Garrison Keillor, a Minnesotan, recently reminded us wimps, “It’s winter, not the tribulation!”
Yet, here I sit, hiding out in my room in Palm Desert. It’s cold outside, in the 50s. “Unseasonably,” according to the weather woman. I’ve spotted some Canadians in the pool, hopping in and out of the hot tub like unfinished popcorn. I can imagine some saying, “By golly, we paid for this and we’re gonna use it! Our parkas can go in the dryer.” I love Canadians. (It’s a good day for blanket statements.)
They’ve come from Idaho, Canada, Minnesota to the desert, some still wearing parkas, ski hats and scarves. A few furs, fake I’m pretty sure, showed up at church. Locals. We’ve had frost advisories. Some flowers didn’t get the message, nipped in the bud.
Well, not me. I’m sitting inside wearing layers and grateful for socks to fill out my sandals, ill-packed, along with my swimsuit and other clothes meant to handle heat.
So when did I become so wimpy and whiny? Am I not the same person who often writes about gratitude? Yes, and that’s just one of the things that bugs me about me. I am both.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and ask,”God, what were you thinking? Having second thoughts? I’ve got this Scandinavian DNA, linked to Vikings, who did unmentionable “tings”, and folks who swallowed lutefisk without gagging, and walked miles to school (exact distance unknown). ‘Ve didn’t have busses. Ve had boots!’ I come from people who tell the same jokes(yokes) year after year and find them hilarious with or without the punchline. Are you sure about me, God?”
Just called my son for something warm to do. He asked what I’m doing.
I said, “Reading, writing and ‘rithmatic.”(Exploring how to lower my expectations. Nothing’s adding up.)
“What did you say, Mom?”
“Just chillin’ “
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