2011 was the year I was going to finally “get it together.” No more being a slob. I went out and bought some new clothes, new makeup even a new purse. I started cleaning and organizing my house. I decided I was going to finally become that mature person whom people admire (yet secretly despise).
Only it seems I’d forgotten something. Something very important. It seems you can dress up all you want, but you still have to be able to “pull it off.” You see I’m one of those people who walks around with her lunch on her shirt. Who can’t seem to walk through a doorway without running into one side or the other and who runs around looking like a six year old chose her outfit. None of which particularly matters if you never leave the farm, but I was planning to leave more often this year and hoped to make a better impression when I did.
I filled the water bucket this morning to take out to the chickens. Dressed in my lovely “doing chores” outfit of sweat pants, muck boots, a green Carhart jacket, leather gloves and a ratty homespun scarf and hat, I started out the door with the bucket. The two dogs raced ahead of me down the stairs; they know the routine. Then, out of nowhere, I had done a lovely 360 pirouette and landed flat on my back in a flower bed filled with a snowdrift. What happened to the bucket of water you ask? It landed directly on top of me, of course.
I laid there, soaked to the bone. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that it’s a balmy 29 degrees today. The dogs returned and looked at me as if to say, “what did you do that for?”
I wasn’t injured. Not physically anyway. Looking up to the sky I said out loud, “So this is how it’s gonna be, huh?”
I was not impressed. I got up, brushed myself off and grumbled a few things under my breath. I made my way to the chicken coop, and opened the the hatches. One of my favorite things every morning is watching Old One-Eyed Calico Jack come strutting out of the coop. He has a funny walk down the plank that he does because he only has one eye. Every day I say to him “Good morning, Big Guy.” It makes him feel good (‘cause you know he’s only 8 inches tall).
This morning he came strutting out and I started to say “Good morning, Big…” when I noticed he had a wood shaving stuck to his foot. It was a curly one about a foot and a half long. It looked exactly like he’d just walked out of the men’s room with toilet tissue stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
I decided right then and there that we don’t need to change. We don’t need to “get it together.” We’re quirky. We’re klutzy. We’re characters. And I’m perfectly okay with that.