Everyone (else) seems so competent, so pulled together. They always have umbrellas when and where they might actually be useful, neat homes, back-up plans, and extra coffee. They seem to know what they want in and from their careers, aren't afraid to take phone calls from unknown numbers, and they probably call their mothers on Sundays as they should.
Is there some class they took, and I was sick that day? I don't know how to negotiate a new job, buy a car, get my house painted, orchestrate a big move, or weed a garden. And the not-knowing terrifies me, every.single.day. Are these skills that I just didn't learn? Or does no one know how to do them, until they do them, and then they know? I'm reminded of the passage in Neil Gaiman’s novel The Ocean at the End of the Lane, “Grown-ups don’t look like grown-ups on the inside either.... Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. The truth is, there aren’t any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.”
Yes, I had one of those days when I fell apart, when adulting didn't happen. It was instructive, as they always are. I managed to get through it, however inelegantly, which speaks to some modest (very modest) improvement in my life-planning skills. And, I suppose, all manner of things shall be well.
I do need more and better back-up plans, though. That is part of my mission of being safer every day than I was the day before. I need to apply for an emergency credit card and reserve its use for travel. That would have gotten me through today's drama. I need to always stay in the conference hotel; that would have eased this day considerably. If nothing else, those are two important and simple take-aways from today. And those are changes that I can make, soon enough.
But there's another little piece of this. Instantly, and embarrassingly, on days like this, I get a flood of resentment toward my ex-husband. It's a huge feeling that just about swamps me - teaching me that there's still quite a bit of work to do in that little arena, otherwise the feeling wouldn't be so powerful the minute I don't have the energy to tamp it down. Secondly, it reminds me that I had a role in our dysfunctional dance; I expected him to take care of me. And in some ways he did, so I resent its absence when it would be convenient. And finally, I wonder now if he, too, was scared all that time. Maybe he didn't know how to buy a car, either. Or buy a house. Or get a new roof. Maybe that's where all the postponements and dawdling and neglecting stemmed from. It doesn't make me less mad at him, for all kinds of things, but it humanizes him a little. Vulnerability sucks.
People struggle, and with things more important than how to get your house painted. I get it that I am fretting about stuff that needs a hefty dose of "perspective, if you please." But from this comparatively safe place, I can figure out ways to turn fear into power. I can protect myself. I can have backup plans, and those plans can have backup plans. I can make my peace with where I am. And I can learn, again today and in new ways, to be a powerful person on the planet.
And I can put a damn umbrella in my suitcase. For crying out loud.
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