Life in the Weeds

I'm feeling very Annie Dilleresque today. In The Writing Life, Diller jots down her thoughts, little packets of creation that often have nothing to do with each other, but that come together to comprise a portrait of her life. I loved that book so much because that's how I think--in bite-size pieces--and frankly, it's a lot more expedient on a day of having to finish work and taxes. Here, a few of my ridiculous episodes from the week.
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Once a few months back, I asked one of the women on the BlogHer sales team, Megan, how she was doing.

She said that she was working frantically on a number of projects at once--a rush of opportunities that had come her way that she absolutely couldn't turn down, but that were overwhelming, considering they were all needing her attention at once.

"I'm in the weeds," she said, "in a good way."

I think this term defines the past few years for me--opportunity after opportunity, none that I want to let pass me by. They pull me down into a place where I' temporarily lose vision of the whole playing field, down to the blades of grass, where things really happen.

So what's the metaphor? To be like a grasshopper, living in the weeds but jumping over them from time to time to get a sense of place? Or to be like a bird, flying overhead and swooping down occasionally to eat and to rest? When you are in a start-up you often do both, depending on the week.
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Morning Yoga

I had a meeting on Thursday--not an unusual situation. H-band had left for work, and I was scrambling to get dressed and out the door in time to get stuck in traffic. Again, not an unusual situation.

In a typical morning I have to prioritize, and this hierarchy of tasks is dictated by Ginger, our Maine coon. Ginger is soft and lovely, and she makes anyone she sits on look like a Calico Bigfoot--she sheds a lot. The first few years with Ginger I didn't pay much attention and had to endure well-meaning people picking the hairs off of my outfit. Now I wait until the very last minute before getting dressed, avoiding the couch or any contact with Ginger in order to be as lint-free as possible.

I bought a new dress, one that zips in the back. It's plum and made of this plush felt material, the kind that Ginger loves to rub up against. I knew better than to give her that chance, so I waited until the last minute to get dressed, well after H-band had left for work.

It was a bad decision. I had forgotten something pretty critical--the zipper in back of my dress that spanned from my tailbone to the nape of my neck. I zipped myself about halfway up my back and couldn't go any further. Why didn't I take those yoga classes seriously, when I had to try to simultaneously snake one hand up my back and lock fingers with the other hand, which was craned over my shoulder? I never realized the practical application of that pose.

I needed to be at a client meeting in an hour. I took a few deep breaths and concentrated. I was able to inch the zipper with my lower hand about another half an inch, but it still wouldn't join with my upper hand. So I did what I always do when I'm in trouble and my husband is around, I called my neighbor, Britt. But she didn't pick up.

I looked outside my front window for nice, understanding people who might be kind enough to help me out. No one passed by. Would it be strange if I knocked on my other neighbor's door? Or if I kept my coat on when I arrived at my meeting, and then asked my colleague to kindly do me up?

This is absurd, I thought. Dresses that zip in the back have been made for years, and for years did women need to get dressed in the presence of someone else to get them on?

I contemplated a new outfit, or a sweater to cover the opening in back. I had to give it a last shot.

Perhaps it was a freakish, temporary flexibility that came with panic, but I tried once again to snake one arm up my back, and one down my spine. They connected!

I told H-band this story with the same excitement and relief that one has when describing a car wreck that she escaped. He suggested that in the future I use a piece of string to loop in and then pull.

Someone should patent that.
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The Sacrifice

I was boarding a flight I booked very last-minute, meaning I had to suck up sitting in a middle seat. I realize I should be grateful getting a seat, period, when I book the day before a trip, but when you travel a lot, middle seats are just, well, a drag.

I sit down and don't notice the cold right away, not until it begins to seep into my pants. I jump up and pat the seat beneath me; whomever had been sitting there before me had dropped something wet and with ice cubes.

Fortunately the man sitting next to me was sympathetic.

"That's unexcusable!" he said, hailing a flight attendant.

The flight attendant was equally sympathetic; she gave me two options: 1) wait for a seat cushion swap that would delay our flight by about an hour or 2) suck it up.

"I'll take two blankets." I said.

Comments

Wow...that certainly IS a "life in the weeds!" At least it sounds like you found a way to make it through an initially frustrating situation. :)

Posted by: Zandria | March 09, 2008 at 01:10 PM

Yoga Shmoga...I would have been telling that story from my hospital bed had I attempted that one. Oh, I could feel every muscle in my body spasm just reading it.

You may be living your life in the weeds sweetie, but there's an abundance of the most amazing blossoms blooming around you. ~Mom

Posted by: Joy | March 09, 2008 at 01:35 PM