Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
The warm and fuzzy thing...
In my last therapy session, I told my guy that shame had tweaked me more than usual, like the Critic does not like all this worthiness I am trying on like a new bathing suit. See, Critic says, back fat! Lumpy thighs! Shame on you! And then, I did something worthy. I did my taxes. You see, I am kind of cheap, and I think I am more creative than TurboTax or H&R Block. They would probably not consider the dogs to be "security" as I used to claim when I lived at the house on the edge of the world, where badness slept under every bush. So I wrestle with the mountain of receipts, tame them into a dandy Lotus worksheet, and run it all up the flagpole to see if anyone salutes it and sends me the refund to which I am so sweetly entitled. The whole operation takes up the majority of a day, and involves storage boxes, a pencil sharpener, and a lot of yelling to keep Punkin from rolling around in all that paper spread out on the office floor. Once it was done, aside from the fact that there will be a dandy refund this year, I felt all warm and fuzzy, like what a good girl am I. So Ian, my baby therapist, commanded the homework this week be something that captures that feeling on paper. I really didn't plan on it being this darling baby girl (no I don't know if it is a "she" or not, but if I say so, she is}, but I do know that whenever I feel all surly and sure that this life is just not worth the effort, I like to look at pictures of baby animals. So full of hope and promise. Cannot wait for Ian's appraisal. The lion is going to therapy, too. Much more indicative of my nature at the moment. Quiet for the moment, with prospects of big outburst of power in the future.