Hello Reader. I tempted the malevolent forces of the Universe with my almost-giddy post about finally getting back to my writing desk. Which I was certain would happen yesterday.
It did not.
A most miserable form of winter contagion has befallen three out of five of the inhabitants of the Wee, Small House. I will spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say there has been a lot of laundry, a lot of care-taking, and a lot of cleaning up after the stricken.
I’m back and forth between dumfoundedness and maniacal laughter, sprinkled (in my better moments) with the zen-like mantra: “Relax. Nothing is under control.” Strangely enough, this mantra has helped me relax.
Today, between loads of wash, I staked a claim for poetry by sneaking off to the library to pick up an item I’d requested through the Super Library-Nerd Lending Program. If nothing else, I will have committed that act in the name of poetry today — this must mean something.
While there, the librarian said to me, “I’m sorry but your library card is no longer usable. I’ll have to give you a new one with a new number.” (Note the condition of my library card in photo above — it’s a little, ah, beat up). This poor man had no idea how close I came to bursting into tears and weeping on his desk. I become attached to my library cards. I save them all. My library card is my ticket to the world, and a record of where I’ve lived. My card number is etched on my heart. I was *so* looking forward 20 years hence to bragging, “I”ve had my library card so long it starts with 2000!”
I faked a smile. “Okay!” I said, too-perkily, “but can I please keep the old one?”
(Insert librarian’s am-I-speaking-to-an-allien look here).
“Sentimental reasons,” I said.
“Ummmm. Sure,” he replied.
And I’ve learned my lesson. I’m never, ever going to say, “Tomorrow, I’m going to spend all day at my desk” out loud again.