I’m surviving my week and half of introvert hell – just barely – through the judicious use of napping, knitting, and Netflix.
There have been a few other little things around the house that have helped me refresh and recharge:
- A black capped chickadee somewhere in our yard, greeting me with its calm and distinctive “hee hoo” sound (I identified it with the Merlin Bird ID app, a must-have for bird lovers) in the early mornings. I have to be up anyway, and it’s nice to have that song for company.
- A stealthy fruit basket on the table, in which pomegranates are masquerading as apples and plantains are pretending to be bananas. Middle Sister slipped them in yesterday afternoon, and for some reason they made me laugh.
- A friendly gesture toward the chipmunks that are ruining our back flower bed and paved patio. The Boy noticed one trying desperately to get to the water in the birdbath with absolutely no chance of success. So he created this little chimpunk watering hole. I accused him of giving them the false impression that we want them around. He says he’s luring them into a false sense of security before he traps them and takes them to a park five miles away. I love that my son, at the ripe old age of 20, is not above such silliness.
One more day of (perfectly pleasant and undemanding, I assure you) a houseguest in the form of The Boy’s girlfriend. Two more days of playing happy hostess to 53 kids and 25 adults. Then two days of introvert torture next week: accompanying a crowd of middle schoolers on a field trip and an entire day of playing nursemaid to my stepmother.
If I keep watching for these happy, little things, I might possibly survive. And thank you to my friend April for being a good role model for this attitude.