Transitions

I don't do well with transitions. In other words, I think change stinks.

(aside: I was never one to be fooled by politicians who run on platforms for "change." Change is not generally a pleasant or agreeable thing. Actually, I hate change. If anyone wants my vote, and I don't suppose anyone cares about one quirky woman's single offbeat vote, but if anyone wants it next time around, he should run on a platform that says, "I will keep your life exactly the same as it is, only I will gently and slowly add enhancements by taxing people other than you and giving you things that you will like, such as classical music concerts in in your neighborhood park and free fresh fruit and a personal physician who makes house calls and cares about you." I am jesting. I think.)

It seems as though so many things are changing.

We bought land. We traded a car for a different car. We are in the process of getting a car for Shannon.

The US economy is tanking.

We have a new and very different president. He will step into office in approximately two months.

David needs to figure out where to apply to college and get his paperwork finished in less than a month.

Jonathan is in the throes of puberty.

Putting these factors together, I feel pretty insecure.

I am not dealing with a death in the family, or cancer in the family, or a job change, or a cross-country move or anything like that. I should be thankful.

I don't know if I have ever felt this tired in my life. Sometimes I can't even force my eyelids all the way open in the middle of the day.

Maybe... maybe... maybe along with all these changes, I am undergoing the Change at the same time.

(aside: Steven Curtis Chapman has a song that has a line that repeats over and over, "What about The Change?" I always think he is singing about menopause, which I suppose is blasphemous, because he is really singing about spiritual sanctification, but there you have it... my warped, middle-aged, sheltered, Christian woman mind.)

Do you know, my hair is falling out too? It will solve my problem of what to do about the gray, I guess. There won't be any gray hair, because I will be bald. I knew I could feel my scalp prickling and releasing hairs, but the concrete proof came when our shower stopped draining. This is the shower that only Shawn and I use, and Shawn doesn't shed. We took the drain apart and pulled out my hair with needle nosed pliers. While eschewing gory, slimy details, I will say that it was alarming to see how much hair is no longer on my head.

Speaking of transitions, how long do you think it takes to get used to wearing a wig? Maybe a wig would be a nice thing to wear on a cold winter day in our neck of the woods.