When a Lump of Coal Turns Into a Fig

 This kind of fig, since I've made this post title inscrutable to anyone not in the FIG club. 

It's been a bit of a tough week. I'm in the middle of a two-and-a-half-week husbandless stretch, on the heels of a six-month period when he's been gone about half the time. I'd like to think that I am a strong independent woman, but little parts of my body and brain and house and car keep catching fire or shutting down, and I am feeling demoralized and incompetent. An incomplete list of fuckery includes 27 cm of snow over three days - friend's son and neighbour and Sam the Plow Guy all helped, but I tried to shovel a bit more than I could handle, which made my lower back and tweaked knee worse, a badly cut finger due to my own stupidity (don't ask - at least it's not on the middle finger I need to put in my contact this time), a dead car battery twice, a clogged sink, and a worsening sense of dread and gloom.

I've had issues with my knee in the past, but it always responded well and quickly. to a program of stretching and yoga. Something about walking in the snow with Lucy aggravated it this time, and nothing was working. I was texting with my athletic-trainer son last Saturday, and he suggested a stretch which made it feel immediately much better, but then I thought I should try to keep moving to keep it loose, and got on the treadmill and kept yoga-ing, but it turns out the 'rest' part in 'rest, ice, compression, elevation' is fairly important. The whole knee thing makes me feel old and hobbled, which contributes to the feeling of doom and decay. 

I missed bar night last week because at this time of the year I can be okay during the day, but once the sun goes down I find it difficult to get myself out of the house. I was determined to make it there this week, so I went out, opened the garage and pressed the start button on the Rav and.... nothing. Because of course.

I was admittedly prepared to slide down a slope of self-pity, even though I know, I KNOW so many people who have it much worse. I put it on the What'sApp that the vehicle was dead, and the full might of the Barrhaven friend group descended immediately. Two people showed up with auto-boosters, while other people whisked away the non-car-helpers to the bar. The rav was driven frontways into the garage which is a very, very tight fit, and the friend we have often called Big Dave had to perform some fairly impressive contortions to get in between the hood and a table. Once the car started and he started to shimmy back out, my other friend said "you know she could back out now, right?", but honestly I was too afraid to put the car in gear at all at that point.

I drove to the bar and left the car running for a good stretch, and it started again to drive home (no one left until they knew I was good to go). The next day I was trying to decide if I should bring it in to the dealership, and my friend Hannah (HI HANNAH YOU GENIUS) suggested that I join CAA (because duh, why hadn't I already) because it probably would kick in fairly soon. I looked it up and it's a 24-hour waiting period, so I joined, and now I am waiting for my roadside (driveway) assistance to arrive and swap my battery, watching Shetland instead of feeling awkward in a waiting room (is it just me, or are there an awful lot of murders for a fairly small island). I had to cancel a chiropractor appointment and might not get out to vote early (the actual election is next Thursday, and my voting place is the school I work at Wednesday morning, and I am unreasonably cranky about this). 

So I'm having a bit of a hard time. which is fine, because it's the bleak midwinter and my brain doesn't always work that well. But I have no excuse for acting like I'm alone, because clearly I'm not, even though things do have a mysterious tendency to go to shit the minute my husband is out of Canadian airspace. This is still better than the time he was in Europe and all the bathroom fixtures stopped working and then Angus was doing Crossfit at school and a weight fell on his head and I had to pick him up and take him for concussion evaluation. That time I texted Matt the update "Toilet - broken. Shower - broken. Angus's head - broken". 

This merry band of buffoons, though - fully operational. Although now they want me to go curling. Because why not round out this week by taking my precariously-balanced brain out on a treacherously slippery surface.