and they now face a further six weeks of stagnation while the sitting tenants get their act together enough to move out. And these are tenants for whom ‘act’ and ‘together’ have never appeared in the same sentence before.
None of which is my business, you might say. But they’re my family and what’s more they’re right here. What do you expect?
And then we come to my car. In the midst of the trauma that is buying a house, my car intimated that it no longer wanted to drive to Sydney. I don’t blame it for this. It has looked after me for 20 years and 220,000 kilometres, even recovering from a head-on collision (other car topping a blind crest on my side of the road) and not losing its cool when it ran over a steel bar at 100kph and blew two tyres (also on the blind side of a crest). But enough is enough, it said. Another round trip of 1000 Ks and I’ll blow more than my tyres. Replace me.
Which is easier said than done. All very well if you can walk into a showroom and say ‘I’ll have that model in that colour’, pay your money and drive away – which people obviously do, but I’m not one of them. Also easier if you live in area where used vehicles aren’t mostly utes or 4WDs, but this doesn’t apply either. So I’ve had to hand the job of finding me another car to a third party (a contact of my son’s) who will no doubt find me something eminently practical, but will I ever learn to love it when I didn’t get to choose?
All of which seems to have reduced me to a shameful state of suspended animation. I’m sure there are lessons here that I needed to learn. But I haven’t enjoyed it.