It took me three months 

... to reply to a letter from my perfect, wonderful tenant, who has offered to BUY MY HOUSE several times over the past year. But I finally did it yesterday. TRIUMPH!

This presented a huge "drauma" for me -- dramatic and traumatic. I sweated and shook as I wrote the letter in the smallest print possible, to disguise my quakes and discourage anyone from reading it.

The letter basically said nothing, other than maybe buying me a few more months to make up my damned mind. I really love that house but have no business being its owner. For one thing, I'm 72 miles away from it. For another, in the event that a roof or furnace needed replacing ... OMG. Enough said.

My wonderful and loving partner (WALP?)  is saying, "MEA, LET IT GO, TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN LIKE HELL." He doesn't understand the mental hold that big old place has for me. I can't explain it, either, and it makes no sense. But then, so little of my life actually does, so why would it?

And en route to the library to photocopy said letter (yes, it was written in that prehistoric medium called ink) drauma struck again.

After climbing through the huge construction zone on the main drag (I'd parked on the opposite side because I'm too cheap to pay 25 cents to park at the library) and nearing the building, I noticed that my eyeglasses were not hooked on my shirt-neck, where I had tucked them to make room on my face for sunglasses. 


PANIC!

This discovery required poring through the construction rubble, attempting to retrace steps (but since I had taken a winding and random route, not finding them), running home to see if I lost them there, frantically searching the house as well and yard between the back door andcar, lamenting and berating myself and finally accepting the fact that yet another pair of eyeglasses were lost and this was one seriously expensive letter I had written, and why the hell didn't I park near the library? 

Returning to the library in a depressed state, I planned to park closer this time. But then, thanks to the ADHDer's lack of impulse control, I swerved around at the last minute and parked where I'd parked before. One last attempt at retracing my initial blase route through gravel, outhouse-sized holes in the road, damp cement and sweaty guys in chartreuse shirts.

Then yelling HOLYSH**!! when I saw them literally in the middle of the road, smack dab underneath a rope I had lifted to duck under. My spectacles were within feet of a cement mixer. But saved and unscathed!

Then, I was smiling like Stevie Wonder, saying what a wonderful day this was and being inside the library calmed me down immeasurably, because libraries elicit that wonderful calming response for me. 

Copy made, I hazarded the construction zone again to the post office a block away to mail the damn letter.

I got within two yards of the front entrance, but since I was on the street-rubble side of the fence, there was no easy way to actually get IN the post office. A kind stranger on the other side of the fence saw my lame leaping and halted high-jumping the fence and offered to post my letter for me.

What a great day it turned out to be.

Scatterbrainedly yours,
Mea