Lately I've been finding myself doing things that, in my imagination, go far better than they do in reality. Is this how adult life works? I would rather not investigate further but I have a sort of uneasy feeling that I may not have a choice. Somewhat remarkably, most things in my life thus far have pretty much gone as I've expected--or better. This is because I keep my expectations exceptionally low, albeit privately. Publicly, I know no one likes a Debbie Downer, which is what we call my Dad when he gets particularly negative. He hasn't figured out how to keep that downer attitude under wraps yet, which is why I know for a fact that popularity isn't bred from a bad attitude--Debbie has been denounced and exiled from my familial home many times by my Mother, who is somehow naturally cheerful and optimistic and hopes for the best and roots for the underdog. All else aside, if you grew up with a Saint you too would keep your assumptions of the worst to yourself. There's just something about a Northwest summer though that puts me in a different frame of mind. I told you I'd be singing praises, and this latest stretch of sun ball weather has come close to initiating a total paradigm shift. Maybe it's waking up and seeing light instead of rain, darkness, and impending doom out my bedroom window. Maybe it's Hobson Happy Hour with camp chairs in the creek. Maybe it's the fact that I have a tan and I no longer look like a white walker. Speaking of white walkers, maybe it's because Spencer and I recently discovered Game of Thrones, which isn't strictly weather related but could be a possible contributing factor. Who knows? I don't have to understand it to enjoy it!
But suddenly I do things like volunteer to water the garden. Actually I'm going to be honest, I didn't volunteer, I was told I had to water the garden, OR ELSE. Which was fine with me because it was a beautiful day! This is God's Glory! The land, now that's really living! Sure, we've heard it all before. So I go water, with a weird sort of farmer's daughter vision in my head that was part Little House on the Prairie and part The Simple Life but no part what actually was. What actually was was me becoming increasingly disgruntled while I hauled an unwieldy hose up the hill, into a garden that was full of increasingly disgruntled bees. It didn't take long for jungle rot to settle onto my feet, which were forming their own ecosphere in my rainboots with the amount of sweat and God only knows what else was coming off them. It also didn't take long for me to get covered in mud, which I'll admit, I really didn't see coming--it was dry as a bone out there. But, alas, by the time I was done there was a slick brown lather on every exposed piece of skin. Which was a lot. Because it was so hot.
But I persisted. I cut roses. The roses cut me. Perhaps you've heard the words of ever-wise Poison front man, Brett Michaels--turns out that every rose does have it's thorn. And then I potted plants, which was perhaps my worst choice of the day, and that's saying something. Potting soil has a particular quality to it that makes it extremely pokey. Except unlike most pokey things, it's not a blunt poke, or even a sharp stab. It's an unholy chill kind of poke, so you can't even tell really where it's coming from but suddenly your whole body is rolling in discomfort.
I can see, in some lights, how this would be fun. The sun was shining, the garden was green, there was a breeze. It could've been worse. It also could've been better. This may be my new life motto. More on that later.