Here’s the deal. I know it’s two weeks from Thanksgiving and I “should” be writing about all things Thanksgiving. But I can’t. Why? As it turns out, I don’t do well with “I can’t.”
Since I can’t do I can’t, I’ve decided to jump out of an airplane and do outrageous things instead. Want to join me?
I want to write about Thanksgiving.
I planned to. My blogging planner has a ton of great ideas penciled in. (Today was SUPPOSED to be a caramel granola that would make the perfect topping for a cranberry and apple baked dessert.)
But every time I try to write about holiday stuff, I come smack up against reality and end up in a temper tantrum.
Right now, my reality doesn’t include beautiful photo spreads of cranberry sauce, smoked turkey, and caramelized brussels sprouts. It doesn’t include a hand crafted wreath of living herbs for my front door. It doesn’t include polishing the heritage silver and crystal.
I wish it did. I could use the Pinterest traffic from those photos.
My big culinary achievement this week was a tie between boiling water (I made spaghetti using frozen meat sauce) and starting a fire (I got the charcoal started to grill something from the freezer).
Y’all, this knee thing stinks.
It’s been two weeks since my surgery. I had NO IDEA how much time I’d spend getting over that stinking surgery. Between physical therapy sessions, the home P.T. I’m doing, and all the time I spend with my knee propped up and iced I’m losing several hours a day.
I went to church Sunday and had to spend the rest of the day in bed.
We won’t talk about the grocery store or the fact that I haven’t been to Target in over two weeks.
So every time I start trying to plan for Thanksgiving, I run up against my big list of “I can’t do it yet.”
(For what it’s worth, I think the official Thanksgiving plan involves showing up at my moms house with a bottle of wine in each hand.)
It turns out that I don’t do I can’t.
I cried my way through a good part of P.T. yesterday because there was something I couldn’t do.
Specifically, I can’t stand up or sit down without using my hands or doing something weird with my hips. I kept trying until I was exhausted. I wasn’t crying from the pain, I was crying in pure frustration and anger that I couldn’t manage to do something as simple and straight forward as standing up.
I’m good at faking “I can’t.”
I know, it doesn’t make sense. When my kids are around, I’m really good at letting them bring me ice for my knee. I’m good at asking them to bring me a glass of water or start a load of laundry.
I’m fabulous at avoiding heavy lifting and deep cleaning activities. I’m not touching the vacuum cleaner or taking out the trash any time soon.
I stink at the actual “I can’t.”
What I stink at is the stuff I think I SHOULD be able to do but can’t.
I think I should be able to dance with joy with my children. I can’t (yet) and it makes me mad.
I think I should be able to ride a bike. I can’t even make the pedals go around on the stupid stationary bike in P.T. Not yet. But I will soon!
You get the idea. My list of things I can’t quite do yet is huge, and every one of them irritates the snot out of me.
I don’t do “I can’t.”
In my head, I’m still young and energetic and able to bend my knees. The part of me that makes up my to-do list every day, sets long term goals, and dreams is about 22. Unfortunately, the rest of me is 47, out of shape, and recovering from knee surgery.
Y’all, this aging thing stinks.
I don’t think of myself as old. (Clearly, I still think of myself as 22. Given that my boys are eight and nine, there are a few logical flaws with my mental age. But work with me.)
Since I’m not “old” yet, I know I’ll recover from the knee thing. Sometime in the next few months I’ll be back to dancing with my kids and chasing them around the yard with the water hose.
But at some point, I’ll get old.
At some point in the far future, my “I can’t” list will grow again.
If the past two weeks are any indication, I’m going to be really bad at getting old. Right now, my “I can’t” list is really an “I can’t YET” list.
But someday… the word YET gets replaced with the word ANYMORE.
(That’s my new official definition of “old” – when YET gets replaced with ANYMORE.)
I’m probably going to one of those blue haired old ladies who jumps out of airplanes and breaks a hip doing something embarrassing. Why? Because I can.
Don’t tell me I can’t because I don’t *DO* “I can’t.”
Sorry kids, this mom is NOT going to age gracefully. I see some purple spandex leopard pants in the distant future.
Share with me! What outrageous thing do YOU wan’t to do in old age? Shall we start planning our adventures now?