Picking Daisies
I hate balancing the checkbook. Numbers and I have had an adversarial relationship for as long as I can remember, and I don’t see those hostile feelings changing anytime in the future. My husband, however, loves numbers. He sneaks out in the middle of the night to work on Excel sheets instead of staying between the bed sheets. What’s with that?
Last week we were going through our bank statements and I discovered an odd additional “fee.” At first, I railed against the system convinced they had charged me unfairly. “They are always adding new costs,” I muttered. “It’s ridiculous.” My husband, in his number happy zone, asked a few questions about how I might have incurred the charges. Okay, fine, be logical.
As we worked through the paper trail, it turned out I hadn’t used the right card to get cash from an ATM. Oops. My inattention (scattered brain, menopausal fog, kidnapped by aliens for a moment…please pick an excuse that works for you) cost me $15 which, I still insist, is ridiculous. It was my mistake, though, and I apologized to my husband. He kissed me on the forehead and said, “Been there.”
In the past, I would have brooded over my screw up for days. How busy am I that I don’t even notice which credit/debit card I’m using? Where’s my head? Surely that $15 could have been put to better use.
But somewhere in there, I realized those messages are coming from my childhood, the place where making mistakes was assigned shame and punishment. I don’t want to live with those voices anymore. Those echoes from the past function to make me feel less than, and how is that serving me today?
So, I shoulder nudged my understanding husband and we moved on. I still hate numbers, but I’m starting to sloooooooowly love myself.
Emerging from the cocoon.
If I Had My Life Over I’d Pick More Daisies, by Nadine Stair at age 85
If I had my life to live over, I’d dare to make more mistakes next time. I’d relax, I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but I’d have fewer imaginary ones.
You see, I’m one of those people who lived sensibly and sanely, hour after hour, day after day. Oh, I’ve had my moments, and if I had to do it over again, I’d have more of them. In fact, I’d try to have nothing else. Just moments, one after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day. I’ve been one of those persons who never goes anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat and a parachute. If I had to do it again, I would travel lighter than I have.
If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would go to more dances. I would ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.
