A week without

This post should be backdated, along with the next few. My computer died.

 Actually if truth be told, my computer was hijacked by my surprise visiting, social cue missing, computer crazed, father.  Somewhere in his first day here, about the time I really needed to get rolling on a project, my ever well-meaning husband asked for a little help from the dad, working on my lap-top’s speed. Cut to 7 days later and I was the silent partner in a crazy film. I was the one in the background, maybe outside looking in through double-thick windows, screaming and pounding with no answer from the men doing surgery on my dear little grey friend.  I was not in control. My computer was held without ransom.

 A week past and the father has launched on some hair-brained adventure he’s attempting at age 72 (which involves biking 76 miles at 12,000 feet elevation).  Though I’m grateful he and my husband wanted to “support” me, it’s hard after having lost my computer – my life – for a week, not to feel like the victim of their game.  This computer repair became more about a play of egos, than about helping me. That’s how I feel anyway.

 Should I complain, which I certainly did, the only result would be a stubborn look of distaste from my better half, and a flurry of drama from my father at my thinking writing was more important than a properly high-functioning computer system (remember social-cues = Missing).

 Never mind, this is all first world issue. My house is now empty, children at school, granddad biking the mountains, and me chipping away at improving me on my new island.

 Remember that list? It’s about adventure and it’s high time we had some.  I feel the edges of a regular week routine sneaking in, which it should, but I need to focus on how it lands on my day.

 This weekend I will be taking a class on Rowing. Two days spent on the Puget Sound leaning the ins-and-outs of paddling a team boat.  I’m aware this is something that has called me for years, and am equally scared to death of what I will be in this team’s presence.  After three years of feeling like the “large white lady” in Hawaii, I feel in my gut this dread about showing up in a swimsuit and pretending to be athletic.

 Body shame. I am afraid of exposing myself. I am afraid of appearing “big”, even if, and it’s really true – I am big.  I have never been petite, and yet I panic at the thought of being placed with my like-sized big girls in whatever part of a boat crew accommodates those of us in the Viking stature category.

Here’s to a weekend of doing something that scares the shit out of me.