This Week In Chaos: I Survived Another Week. Nobody Is More Surprised Than Me

There are people who wake up in the morning refreshed. They stretch. They drink water. They meditate. They journal about gratitude. They stand beside a sunny window holding a tasteful ceramic mug while quietly contemplating all the wonderful possibilities the new day may bring.

I wake up and immediately wonder what fresh bullshit the universe has scheduled.

Not because I’m negative, but because I have pattern recognition.

And this week, the universe apparently opened its planner and wrote:

“Keep her humble.”

In permanent marker.

My days already involve walking dogs, driving around, trying to get things done, attempting to remember what I walked into rooms for, and generally maintaining the illusion that I am a functioning adult.

I really didn’t need Mother Nature joining the team, but she did.

And she chose humidity.

Not regular humidity, either.

The kind of humidity where you step outside and immediately feel like somebody has thrown a warm, damp washcloth over the entire province.

The air wasn’t air anymore.

It was soup.

You don’t breathe it.

You wear it.

Within minutes of being outside, my hair had apparently made several independent decisions, my clothes were sticking to places clothes should never stick, and I was sweating like I was being questioned under a very bright lamp with the threat of a rubber hose.

And because I walk dogs for a living, I couldn’t simply look outside and say, “Well, that seems unpleasant,” and return to the couch.

No.

I had to go INTO it.

Repeatedly.

All day.

Because the dogs have contracts, apparently.

And dogs do not care about humidity.

A dog can be standing outside in weather that feels like Satan’s armpit and still look at you like:

“THIS IS AMAZING. LET’S WALK SIX MORE BLOCKS.”

No, Doodle Butts, we absolutely will not.

Then, just when I had accepted that summer intended to personally kill me, something miraculous happened.

It cooled down.

For a moment, there was a hint of fall in the air.

FALL.

Sweet, beautiful, glorious fall.

Suddenly I had hope again.

I started imagining crisp mornings, colourful leaves, sweaters, cool breezes and being able to walk outside without instantly becoming sweaty and red-faced.

I was ready.

Mentally, I had already packed summer’s belongings into a cardboard box and left them on the curb.

“Thanks for everything. Don’t call.”

I should have known better.

Because apparently that little taste of fall was not autumn arriving.

It was autumn doing a drive-by.

“HEY GIRL! MISS ME?”

And then it disappeared.

The humidity came wandering back like an ex who has somehow forgotten why you broke up.

“Oh hey. Thought I’d stop by.”

Nobody invited you.

LEAVE.

At this point, checking the weather forecast became less about planning my day and more about discovering which particular form of atmospheric disrespect I would be experiencing next.

Heat?

Humidity?

Rain?

Potential flooding?

All of the above?

Excellent.

Love that journey for me.

Of course, nothing complements unpredictable weather quite like not getting enough sleep.

There is something very special about waking up tired.

Not “I could use another half hour” tired.

I mean the kind of tired where you open your eyes and your first thought is:

Absolutely not.

Your body has technically awakened, but your personality has not loaded yet. Your brain is running Windows 95.

Someone asks you a simple question and you have to stare at them for several seconds while the little hourglass turns.

And yet somehow, despite being tired, damp and personally victimized by the atmosphere, responsibilities continued to exist.

Rude.

Bills still expected paying.

Dogs still expected walking.

Things still needed doing.

Apparently adulthood does not have a button marked: “I’m tired and would like to unsubscribe for 24 hours.”

Huge design flaw.

I would like to speak to whoever is in charge.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this, social media decided it wanted attention too.

Because social media is basically middle school with Wi-Fi.

People follow you.

People unfollow you.

People follow you again.

Someone gets offended.

Someone announces they are leaving.

Someone else posts a vague status clearly directed at one specific person while insisting, “If the shoe fits…”

Another person declares they are “done with drama” in a seventeen-paragraph post containing more drama than an entire season of The Valley and The Real Housewives of Orange County put together.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking: I barely have the energy to locate matching socks.

How are you people maintaining feuds?

Where are you finding the stamina?

If somebody unfollows me these days, I’m not chasing them.

Godspeed.

I hope you find what you’re looking for.

Maybe take a few others with you.

Think of it as helping with crowd control.

At some point during the week, I also attempted some gratitude because I am trying to be a healthy, emotionally balanced person.

Occasionally.

So I thought about the things I’m grateful for.

My animals.

Absolutely.

Coffee.

Obviously – even though it’s theoretical.

Over the years, coffee has definitely deserved its own book, possibly its own national holiday.

Coffee has watched me make terrible decisions and never once judged me.

Coffee has been there during early mornings, long days, cold mornings, hot mornings, good moods, bad moods and mornings when speaking to me before caffeine should legally qualify as reckless endangerment.

Coffee doesn’t ask questions.

Coffee simply says:

“I see things have gone sideways again. Here.”

That is friendship.

I’m grateful for the little things too.

Cool breezes.

Comfortable shoes.

Finding money in a pocket.

When the Wi-Fi works.

When I remember why I walked into a room.

When the dog poops near a garbage can instead of approximately four kilometres away from one.

That last one deserves more appreciation than society currently gives it.

There is no greater betrayal than watching a dog carefully select the perfect location to poop immediately after you have passed the only garbage can for the next three neighborhoods.

They know.

I’m convinced of it.

They make eye contact.

“This spot.”

Really?

HERE?

Fantastic.

Now I get to carry a warm little bag of regret around like some horrifying purse.

Living the dream.

When you see me looking around while a dog is pooping, you need to know that I am actually looking for a trash can. When someone sees me do that, I get some serious side-eye because they think I’m trying to see who’s looking in a planned escape with no poop bag.

But perhaps the greatest accomplishment of the week is that despite the heat, humidity, lack of sleep, weather warnings, dogs, driving, responsibilities, internet nonsense and the general audacity of existence…

I did not disappear into the forest, but I considered it.

I think we all reach a certain age where becoming a woodland cryptid starts sounding less like a frightening possibility and more like a retirement plan.

Just imagine it.

No emails.

No bills.

No social media.

No small talk.

No one asking you to do anything.

You live in a little cabin surrounded by trees.

Occasionally hikers report seeing you.

“Authorities say a strange woman was spotted near the tree line carrying coffee and muttering about humidity.”

Perfect.

If someone gets too close, you make an unsettling noise and they leave.

Honestly, I already have the skill set.

I could become a local legend.

People would post blurry pictures of me online.

“WHAT IS THIS MYSTERIOUS CREATURE?”

And someone in the comments would say:

“That’s just Faith. Leave snacks and back away slowly.”

Another person would insist I was a bear.

There would be a Reddit thread.

Eventually somebody would start selling T-shirts.

It could work.

But I didn’t do it.

I remained in civilization, so I’m counting that as personal growth.

Because sometimes surviving a week isn’t about accomplishing something spectacular.

Sometimes success looks like showing up.

Doing the work.

Walking the dogs.

Drinking the theoretical coffee.

Complaining about the weather.

Laughing at the ridiculousness.

Ignoring the nonsense.

And repeatedly reminding yourself that prison orange probably isn’t your colour.

It’s about reaching the end of the week, looking back at everything that happened and thinking:

“Well.

That was unnecessarily dramatic.”

But we made it.

Was I graceful?

No.

Did I maintain a positive attitude every moment?

Absolutely the fuck not.

Did I occasionally question every life decision that brought me to this exact point?

Of course.

But I survived.

And frankly, nobody is more surprised than me.

So here’s to another week completed.

Here’s to coffee, cooler weather eventually getting its shit together, to the people who make us laugh, to all of my critters – my own and my clients – who keep life interesting.

Here’s to ignoring unnecessary drama.

And here’s to those of us who may not have our lives completely figured out but continue showing up anyway – slightly exhausted, mildly sarcastic and carrying a beverage.

We may not be thriving.

We may not even know what day it is.

But we’re here.

And sometimes that’s enough.

And there was one final thing this week that was actually AMAZING.

Remember that dead hedge in my backyard that I’ve been lamenting about and slowly working on?

Well, apparently Mother Nature finally decided that if she was going to spend the week being an absolute menace, she could at least contribute something useful.

We had that big storm, and unfortunately a lot of people ended up with fallen and damaged trees that had to be cut up and hauled away. Which is obviously terrible for the trees and a massive pain in the ass for everyone dealing with the cleanup.

But at the cemetery I started noticing a lot of cut up tree chunks sitting around waiting to be mulched.

And suddenly I became a scavenger.

Not in a creepy way. Okay, maybe slightly in a creepy way – considering we’re in a cemetery here.

Because while everyone else saw storm debris, I saw “FREE HEDGE MATERIAL”.

Do you have any idea how exciting free sticks become when you’ve spent an unreasonable amount of time building a dead hedge?

It’s like winning the lottery, except instead of someone handing you a giant cheque, you’re standing beside a pile of tree limbs thinking:

JACKPOT, BITCHES!

So I managed to rescue some before they disappeared into the wood chipper, and they are going to make the PERFECT base for the next section of the hedge.

I was ridiculously happy.

And naturally, acquiring said branches involved getting absolutely filthy.

Which led to another unexpected highlight of the day: going grocery shopping afterward.

I apparently didn’t fully appreciate just how dirty my shirt was until I was already wandering around the store looking like I’d spent the afternoon burying evidence.

People were looking at me.

I was looking at them – right in the eye!

And frankly, I wasn’t about to explain myself.

Let them wonder.

Maybe I garden.

Maybe I wrestle trees recreationally.

Maybe somebody knows what they did.

It’s important to maintain a little mystery.

And since I have a glorious THREE-DAY WEEKEND, tomorrow’s mission is officially “Dead Hedge: The Sequel”.

I have wood.

I have plans.

I have absolutely no intention of remaining clean.

So if anyone needs me tomorrow, I’ll be in the backyard happily arranging dead tree limbs like some sort of feral suburban woodland witch.

And honestly?

After this week, that sounds pretty damn perfect.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check the weather forecast so I can find out what Mother Nature has planned for the next episode of:

“How Much More Can This Bitch Take?”

I’m sure it’ll be delightful.

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