I suppose that by some incredible feat of science and nature and fact I am adaptable. I can roll with the punches, I can improvise, I can grow in new and exciting ways in new and exciting directions to meet new and exciting challenges.
This week has beat the Darwin out of me folks.
To that effect, there is no witty and exciting way to tell you that the road trip I have been anticipating since February that would give us a lively romp through the US and Canada is no more. Due in equal parts to the fact that at 25 years of age I have still not learned to listen to my gut combo’d with blind and happy ignorance to common sense, I sadly purchased us plane tickets (sorry Visa) to Ottawa and then to Nova Scotia. You can imagine the unbridled wailing. Jared has a set of lungs on him, I tell you that much.
Gone are plans to see Cloud Gate, stuff myself with Deep Dish Pizza from Uno’s and do a marathon art gallery visit, gone are the numerous video montages of days of travel that I was seriously considering story boarding just to be sure I got it all in.
Gone, after days of reflection, is a lot of stress and pressure. Though pressure undoubtably makes oil and diamonds and fossils and genetic mutations that make us crawl out of primordial soup and the industrial revolution, you know what else stress does?
Crushes you and makes you one hell of a bitch-ass girlfriend.
If we are anything, we are adaptable and strong. Ok, and because Jared quickly discovered 2 years ago that as long as I have food to look forward to I’m happy, we have planned a week long trip to Ottawa that contains a three day trip to Maine. I may have given up dreams of eating my weight in Uno’s, but that has been replaced by a pact Jared and I have made to find a way to eat at lobster shacks every meal for three days straight.
When I was younger, I used to clean our fridge. Clean. Color co-ordinate. And alphabetize. I used to, at varying points in the day, dust my ceiling, mop my bedroom floor (even going so far as to make it a game, sitting my sister on a scrubby and pulling her around) and take a good half an hour to arrange my bedroom curtains before I went to bed so I could sleep.
Sometimes this still sneaks into my life – I’m returning to or calling work a few times to make sure I’d forwarded the phones, getting up multiple times to make sure the door is locked, loosing my shit for days when the hairdresser cuts my bangs wrong, wide and wheeling stretches of panic and looped thinking when I make mistakes.
It is careful, calm and quiet, and I don’t notice that it has slipped back into my life until I realize I haven’t slept well for days because I’ve been standing at our front door panicking, guarding against something that has already snuck in. My carefully laid plans are often so much more to me, the ability to adapt and move forward is something that I covet, because I don’t always have it.
When Mrs. Daisy hit me on Thursday, when we rerouted our travel plans this week, I felt it all. That no matter how careful of a cyclist I was, no matter how many times I double checked hotel reservations and map quest routes that there are things that I cannot control. It is elementary and silly and evident to most of us most of the time that we do not hold all the dead bolts and drivers wheels and reservations. But sometimes, when somebody smacks them all out of your hands and your control…
Sometimes you do adapt. And sometimes, blissfully, that too is beyond your control.