Progress Is Possible

Defeat looks like a grown woman crumpled up on the floor of her bedroom at 6:57 a.m. and wearing 27 degrees worth of spandex and fleece after discovering at 6:55 a.m. that the front tire of Miss Betty Blue was totally flat. This was after fitting Miss B with a new tube only two days earlier, but alas, the tire was also kaput, even though the really cute guy at the bike shop said that I could probably get a few more days out of the tire and that it would be all right while a new one was being ordered. And I'm really inclined to believe anything that the cute guy at the bike shop says because I imagine one day that he will be my brother-in-law if only my sisters would move to Durham and we could live in a happy little commune of sisterhood and familial bliss, which I know would last all of TWO HOURS AND ELEVEN MINUTES.

Speaking of familial bliss, Christmas is in two days and I'm trying to prepare myself emotionally and physically for being shuffled around among three facets of my family. The emotional part is not going well. After the flat tire episode of Tuesday, not much in the day went quite as planned. Without realizing it, I walked into my least favorite stall in the bathroom at work and it wasn't until I was done and washing my hands that I realized my error and that I actually visited a toilet that I only use when (a) I'm changing into or out of spandex, (b) all of the others are full up, or (c) I can't find one without urine on the seat, and no, I don't work in a preschool, and yes, I agree with you: I don't understand why this happens! I mean, I know that urine is fairly sterile. My youngest sister even used it as a remedy to treat the incessant eye itching caused by conjunctivitis, but still. And yes, you just read right: SHE PUT HER URINE IN HER EYE. To which I say, why don't you just mix that urine with three hairs from the wart of a toad and one toenail clipping from a man with wild chest hair and you'll be able to not only cure the common cold, but play clarinet music out of your ass.

Which is maybe what we all need to cure the anxiety of the holiday season. Because last night, I awoke at 3:06 a.m. and did not fall back asleep. At all. And I should have just gotten up right then and there and reacquainted myself with Mr. Darcy's initial proposal scene to Elizabeth Bennett and maybe the entire sequence of the battle of Helm's Deep—you know, the one that ends with Gandolf appearing in the east at first light on the fifth day. But no, I just stayed in bed and finally got up at the normal time to discover what may be the beginning of a pinched nerve under my left shoulder blade.

Last year it was a sty in my eye, and this year a pain in my back! But don't worry, dear Internet, I have not given up yet. I received from my mother on Sunday the following e-mail: "You would be shocked to see all the expired meds and enemas in the trash!!!" And if that doesn't say Merry Christmas, Progress Is Possible, and Keep Hope Alive, I don't know what else does.