Blue funk

You may have wondered why you haven’t heard from me in awhile.  I have been in a blue funk.  Appears this is a yearly phenomenon as you have seen two past March entries of similar post-winter doldrums.  And given the winter we recently survived in Chicago, I must say I am amazed that I am still standing at all.

My last post was the beginning of my downward spiral, talking about back aches, stiff knees and hip replacements rearing their ugly heads. No, life beyond our forties, ain’t for the faint of heart. And it’s downright exhausting. Just rolling out of bed in the morning (something for years I arrogantly took for granted) is an event in itself and getting through the day in one piece becomes an accomplishment.

So much to my surprise, my turn around from poor pitiful middle-aged me was a simple thing. Most of life’s “ah-ha” moments are seemingly nothing moments and often unexpected.

But in the flick of a wrist, I am back.

I swatted a fly mid-air and killed it.  And believe me, the fly was as stunned as I was.

It was one of those huge black and green-striped things that spontaneously combust from every crevice in your house right as spring is springing. God knows where they lurk all winter but first warm day with a hint of above sixty and out they pop, the size of small dive bombers, flying in frenzied circuits all over the house and then dopily banging into windows as they run out of gas.

Mine, of course, was in its first rush of post-hibernation exuberance which made my victory all the more satisfying. I was walking toward the computer to actually attempt a post on a completely different subject, which now escapes me.  Another sign of being “on in years.”

Anyway this fly, or small bird, was wildly circling the office, the roar of his buzzing louder than the tinnitus in my ears (don’t even get me started) and in a flash,  I knew my moment had come.

I dashed to the kitchen and returned armed with my swatter.  I had a few failed attempts at ensuring his demise, using perfectly precisioned swats on his ADD intermittent touch downs, but missing.

Then, I felt a burst of confidence.  A return of my youthful devil-may-care entusiasm and throwing caution to the wind, I smacked at him mid-flight and with that, he fell to the ground. No buzzing.  No irritating attempts at another take -off.  Dead. Done.

After a few victory laps around the room, my warrior weapon thrust proudly in the air, I sat down with the swatter swinging lazily from my fingers.  A sort of a post tennis match pose the pros use when their opponant is dripping in sweat and the victor is calmly pondering his racket in mock humility.

And I thanked that fly.  I thanked him for helping me get my mojo back.  He was a sign of spring, rebirth, renewed energy and in spite of the fact that I squelched all that good stuff for him, my moment of athletic prowess was just what I needed to reemerge myself.  To remember that there is more juice in this engine and plenty of miles to cover on the road ahead.

I fell asleep quickly and slept soundly, for the first night in weeks. New hope welled in my chest and other than the bag of ice I have tied to my game point elbow this morning, I am a new woman.

Tonight, I am sleeping with my swatter by my bed.

Next victory, I might  start that novel.