The best birthday ever

For many, today was the start of a new fiscal year—an opening sentence that makes all but the accounting majors among you nod off. 

For me October 1 is important for several reasons. For one thing, it signals the pressing of my annual reset button.

Early in our marriage we agreed that January 1 was not a good time to start anew. What with the holiday insanity from Halloween to New Year’s Eve, who has time to finish up anything? We settled on September 30 as the deadline to clean house and October 1 as the day to whistle a happy tune.

Today I did just that.

For the past few months, years and decades I’ve been overwhelmed. Some of it was out of my control and more than I care to admit was self-inflicted, where I’d say “yes” when I should have fled, screaming “Noooooo!” 

I’d pull out of people, places and things only to be sucked back in when the next asker came along. Caregivers are notorious for this. You know who we are.

During FY20, I did a lot of summoning of my inner two-year-old and my grown-ass 63-year-old and made some lasting changes. The final anvil and anchor were removed this past Saturday night with my resignation from a group and I tell ya, it felt good.

A few years after Martin and I married, we were clearing out books to donate when he came across “Women Who Do Too Much: How to Stop Doing it All and Start Enjoying Your Life” by Patricia Sprinkle.

“Have you read this?” Martin asked.

“Several times,” I replied rather proudly.

“Really?”

A record-breaking pregnant pause was followed by him mentioning something about me being robbed and how I should ask for a refund. I could not disagree. 

And yet I continued to do too much for another year or two or three or ten. Not just doing too much, but belonging to too much, listening too much, tolerating too much, talking too much, putting up with too much, getting frustrated and angry and dismayed too much, and not writing enough or consistently. (Ahem, Dementia who?)

Every time I accepted something new, I could hear Martin’s voice and his nickname for me: Princess Does-Too-Much.  

Then this year happened. A year that has given so many of us pause. And full stops.

Yesterday I took my masked self to a socially-distanced estate sale and there among the hundreds and hundreds of books was, yup, “Women Who Do Too Much blahblahblah.” I left it there all the while hearing do-do-do-do from ‘The Twilight Zone.” The significance of this message was not lost on me.

Today was a good day. 

I did a bunch of early morning chores, including mailing a quick note to my sister. I came home and worked at a job I love. I took Fergus for three walks. I had apple slices and cheddar cheese for dinner. And I’m back in touch with y’all.

In a few minutes I am going to have a Guinness to celebrate the start of the new year and the official abdication of Princess Does-Too-Much. I will also toast my husband who finally got through to me and who would have turned 79 today. 

Happy birthday, Honey Lamb and thank you.