Elevators, Moving, and Leap Year

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 17 Comments

Wow, it is almost the end of February.  I honestly don’t know how that can be.  It seems like the calendar had just turned over to the year 2024.  But as they say, time flies. 

But luckily, it is a leap year, and February has an extra day attached to it.  And I can use an extra day right now.  Why? Because I am packing to move, and the 29th of February gives me one more day to throw stuff into a box. 

There are many beliefs attached to a leap year.  Some believe that the 29th of February is good luck, and others believe it is bad luck.  Still others attach a bit of spiritual meaning to it, believing that leap years are reminders to take a leap of faith . . . a leap from what is to what could be.  But most probably believe that it is just an extra day on the calendar.

My beliefs hover somewhere between “just an extra day on the calendar” and the “take a leap of faith” thingy.   

You see, I am no stranger to taking a leap of faith, to rolling the dice.  It has been barely over a year since my sister and I moved across the country to the greater DC area, and it has been an interesting year for several reasons, including sightseeing excursions and my much written about broken arm ordeal.  It has been a year that I will never forget and am very grateful to have experienced.

But well, things change, and we are moving again.  Yup, that’s right.  I know that seems pretty crazy, and it probably is.  Who in their right mind makes another major move after only a year?

Let me explain a bit.  A couple of months ago, with the realization that our current apartment lease would soon expire, my sister and I were faced with a dilemma.  Do we stay put . . . or do we move on?

It was a tough decision.  We had settled in here.  We liked our new neighborhood.  Clueless as what to do, we decided to let the “universe” make the decision for us.  You are probably wondering what the heck does that mean?  Well, we made the decision that I would apply for jobs, and we would simply go wherever the job was. After all, there was an option to extend our current lease on a month-to-month basis, and if necessary, we would simply stay until the “universe” decided where to send us. 

So, I started to visit various online job sites, submitting applications and wondering where we would end up.  My sister and I wondered what type of adventure was in store for us.  Would we find ourselves staying in the DC area or moving to some place like Colorado, Wyoming, or who knows, maybe Iowa?  It was fun to picture ourselves in various situations.

But the fun ended fairly quickly.  Yup, let’s just say, the universe has a wicked sense of humor. 

One day in January, we found a notice on our apartment door.  It was from our apartment manager, letting us know that they would not renew our lease for our current unit as it was scheduled for remodeling.  We needed to vacate by the end of the lease.  However, the notice went on to say they would be delighted to rent one of the newly remodeled units to us—for around $300 more per month. 

But that was not going to be an option for us.  Our budget was already stretched to the limit.  We simply could not afford the additional rent.  So, without an option to stay beyond the end date of the lease, we realized that waiting for a job offer was not going to be possible.  The overall process would take too long—to apply, to interview, to go through a likely background check, and so on. 

So, we were faced again with making a decision. The universe had shut one door, and we needed to kick another one open.  I suppose in essence, the universe had made a decision, which simply was this:  We needed to come up with a solution ourselves. 

Well, it was not an easy decision for my sister and me.  We talked.  We pondered.  We weighed options.  We checked the rents for other nearby apartment complexes in the neighborhood, and as expected, the rents were high—very high.   

But as unlikely as it seems, several weeks ago, as my sister and I waited for the elevator in the lobby of our building, we came to a decision.  It was time to move on.  As is often the case, we waited . . . and waited . . . and waited for the elevator to come, giving us plenty of time to exchange a few knowing looks, sighs, and thoughts.

You see, our apartment complex is undergoing a major renovation project. Construction noise is constant, and the elevators are routinely packed full of construction workers, heavy equipment, and dumpsters full of construction debris.  And no doubt due to the extra weight and usage, the elevators also tend to break or fail frequently, often resulting in only one working elevator for a 17-floor apartment building. 

Needless to say, tenant frustration is high, and the elevator repair guy is a frequent sight.  Anyhow, the tenants end up waiting, hoping to be able to squeeze into the next available elevator. 

But I am getting off topic.  After we agreed that it was time to move on, we stood silently for several more minutes.  I liked the area, and I wondered why I was so agreeable to move on.  But deep down, I knew why.  I felt like only a visitor here, not a resident.  This was my doing, of course, as I never made an attempt to put down roots.  I didn’t join a church, a gym, or club.  On some level, I suppose I always knew that I was only passing through and that this area was never destined to be our forever home.

Despite our decision to move on, there was still a question to answer.  Where the heck should we move to?  That question haunted us throughout the rest of January and into early February. 

During this time, my life seemed to be echoing the uncertainty of riding the elevators in my building.  Each time I stood waiting for an elevator, I wondered what would happen.  Would there be room for me to get on it?  Would it fail as I rode it, falling a few floors?  Would the elevator door refuse to open, trapping its riders until someone rescues them? 

I have yet to have any of those things happen to me. But others in my building have, and their colorful complaints are often recorded on the walls and doors of the elevators themselves. 

I give much credit to my guardian angel for saving me from the dreadful elevators.  She must be tough to ride shotgun over my life, but I appreciate her efforts.  And yes, I say “she” because only a she could understand me.  And yes, that is being a bit gender-biased, but please forgive me.  I think that the over whelming percentage of men are decent, intelligent, and even wonderful. But are they capable of fully understanding a wandering female like me?

You might be wondering by now, where my sister and I decided to move to.  So, I will finish my tale.

During this timeframe, a couple of things started to happen.  First, one of my brothers had an operation.  Nothing serious, but a reminder that none of my siblings are getting any younger.  Me neither.  This is something no one likes to admit.

As a side note, although I am a sixty-something woman, I have made a committed to myself to remain thinking and living young. 

Secondly, as we sat in the food court of a local shopping mall one day, a vacationing family from Wisconsin seemed to appear out of nowhere.  There they were, standing inches from us.  We didn’t interact with them but smiled as they walked away.  How did we know they were from Wisconsin? Well, their accents and Wisconsin-themed shirts made it pretty clear. 

Also, on that same day, we saw a few folks walking around our neighborhood, sporting Green Bay Packer gear.  In case you don’t know, if you are a Wisconsinite, you have to be a Green Bay Packer fan.  This is an unwritten law, but one that is almost universally adhered to.    

Both things tugged at our hearts.  We missed home. 

And that is when we made the next decision.  We would return to Wisconsin.  Not to the small community where we weathered the pandemic.  Although it is a wonderful place, we felt cut off from the world there with little to do.    

After considering nearly every corner of the state, we chose the Madison area.  It is the state capitol as well as having a large university presence, museums, art galleries, and such.  All of this gives Madison a unique vibe.   

So, right now, we are busy packing and planning our move—our next adventure.  I have no idea what lies ahead for us.  I don’t know what type of adventures or mischief we will get into. 

It seems strange returning to Wisconsin again.  I have done that several times in my life—left Wisconsin only to return, sort of like a migratory bird.  And each time, Wisconsin seemed both familiar and new to me upon my return.  I can only explain it in one way.  During my absences, both Wisconsin and I had changed a little—not enough to be unrecognizable but just enough to feel new again. 

But there is one thing that will never change: Once a cheesehead, always a cheesehead.  That is to say, no matter where I roam, I am still just me in a new location.  And I will not rule out that I won’t roam again.  The future is unknown to me, and I like it that way.

***

“Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.” Terry Pratchett (A Hat Full of Sky)

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!” Hunter S. Thompson (The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman)

“Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all.” Stephen King (Different Seasons)

“Everyone should be able to do one card trick, tell two jokes, and recite three poems, in case they are ever trapped in an elevator.”  Lemony Snicket (Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can’t Avoid)

A Fuzzy Bug, Lessons Learned, and the New Year

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 23 Comments

A few nights ago, I got up in the middle of the night.  I couldn’t sleep and decided to get a drink of water.  As I inched my way in the dark apartment, I spotted a large black thingy in the middle of the kitchen floor.  I froze.  Oh my god, I thought, it’s a bug!  It had been months since my last encounter with a large bug—a bug I killed after a rather long battle of wits.  You see, that bug was fast, but in the end, I was faster.  However, I wrote about that prior buggy encounter in an earlier post. So, I will avoid going into any further detail except to say that I didn’t want to repeat the experience.

Knowing I would only have one chance to eliminate this bug before it darted off into the darkness, I quietly moved closer to my enemy.  And when in striking range, I steeled myself and slammed my foot down on it, not once but twice.

But I wasn’t sure if I had hit my target.  If I had missed it, I knew that I would stay awake for hours, worrying about what was hiding in the darkness. I needed to know for sure. So, I flipped on the kitchen’s overhead light.  When I looked down, I almost laughed.  I had killed a piece of fuzz.

And that is how the year 2023 was for me.  That is to say, it did not turn out as expected.  

However, 2023 is gone, and today is the first day of 2024. 

When a new year is approaching, I suppose it is only natural to take a look back over the prior year.  Over the last few weeks, I had been asking myself one question over and over:  Has it been a good year?  The only answer that I have is this.  For me, the year of 2023 was certainly quite a year.   

In brief, things went sideways fairly early in the year.  When my sister and I moved across the country to the DC area in early 2023, I had expected to spend my time sightseeing, having new experiences, and securing a new job.  Even though I’m a sixty-something lady, I craved going back to work, rejoining the world, and feeling productive again. 

Instead, in April, I broke my arm.  The next five months or so consisted of surgery to insert a metal plate into my arm, followed by what seemed like endless doctor visits and PT appointments.  However, I learned a couple of things from this unexpected experience.  Namely, bad stuff happens to everyone.  There is no avoiding it.  You can curl up and cry—or you can survive.  I chose to survive and tried to face the twists and turns of the recovery process with a stiff upper lip as they say.  But let me tell you, I felt a great sense of relief when PT ended on August 31st.  I felt free again!

Despite summer being officially over, my roomie (aka my sister) and I decided to get back to our original plan—sightseeing and new experiences.  And we designated September as our official sightseeing month.  But once again, things went sideways.  My sister came down with an awful cold, which she fought for at least two weeks.  We worried it might be COVID, but luckily, it wasn’t.  But unfortunately, her respiratory bug made it necessary to temporarily shelve our plans again.

Instead, I decided to use this timeframe to focus more on job hunting, and after a few weeks, I got a nibble and interviewed for a job.  Actually, I went through two interviews for this job.  And on the Friday, following the second interview, I got a phone call and was offered the job.  After the call ended, my gut twisted up, and I knew that I didn’t want this job. 

What I didn’t know was why.  The salary and location were good.  I spent the weekend weighing and re-weighing the offer.  I really needed to give an answer by Monday.  The logical thing to do was to take the job. You see, the area I live in is very expensive, and I really need a job to stay here—something we knew prior to moving here. But my gut kept saying, “Don’t take it.”

Being a bit New Agey, I asked the universe for guidance—for a sign.  But a sign never came.  I hardly slept throughout the weekend.  It wasn’t until early Monday morning that it finally dawned on me.  I had been receiving a sign all along—my gut instinct.  My own intuition kept screaming, “Don’t take the job!”    

I had ignored my gut too many times in my life and have always regretted doing so in the end.  In fact, my last job is a good example of this.  Despite my gut instinct at the time, I took the job and remained trapped in a less than wonderful work environment for years.  Trapped?  Yes, I was trapped for a variety of reasons.  Fear was a big one. Change is scary. And like everyone else, obligations needed to be met, rent paid, and other such things.  So, I stayed. 

However, this time, I decided to listen to my gut.  I turned down the job offer.  Immediately afterwards, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief, and a realization came over me.  This new job would have been much like my prior one, and I didn’t want to repeat that bad experience.  Lesson learned:  Listen to your own gut instincts.

A while after that, I got a card in the mail from an old friend.  Inside her card, she wrote a few lines.  Most of it was nothing too unusual, just an update on her life.  But one of those lines really bothered me.  She asked, “What do I want to be when I grew up?”  I’m very sure this was meant to be a tongue-in-cheek joke, but it had a bite to it.  

And although she was only joking, I know several folks who strongly believe my sister and I are not acting our age and should be sitting on a porch “back home,” knitting rather than seeking out new adventures. However, I don’t knit and neither does my sister. 

Anyhow, I couldn’t shake her question for a couple of weeks.  I kept overthinking it, overanalyzing it.  Was I just a crazy old woman?  Too old to seek out new adventures?  Was I just too old to want to feel alive? 

These types of questions pinballed around my mind until one day a few weeks ago.  While standing at an intersection, waiting for the pedestrian signal to blink walk, I caught sight of a young police officer, and I thought, wow—he is cute. 

“What is wrong with me?” I mumbled quietly.  I was old enough to be his mother.  But still, I felt a sudden urge to throw a rock threw a nearby window so that he would need to put me in handcuffs.  Okay, that is a stretch, but I did give him a second glance before crossing the street. 

That is when I knew that I wasn’t too old.  Inside of my sixty-something body lives a 29-year-old.  Actually, I loved being 29 years old so much that I celebrated turning 29 at least ten times!  Anyway, another lesson learned.  Don’t let others make you feel old. 

Now that 2023 is over, our apartment lease will end soon, and we have to decide what to do next.  Renew the lease? Move on?  Go back home and appease our naysayers? Or seek out another new adventure? 

It is somewhat funny, but the answer to this dilemma came from one of my nieces.  I received an email from her right before Christmas, and she offered a bit of unsolicited advice.  She wrote: Live exactly how you want to and fuck everyone else’s expectations.  I admit that her language was a bit salty, but her advice was spot on. 

Anyhow, my sister and I have talked, and we came to a decision.  We are going to enjoy the ride and not worry about where we end up.  So, what am I saying?  Well, I am not limiting my job hunt only to the DC area. We will let the universe decide which path we take in 2024. 

And yes, I fully expect that many will think that I’m crazy, and I might be.  But I’m also feeling alive right now.

Despite things not turning out as planned, I have no regrets.  The year 2023 had been an adventure even if not the one planned.  There is no sense in looking backwards.  We cannot change the past.  We can only take the memories and lessons learned with us as we move forward into the new year. 

May the New Year bring love, happiness, and good health your way.

***

“The journey, not the destination matters…”  ― T.S. Eliot

“Look at life through the windshield, not the rear-view mirror.” – Byrd Baggett

“‎Though nobody can go back and make a new beginning… Anyone can start over and make a new ending.” ― Chico Xavier

“Life is about accepting the challenges along the way, choosing to keep moving forward, and savoring the journey.” ― Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart

“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.” ― Charles Bukowski

Jerks, Bananas, and Crooked Bangs

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 6 Comments

So, what do jerks, bananas, and crooked bangs have in common?  Not much really—except for one day not too long ago, all three played important parts in my day.

A week or so ago, I was standing in a line to return an item I purchased at one of those Amazon return kiosks.  I am sure that most of you have encountered them.  But just in case you haven’t, the process is pretty simple.  You walk up to the kiosk screen, scan a return code that Amazon previously emailed you, and then drop the package into the attached bin.  Simple, right? 

Well, this simple process proved too much for the young guy ahead of me in the line. He looked to be in his early twenties.  Normally, I would just say he was a Gen Z, but I don’t want to demean an entire generation.  I have found that most “Gen Z-ers” are more intelligent and polite than this particular guy—or more correctly, this particular jerk. 

Yes, jerk is a strong and not very nice descriptive term.  And I don’t like to use such terms, but I can’t correctly describe him as anything but a jerk.

So, what happened? 

The jerk had a large box filled with numerous items to return.  He proceeded to take each item out, scan the return code, put the item into the provided plastic bag, slap the identifying sticker that pops out of the machine onto the bag, and drop the item/bag into the bin.  At this point, the bin’s slot automatically closes and locks.  This is the correct process, and he was doing just fine until he wasn’t. 

Unfortunately, he had a couple of items that were too big for the bin.  And this is where his problem started.  However, I doubt if this would have been a problem for anyone else.  For you see, there is a notice on the bin that warns against depositing large items into it. The notice advises that large items should be brought to the nearby courtesy counter.  Additionally, the woman working the courtesy counter also advised him of the same. 

Apparently, he did not closely read nor listen to this particular tidbit of advice, and he became upset when one of his larger items jammed up the bin.

He hurried over to the courtesy counter, demanding that the bin be fixed.  When the woman did not solve the problem quickly enough, he called her stupid, complaining that he had no idea how to determine what size was “too big” for the bin.  Frankly, I am pretty sure simple common sense should have helped him with determining this, but I am also pretty sure he lacked this trait. 

Much to the woman’s credit, she walked away from a fight, offering to help the next in line (which was me) at the courtesy counter.  I am not sure what became of this jerk, but most likely, a store manager was called over to resolve the situation. 

I thanked the woman for her help and walked away, muttering to myself about what a jerk that kid was.  I certainly hope the kid learned from this unfortunate situation as I would hate to encounter him a decade or two from now when he will be older, more hardened.  By that point, he most likely will be called something a bit more colorful than jerk.

Anyhow, I felt a bit off after witnessing that situation but forged ahead in my day anyhow.  After all, I had errands to run, places to go, and what not.  Simply put, I had things to do. 

A few hours later, I decided to head to the banana truck before going home.  A banana truck?  Okay, I know that most people might not know what I am talking about here.  So, please let me explain.

If I walk a little out of my way, I get to the new Amazon HQ2 complex that was recently opened in Arlington, Virginia, and that is where the banana truck sits.  Inside the truck is a barista, who gives out free bananas to anyone who wants one.  I am not really sure if the person is called a barista, but I don’t know what else to call her.

But to continue . . .

Apparently, at some point, Jeff Bezos decided to give a free, healthy snack to his employees (and the general public).  Hence, the banana stands/trucks were conceived.  As a note, there are two at the Amazon headquarters in Seattle. Other locations include Nashville and Tokyo.

I know people have varying opinions of Amazon and Jeff Bezos, and you are free to hold whatever opinions you want.  But I like bananas, and I especially like free ones. So, I find myself heading to the banana truck on a somewhat routine basis. 

And that day was no exception.  As I neared the banana truck, I noticed a young mother (probably another Gen Z), pushing a small baby in a stroller.  Next to the stroller was a happy little boy, holding a toy truck in his hand.  He raced ahead to the banana truck, happily showing his toy to the barista.  She laughed, joyfully praising his toy. 

I stood back for a minute, observing. What a nice little boy, what a nice young Mom, and what a nice barista, I thought.  My faith in people was quickly renewed.  Strange how little moments can affect one’s day. 

After they left, I grab a banana, thanking the barista.  As I walked away, flashes of a little girl, with crooked bangs popped into my mind.  Back in the day, when I was just “knee high to a grasshopper,” as they say, my mother would cut my hair.  Unfortunately, I never sat still, resulting in my bangs often being cut a bit crookedly. 

I don’t remember being concerned about it.  After all, I was just a kid, and I had more important things to think about . . . like playing in my sandbox with my toys.  Well, it wasn’t really a sandbox.  Rather, it was an old tire with sand inside.  But I loved it. 

I sometimes wonder how that innocent little girl with crooked bangs grew up to be me—a sometimes jaded worrier.  Most of the time, I don’t even think of her.  Rather, I think (and worry) about things like the current state of the world—deadly wars, climate change, and way too many other “grown-up” things to list here.

But I ended that day thinking about the little girl with crooked bangs, and those long-ago memories made me smile.  

Sometimes, it is nice to take a break (even a short one) from thinking like a grownup.  Or at least, it was for me that day, and I highly recommend it. 

***

“For in every adult there dwells the child that was, and in every child there lies the adult that will be.” ― John Connolly, The Book of Lost Things

“Adults are just obsolete children and the hell with them.” ― Dr. Seuss

“I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled.” ― Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

Never Forget: 9/11

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 8 Comments

Today is September 11, 2023, and it is the 22nd anniversary of the terrorist attacks that rocked the United States so long ago.  I remember that day very clearly.  I was at a conference in St. Louis, and one of the conference presenters announced what happened.  Some attendees cried.  But all were in shock.  I was somewhere in between, wanting to cry but too much in disbelief to do so. 

Since all air travel in the U.S. was suspended due to the attacks, I was stranded in St. Louis for several days.  The conference organizers decided to continue the conference as few attendees were able to find a way home.  So, when the conference officially ended, a co-worker’s husband drove from Chicago to pick up his wife, and I was able to hitch a ride home with them.

Actually, I wasn’t going to write about this topic, worried that such a post would touch a nerve, resulting in hateful political comments. And I didn’t want to deal with that.

But the 9/11 attacks are what is on my mind today, and I think that it is important to remember—not only what happened 22 years ago but history in general.   If we don’t learn from history, aren’t we just going to repeat it? 

I will only briefly state the factual details of that day.  Almost 3,000 people lost their lives on September 11, 2001.  Terrorists seized control of four airplanes, using the passenger-filled planes as weapons in a sense.  Two planes hit the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York and one hit the Pentagon.

The final plane was likely meant to hit a target in D.C. but instead crashed near Shanksville, PA.  The passengers and crew of that flight are true heroes who fought back, wrestling the control of the plane away from the terrorists and preventing another act of terror.  Unfortunately, they paid with their lives.

A few months ago, I moved to Virginia and currently live within a relatively short distance of the Pentagon.  Today, as I walked around my neighborhood, I wondered who lived or worked here 22 years ago.  How did they feel that day?  I can guess, of course.  They probably felt much like I did on that day so long ago—feelings of disbelief, sorrow, anger, and grief. 

But I am not going to get into any political discussion about what happened that day or in the days and years afterward.

Today, I am only remembering the victims of the 9/11 terrorist attacks and the families left behind.  It is a simple fact that the parents, spouses, and children are still mourning.  And this is a very sad fact, and that is how I feel today—very sad.   

Shortly after we moved to Virginia, we visited the National 9/11 Pentagon Memorial, which is a permanent outdoor memorial located adjacent to the Pentagon.  My visit at the memorial was a very moving and somber experience, and one that I will remember. 

The memorial is fairly unassuming in design, with simple benches marking the 184 victims who died at the Pentagon.  Perhaps it is the unassuming nature of the memorial that makes it more touching. Lacking in any distracting grandeur, a visitor is left to stand in silence, mourning those who died. 

As a note, the memorial honors both the victims who died in the Pentagon building as well as those on the plane that crashed into it. 

We should always remember the victims, not just of terrorism and war but of all tragic events, such as the recent fires in Greece and Hawaii as well as the recent earthquake in Morocco.  A true tragedy is never about loss of buildings and other material things.  It is always about the loss of life.  As humans, we must never lose sight of our humanity.  We must always remember and mourn those lost. 

Since time tends to erase memories, history, and lessons learned, we must endeavor to always remember what happened on September 11, 2001.

It is as simple as it is hard: Never forget.

***

“If we learn nothing else from this tragedy, we learn that life is short and there is no time for hate.” Sandy Dahl, wife of Flight 93 pilot Jason Dahl

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” George Santayana

“What separates us from the animals, what separates us from the chaos, is our ability to mourn people we’ve never met.” David Levithan

“Even the smallest act of service, the simplest act of kindness, is a way to honor those we lost, a way to reclaim that spirit of unity that followed 9/11.”  Former President Barack Obama

“Time is passing. Yet, for the United States of America, there will be no forgetting September the 11th. We will remember every rescuer who died in honor. We will remember every family that lives in grief. We will remember the fire and ash, the last phone calls, the funerals of the children.” — Former President George W. Bush

Bugs, Hairspray, Puzzles, and War  

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 14 Comments

On a hot, humid evening not so long ago, I heard my sister’s scream from the other side of the apartment. I froze and yelled, “Are you okay?”

Her response came fast.  “Come here quick!”

I hurried to her side, and she pointed at a little dresser.  I was confused. The dresser looked okay to me. I wondered if the summer heat had finally gotten to her.  After all, this summer has been the hottest on record. To put it simply, it has been as hot as hell lately, and it isn’t a stretch to say that it is driving people crazy.

But since my sister is the sanest person I know, there had to be another explanation.  I glanced at the dresser again, then at her, and asked, “What is wrong?”

“There is a really big bug on top of it.” 

I could tell that she was unnerved.  So, I took a step closer to the dresser, and my mouth dropped open at what I saw.

Hiding just under a stack of papers, a coal-black bug glared back at me.  The long antennae which protruded from its head twitched, making its footlong body seem even more ominous.  Well, actually the bug was only an inch or so long, but frankly, that still makes it a damn big bug. 

At that moment, only two words escaped out of me, “Holy shit.”

My sister and I looked at each other.  She reached for a book and took a tentative swipe at it. But the bug darted away.  We jumped back, screaming like two young schoolgirls. 

My sister’s eyes widened as she whispered, “Where did it go?”

“I don’t know.”

“We can’t go to bed with that thing in the apartment.”

“I agree.” 

If you haven’t guessed already, to say that my sister and I are not fond of bugs is an understatement.  This is especially true with regard to really big ones.

Anyhow, we tiptoed around, peering under and behind every piece of furniture in sight.  But the bug seemed to have vanished. 

My sister pointed at the dresser and asked, “What if it went into the dresser?”

I looked over at the dresser, realizing its fabric drawers allowed just enough space between each layer for a crafty bug to silently slip inside.

“I hope not,” I answered, fearing the worse.  The bug was bugging me, and I was getting pissed. 

We inched up to the dresser, and my sister slowly pulled the top drawer open.  We looked in, and there it was, hiding under some socks.  My sister looked at me, asking, “Now what?”

I took a deep breath as the realization came to me that we were at war.  That might seem like an exaggeration, but the truth is the truth.  The bug had invaded our apartment—our home.  It was an invader, and we had a duty to defend our home. 

“Just a minute,” I said, hurrying to the bathroom.  I needed a weapon, and I knew just what to get. 

Luckily, my sister still occasionally uses hairspray—a perfect weapon to battle a bug.  Or at least, I thought so.  After all, the can warns that inhaling it might be harmful or even fatal.  I grabbed the can and hurried to my sister’s side, quickly explaining my battle plan. 

She took the can from my hand and sprayed into the drawer again and again.

When the toxic cloud cleared somewhat, we looked closely into the drawer and decided that the bug must be dead. After all, it was not moving.  With the bravery only a true warrior possesses, she grabbed some nearby tissues and reached for what we assumed was a dead bug. 

But the damn thing moved, and we retreated back a few steps. The plan had failed.    

As the bug burrowed deeper into the drawer, we quickly agreed on a new plan—dump the contents of the drawer on the floor and then stomp on the bug.  We both agreed it was a good battle plan. 

As soon as the contents of the drawer landed on the floor, the bug raced off faster than the devil himself. As it darted pass us, we tried to stomp on it.  We missed.  It was apparent that our plan had failed. 

My sister shook her head.  “Boy, that thing moves fast. The hairspray must have only dazed it.”  

“Agreed.”

“Where did it go now?”

“I don’t know.”  The anger in my voice was unmistakable.  It seemed that the bug might win the war.

I looked at my sister, my comrade-in-arms.  I knew that neither one of us would sleep that night if our enemy, the bug, remained free to roam at will, using the cover of darkness to hide. 

“Don’t worry. That bug is not making it out of here alive!”  However, my attempt at sounding brave failed as much as our previous battle plans.

I surveyed our surroundings, guessing that the bug had headed toward the living room area. Again, we looked under each piece of furniture, seeing nothing.  But soon, we saw it. It was lurking on the back of a foot stool.  As we crept slowly toward the foot stool, readying ourselves for another battle, the bug made a daring and quick dash for safety, heading behind our T.V. 

Lurking among the various cable cords, the bug seemed to glare at us, confident that two humans were no match against its own well-honed survival skills.  Unwilling to use hairspray so close to the TV cables and other gadgets, we settled into a waiting game—a standoff between two battle-hardened enemies.

Eventually, the bug climbed over the cables and hurried away, keeping close to the baseboard.  Two questions popped into my mind.  Did it think that we had given up?  Did it think it could just escape?

My jaw tightened; my eyes narrowed.  It was now or never.  A bold plan was needed.  The bug was fast. So, I had to think faster.

Spotting a nearby stack of puzzle boxes, I quickly formed a new battle plan. I slammed one of the boxes against the baseboard just in time to hit the bug by surprise, pinning it between the box and the baseboard. 

However, strangely, the bug’s antennae and feet were still moving.  What the hell, I thought.  Showing no mercy, I slammed the box on top of the bug again.

“It’s dead now,” I said, smirking at the unrecognizable carcass. 

“Thank god.” 

We checked the apartment for any additional invaders but found none.  In time, my sister turned in for the night, but I remained awake for quite a while. Like a dutiful sentry, my eyes scanned for any new invaders. I remained ready and able for battle. 

Fortunately, no additional bugs came forth.  And eventually, my eyes closed, and I slept, dreaming of bugs, hairspray, puzzles, and war.

Over the next few days, we checked and rechecked for any other bugs and thankfully found none.  We also tried to figure out what type of bug had invaded our home. But since I had smashed it so completely, we will never be sure. 

But there is one thing that I am sure of.  Should another big, creepy bug invade our home, it will not make it out alive.  We will go to war once again if necessary. 

But war is not necessarily inevitable.  We will remain vigilant, doing our best to keep the enemy out of our home. 

Peace is always best, but unfortunately, at times, war is necessary.  That is a sad fact. 

***

“To be prepared for war is one of the most effective means of preserving peace.” George Washington

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”  H.G. Wells

A Visit to the DEA Museum

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 6 Comments

When I moved to the DC area earlier this year, I had expected this summer to be one of sightseeing and new experiences.  But instead, it has been a summer of a broken arm and related surgery, doctor visits, and PT appointments.  I am not complaining.  My situation is what it is.  It takes time to heal, and thankfully, I am well on my way in that regard.

But I have become increasingly antsy lately, growing more and more restless with each day.  Although I want to get back out there, I am not really up to a major sightseeing adventure quite yet.  But I suppose that is only partly true.  I could handle some sort of adventure.  But to be honest, I still get a little nervous when out and about with my still healing broken arm. 

Although my arm is doing very well, and it has been a while since I wore a sling, I remain hesitant to venture too far from home.  Yes, this is a very irrational fear.   I freely admit it.

Simply put, I have always been a worrier. For instance, every time my arm aches or I slightly bump into something, I joke that I broke my arm again!  My sister usually rolls her eyes as she says something like: “What is that the third or fourth time today?” 

But late one night recently, a thought came to me.  I could go on a small sight-seeing adventure. And within minutes, I started googling, eventually discovering that the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) has a museum.  I was surprised and intrigued by this.  And it was both within easy walking distance and free.  Wow, I thought. This was a perfect small adventure to undertake.

The next morning, I pitched the idea to my roomie (aka my sister), and she was willing to check it out with me.  We were unable to head out that same day, but on the following day, my sister and I set off to visit the DEA Museum.

We left early in the day, hoping to avoid the worse of the heat on what promised to be another very hot day.  Unfortunately, it was already hot. As we walked, we grumbled about the heat and humidity, wondering if the museum would be worth our sore feet and our sweat.  You see, the temperature that day was a very humid 900+ degrees.  I might be exaggerating the temperature but only a little bit. 

It took approximately 20 or so minutes to reach the museum, which is located on the first floor of the DEA building in Arlington, VA.  Since the museum is located within a federal government building, there were quite a few armed security guards standing around.  Understandable, I suppose. To gain entrance, we needed to present a photo ID and go through a metal detector. 

Guessing that I would set off the metal detector, I informed one of the stern-looking guards that I had a metal plate in my arm. He told the guard on the other side of the metal detector about my situation.  After the two guards nodded at each other, I walked through the metal detector without incident.  I was happy about this as it was my first experience going through a metal detector with my arm’s newly acquired metal plate.

Once through security, we made our way to the museum.  The museum itself was small but packed with interesting artifacts and information.  The displays ranged from items used to smuggle illegal drugs (such as a koi fish and a car battery) to displays relating to the history of the DEA. Some of the displays were interactive and designed for children. And of course, there is a gift shop. 

There were two displays I found very poignant. The first one was the Wall of Honor, recognizing those who lost their lives while on duty.  The second one was called the Faces of Fentanyl.  This exhibit featured countless photos of those lost from fentanyl poisoning.  When I looked at the faces of those who died because of drugs—whether law enforcement or the victims of the drug epidemic—I felt extremely sad about the very high human cost of drug abuse. 

There is, of course, also a very real economic cost to society as well, such as those relating to health care, lost productivity, and criminal justice-related costs (police, courts, and prisons).  But it was the faces of those who died that touched my heart. 

So, do I recommend a visit there?  I found the museum interesting and thought-provoking.  And although it is small and off the beaten path, it is worth a visit if you are in the vicinity.      

When my sister and I finally exited the museum, it was nearly noon, and we decided to eat prior to returning home.  As we walked, we came across a small pizza joint and went in. The pizza was good, the music too loud, and the clientele much younger than us.  Let’s just say, it was not a pizza joint that catered to the sixty-something set. 

Later on, when the sun had set, I stood looking out of our patio door at the city lights, listening to the roar of traffic, almost feeling the rumble of airliners taking off from a nearby airport, and thinking about the day.  It had been a good one—both the day and the adventure.

***

“One step at a time is all it takes to get you there.” Emily Dickinson

“Just a step at a time, meeting each thing that comes up, seeing it is not as dreadful as it appeared, discovering we have the strength to stare it down.”  Eleanor Roosevelt

PT is Torture!

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 21 Comments

Well, today is exceedingly hot.  It’s very humid and 90+ degrees (Fahrenheit), but this is not unusual right now.  It seems that everywhere in the world is exceedingly hot at the moment.  Some are calling this the “new normal,” but I hope that is not true.

However, I have not been deeply focused on world news right now. Rather, I am more focused on my own new normal—recovering from the surgery on my broken arm.  I have written about my situation in my last two posts. So, I won’t bore my readers again with any more details of the what, where, and how of my broken arm.  If interested, please check out my last posts.

Anyhow, my new normal for the immediate future are my physical therapy (PT) appointments.  I wish I could say that these are enjoyable, but that would be a lie.  But I am not going to bad-mouth any of the torturers therapists.  Like any medical professionals, they have devoted their life to helping others, and I admire this.

In my case, the primary goals of the therapy are to increase the range of motion and strength in my “impaired” arm.  Essentially, the goal is to return my arm to normal function.  To do so, my therapist has developed an exercise plan.  Actually, it is really two plans, one done during the appointment and one that I do at home.  As a note, I have one primary therapist, but due to scheduling constraints, my appointments have been assigned to a couple of different therapists.

As I mentioned above, physical therapy is not fun.  Usually, the appointment starts off gently.  The therapist engages in some small talk, rubs my arm, and then gradually begins therapy. 

By therapy, I mean she tries to bend my arm as far back as it will go, then pulls it out to the side (again as far as it will go), and so on.  Exercises are mixed into the routine, and measurements are taken to determine my progress.

As the therapist works on my arm, questions are asked: How are you doing?  Are you okay?  Does this hurt too much?  Well, frankly, I fib when answering, saying that I’m okay or that the pain is bearable.

Why do I fib? It is probably due to my Midwest roots. I have been conditioned to keep a stiff upper lip. As a result, I hide my pain well. 

In fact, one of the therapists told me that I hide my pain very, very well, adding that some of her other clients have actually screamed out in pain. When she confessed this, I remember looking closely at her, mulling over whether she was joking or not.  I decided she wasn’t.  That was the first time that I glanced at the exit door, wondering if I should make a run for it. 

However, nearly a thousand years ago, when I was in basic training in the military, the drill sergeants would bark out, “No pain, no gain.”   To be honest, I was not very fond of the drill sergeants.  However, they were right.  It is a simple fact. Hard work is required to achieve any worthwhile goal.   

Hmm, I wonder if my physical therapist was a drill sergeant at one time?

One of the therapists also told me that my scar, which runs from just above the crook of my arm to just below my shoulder looks really nice.  I smiled when she said that and joked that I have decided to consider my scar a conversation starter.  Although I joked about it, I was actually serious.  I can’t hide it.  It is a really big scar.  So, I have decided to be proud of it and embrace it. 

Anyhow, I know these physical therapy appointments are necessary, and I will continue going to them.  But just to be very clear:  Continue them—yes. Like them—no.   

“The pain means you’re alive. The scars mean you’ve survived.” R.H. Sin

“Nothing worth having comes easy.”  Theodore Roosevelt

Donuts and a Broken Arm

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 13 Comments

Last Saturday, I ventured outside, and nothing particularly interesting happened. So, you might be wondering why I am mentioning it at all. Let me try to explain.

Recently, a new park officially opened, and they were having a sort of grand opening mixed with a farmer’s market.  As it was close by, my sister and I decided to head over.  The park was crowded, but that was okay with me.  It had been a rough few weeks, and we needed something fun to do. We wanted to feel part of the world again.  And I wanted, and I mean, really wanted a treat such as an ice cream cone.  Well, I didn’t find an ice cream stand there, but I spotted the donut guy. And as far as a treat goes, donuts are a close second to ice cream.  So, yup, I got a donut!

I guess I haven’t actually fully explained why venturing outside was such a big deal. So, please let me explain further.

A few days prior, I watched gray clouds gather in the sky, turning a sunny day into a dark, foreboding one. It didn’t take long for a quick but fierce storm to hit. As storms go, it could have been worse, but it still left damage in its wake. Small creeks overflowed, and tree branches and other debris littered the streets and walkways. 

Much like that day, my life recently was interrupted by a quick but fierce storm. To be more precise, I fell on a sidewalk roughly eight weeks ago, breaking my arm. Unfortunately, my break wasn’t a minor one.  I believe the proper medical term for my break is that it was a doozy. 

I wrote about my unfortunate fall in a previous post. Therefore, I won’t waste time rehashing the details of it. It happened, and unfortunately, I have to deal with the damage left behind. 

During the first few weeks after my fall, I was hopeful that my broken arm would heal without the need for surgery.  However, after a few doctor visits and several additional x-rays, that seemed unlikely.  Despite not wanting to go “under the knife,” I decided to face reality.  Sometimes, you simply have to do what you have to do.  I agreed to the surgery. 

Fortunately, it was outpatient surgery, and my doctor assured me that I would arrive in the morning, be sliced open, have a metal plate jammed into my arm, and then be sent home sometime in the afternoon.  My doctor didn’t actually explain the procedure in this way, but that is what I heard.

Anyhow, the surgery was about three weeks ago. But I remember very little from that day—no doubt due to being placed under anesthesia. To be truthful, I secretly wanted to have an out-of-body experience during surgery and experience my spirit hovering above the operating table as the doctor and his team worked.  I have always wondered if out-of-body experiences are real or just some sort of dissociative episode.  Unfortunately, it didn’t happen to me. So, I still don’t know. 

Despite not remembering much, I have a few memories—a tidbit here or there.  Of course, I remember all of the pre-op activities, which included lots of questions and a ride on a gurney to the operating room.  However, my next memory is waking up very groggy after surgery in the main recovery room. At first, I felt disconnected from the blurry figures hovering around me.  It took some effort for my mind to move pass my grogginess back into reality.

As soon as it was determined that I wasn’t exhibiting any negative effects from surgery, such as an allergic reaction to the anesthesia, I was treated to another gurney ride to a secondary recovery room. I vividly remember a nurse who steered the gurney and kept calling me Mrs. Forsberg.  My mind kept saying that I wasn’t Mrs. Forsberg—that was my mother.  I am not married.  But the words never reached my mouth.

Once in the secondary recovery room, a new nursing team took over, monitoring my vitals and such.  Luckily, my sister was able to join me at this point.  She had been not so patiently sitting in the waiting room during my surgery and anxious to see how I was.  I should also mention that she was my designated “responsible” adult as I could not be discharged without someone to accompany me home after surgery.  After maybe an hour or two, it was determined I could be safely discharged from the hospital. 

The only other thing that I remember clearly from that day was the thoroughly delightful volunteer who showed up in the recovery room once I had been cleared to leave.  He arrived with a wheelchair, ready to transport me to freedom—or more correctly stated, to the hospital exit doors. I wanted to walk, but the nurse explained that it was their practice to transport a patient to the hospital exit via a wheelchair. I suppose it relates to liability concerns.

Anyhow, the volunteer was an older gentleman—easily heading into his eighties.  I felt a little guilty about letting him push me. After all, he was much older than me. But I really wanted to escape the hospital. So, I kept my mouth shut and accepted the ride.  He was friendly, funny, and wore the craziest pair of pants that I have ever seen on someone his age. His pants were decorated with little creatures and such.  I really want to be like him when I am his age—still quirky and full of life. 

Recently, I have started to emerge from the confines of my apartment again. I remember watching a documentary once about an injured bird being rehabilitated and then released back into nature.  The bird soared high above, clearly enjoying his regained freedom.  I now understand how that bird must have felt. 

I am not quite soaring through life yet.  But it is still a treat to go on a daily walk or do something as mundane as grocery shopping . . . or visit the nearby park I mentioned earlier.

Oh, and there is one funny thing that has started to happen as I venture out into the world.  Strangers stop and ask me what happened to my arm.  You see, I am still wearing a sling until I am further along in the healing process. After I explain that I fell and broke my arm, they usually share a similar tale—a broken wrist, shoulder surgery, and so on. 

After hearing a few of their stories, I am starting to feel that my story is somewhat boring, and I am trying to come up with a better tale about how I injured my arm. A skydiving accident? Tackling a bank robber? Needless to say, I am still working on it. 

Anyhow, I am getting a little longwinded.  So, I will cut to the end of my story.  I am doing much better.  Although, I have a metal plate in my arm that runs from just above my elbow to just below my shoulder, the pain in my arm is much less than before my surgery.  But it takes somewhere between 8 and 12 weeks from the surgery to be considered fully healed. And I have lots of PT appointments ahead of me—something I dread.  I have never been a “gym” sort of gal.

Oh, my burning question at the moment is this: Will I set off metal detectors at airports and government buildings?  I guess I will find out in time.

But I have learned some important things lately.  For instance, the general public is much nicer than we sometimes give them credit for.  I won’t even guess how many strangers have held doors open for me, a small act of kindness that speaks loudly.  I have also learned that I am strong and am fully capable of weathering this unexpected storm in my life.

Anyhow, bad things happen to everyone at some point.  I am no exception. But I also believe one must do their best to weather the storms in their life and try to learn a lesson or two along the way. And most importantly, one cannot forget that the sun will shine again after the storm departs.   

“The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.” Dolly Parton

A Broken Arm and Lessons Learned

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 17 Comments

“See you later,” I said to my sister as I headed out our apartment door on a recent Monday morning. 

I hurried to the elevator, determined to get a few errands done before the start of what promised to be a busy day. I didn’t know it then, but it was not going to be a good day.

The elevator glided quickly to the ground floor. My thoughts were focused on the day and the week ahead as I exited the elevator, walked outside, and joined the rush of people on the sidewalk. The noise of traffic and voices blended with the yelps of dogs on their morning walks. I smiled, enjoying the feel of the city as it woke and surged back to life.

I walked to the street corner and stood among a group, watching traffic race through the intersection. I looked around, anticipating becoming part of the morning rush on a more permanent basis.  That thought made me smile again. Soon the traffic lights changed, stopping the traffic and allowing pedestrians to hurriedly cross the street. 

Within a minute or so of reaching the other side of the street, it happened.  And my plans changed—not just for that day or that week but for the near future.

Before I get any further in my story, I think a little background is needed. I recently made the decision to return to the work force after retiring early. I made this decision for various reasons—namely, my feelings of boredom and isolation and to have a purpose to get up in the morning. And to be honest, it was also for the extra income.  As a note, I retired right before the COVID pandemic hit. Talk about good timing, right? 

Anyhow, when I returned from my errands that morning, I had intended to upload my newly updated resume to one of those job-hunting websites that are so popular these days. 

In addition, my sister and I planned a few days of touristy activities in our new area.  The rainy conditions of the prior week had cleared, and the weather forecast was one of mild, sunny days.  Although we had moved to the DC-metro area a couple of months ago, we had went sightseeing only a handful of times. 

Most of our time seemed taken up by getting settled in and accomplishing all of the things newbies to a new state must do, such as obtain a new driver’s license and such.  And actually, for us, this also included extra things like buying furniture and other essentials as we had moved across the country with virtually nothing except a few suitcases and boxes.  Needless to say, we were looking forward to a few days of being tourists.

Now back to my story . . .

Once across the street, I continued on my way. I tend to walk fast and that morning was no exception.  I zipped along, keeping pace with the other hurried souls who shared the crowded sidewalk with me.  But I only got a short distance before it happened. 

I tripped, felt the sensation of falling, and quickly landed on the sidewalk.  I remember thinking or maybe even saying, “Oh crap, I am falling.”  The next thing I remember is lying on the sidewalk, looking up at a metal bench that I likely slammed into.  But I don’t remember actually hitting the pavement nor the bench.  They say our mind can block (or protect) us from such painful memories.

I managed to get upright on one knee—at least somewhat.  I looked at my right arm; it was at an odd angle.  It wouldn’t obey me.  I remember saying in a voice barely audible, “Wow, something is wrong with my arm.”  Truthfully, my language was a bit saltier than that.

With my good hand, I pulled my right arm over to my chest and held it there, uncertain that I could stand.  

Soon I heard a female ask, “Are you okay? Can I help you up?”  The concern was more than apparent in her voice.

I looked up at her, grateful that she stopped to help. “Yes, thank you.” 

She helped me up and over to the nearby bench—the one that I probably slammed into.  Still concerned, she asked, “Did you hit your head?”

“No.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a phone to call someone for help?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. Do you need anything else?”

“No.”

I then thanked her for her help and watched her walk away.

But I had lied to her. I was not okay, and I needed help.  I am not sure why I lied.  Maybe it was because I have always been the independent and strong one—the helper not the helped.  But I am just guessing, of course.

Although the pain hadn’t fully hit yet, my right arm still refused to obey me. I suppose I was experiencing some sort of shock, but I knew something was wrong.   

I slowly realized I could not dig around in my purse for my phone and place a call.  After all, my free hand was too busy holding my disobeying arm in place.

I sat in silence for a few more moments before I forced myself to stand up and to start walking the short distance back to my apartment building. Somehow, I actually managed to reach my building, ride the elevator back up to my floor, and walk to my apartment door.  Still holding my right arm, I banged on the door with my foot until my sister opened the door. 

I noticed the look on my sister’s face.  Fear? Worry? Shock?  I wasn’t sure.  After a second or two of staring at me, she asked, “Oh my god, what happened?”

I gave a brief answer and asked her to call for an ambulance.  I didn’t have the strength to give her many details.  Later my sister told me that I was as white as a ghost, and she worried that I was about to pass out.

When the rescue squad and EMTs arrived, they asked numerous questions as they loaded me into their vehicle.  What I told them was a very simple and short story.  I tripped, fell, and broke my arm.  I hadn’t hit my head, and I hadn’t passed out. And I didn’t feel right.  I still don’t have a word for it. Woozy is as close as I can come. 

The next several hours were spent at the local emergency room, getting x-rays and such.  In the simplest terms, the ER confirmed that I had broken my arm.  It was not a small fracture but rather a full-on break. A temporary cast was placed on my arm, and I was referred to an orthopedic doctor.

My appointment with the orthopedic doctor was two days later.  At that appointment, my temporary cast was replaced with splints and a strange looking plastic cast. This cast apparently allows x-rays to penetrate, making it easier to monitor the healing process.  The doctor also discussed a possible need for surgery, but I am hopeful that will not be necessary.

As the days are slowly clicking by, my pain is getting slightly better, and I am learning to do much with only one available hand.  For instance, it seems strange typing my story with one hand. In fact, much of what I am typing appears to be in ancient Greek.  Thankfully, someone invented the spell-checker feature on computers.

I realize that this story isn’t really an unusual one.  People fall and break bones all the time—slipping in showers, falling on icy sidewalks, and on and on.  It is just one of those things in life that can happen. 

But I have decided not to feel sorry for myself but rather focus on the life lessons I have learned through this experience. 

Okay, that isn’t completely true.  Of course, I feel sorry for myself at times lately—especially when I need to ask for help with simple tasks like buttoning a shirt. 

However, although no one wants to face a hardship or other traumatic event, it is ironic that these are often what teaches us our most important life lessons. And I have learned (and relearned) a few important lessons so far.

First, there are angels who live among us.  I don’t mean necessarily in a biblical sense but in a more flesh and blood sense.  In my case, these angels include the good Samaritan who stopped to help me get up from the sidewalk and the various medical personnel who have aided me—starting with the EMTs, to the emergency room personnel, and to those at the orthopedic clinic.  I have gained a greater appreciation for these types of earthbound angels.

But there is another earthbound angel I must also mention, and it is my sister.  She has been at my side, without complaint, helping me with endless things, including helping me dress, preparing meals, and accompanying me to both the ER and subsequent doctor visits.  She truly has been my angel, and I appreciate her beyond words.  Please remember to thank and value those who always have your back—whether they are family, friends, or frontline medical workers. 

Second, I learned that the old saying you really can’t understand someone unless you have walked in their shoes is very true.  I have gained a greater sense of empathy and respect for those who must live with a handicap permanently—whether physical, mental, or any other type of impairment.  

Third, ice cream helps in any situation, something that I have longed believed.  I am thankful to the farmers and their cows for this divine cure-all.

And finally, I have learned that shit happens, and that is just a fact of life.  Actually, I already knew this. But when things are going well, I tend to forget. But on that fateful day, my broken arm reminded me.  And although I want to roll up into a ball and cry at times, I am not going to. 

As my mother would say: You shouldn’t cry over spilled milk.  Essentially, I can’t change what happened.  It is what it is.  The only question one needs to answer in this type of situation is this:  Do you let it defeat you or do you weather the storm?

My answer? I plan on weathering the storm and emerging on the other side a little stronger and a little wiser. 

***

“There is always a storm. There is always rain. Some experience it. Some live through it. And others are made from it.” Shannon L. Alder

A Pair of Stiletto Pumps

~ Diana L Forsberg ~ 12 Comments

I’m not one of those folks who have a shoe addiction.  My closet has never been stuffed full of endless pairs of shoes.  In fact, I am not even fond of shopping for shoes.  But like everyone, occasionally I have too. And this is the story of my recent experience buying shoes.

First, I should give a little background before I start my story. You see, I have decided to return to the working world, and as a result, I did a quick inventory of my shoes.  Unfortunately, none looked worthy of making a good impression during a job interview.  Actually, a few of my shoes are nearly as old as I am.  I’m exaggerating, of course.  No one owns shoes that are 60 plus years old.  But still, some are decidedly well-worn.

Anyhow, recently I walked to a nearby shoe store.  As I entered the store, I was taken back for a second at its size. It was huge, and this actually made me happy.  Certainly, I thought, there must be a pair of shoes here for me. I strolled over to the ladies’ section and started walking up and down the aisles.  I stopped periodically, looking at different shoes, none of which appealed to me until I spotted a pair of black patent leather pumps perched atop a small pedestal in the middle of a nearby aisle.

The patent leather glistened under the overhead lighting, making the pumps appear strangely alluring. I felt a sudden desire to see them up close, and I hurried over.  In seconds, I was holding the pumps, mesmerized by their elegance. They had long, thin stiletto heels that easily measured at least four inches in height. It is not an overstatement to say the pumps were glamorous, from their very high heels to their very pointy toes. 

It had been years since I tried to wear high-heeled pumps such as these.  I say tried as it is not an easy feat to balance and walk with any grace when wearing thin, four-inch heels.  But as a young woman, eager to impress, I tried from time to time, but it never came naturally to me.  These days I prefer comfortable clunky heels no higher than two inches or so. 

But back to my story . . . I couldn’t resist trying these shiny, alluring pumps on.  I quickly found a shoebox, containing a pair in my size.  I slipped my feet into them and stood, feeling a bit more attractive than usual.

I know what some would say.  Society conditions women to strive for a certain look, and that is probably true.  But there is something about a pair of stilettos that is almost empowering, seemingly enabling a woman to tower over others.  I took a few wobbly steps, and as I did so, my pinched toes silently screamed out in pain.

Ignoring the pain, I checked the price of the pumps as I took them off.  I think that I might have gasped for air as I read the price.  They were beyond expensive. 

Despite this, I debated with myself.  Should I buy them or not?  Were they worth the pain and cost?  I put the shoebox back, deciding to browse more before making a final decision. 

I continued to stroll throughout the store, stopping here and there to try on different pairs of shoes.  Finally, I slipped my feet into a pair of fashionable but practical loafers. I was amazed at how comfortable they were.  I instantly knew that these shoes were the ones for me.  I held my breath and checked their price, relieved at their affordability.  

As I headed to the checkout line, I could still hear the siren song of the stilettos. I fought against the urge to buy them, and I hugged my comfortable shoes tightly, convinced that I was making the right choice. 

After paying for my shoes, I headed for the exit door, taking one last look at the stiletto pumps before turning and walking away.

I have learned and relearned one lesson in life. Some things are not worth the pain and cost they bring to you.   And this applies to more than shoes!

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‘If your hair is done properly and you’re wearing good shoes, you can get away with anything.’ – Iris Apfel