Facing reality...

Getting to the symphony by myself is incredibly hard.  I do not have a local support system to help with the half dozen or so performances that are at the Embassy Theatre.  I think that, perhaps, I will need to give up going.  The problem is, because the person who committed to going with me this year backed out, I essentially paid for next year's tickets via the refund of the companion tickets I purchased.  Refunds are against policy, so I was relieved to have the funds shifted to the following year.  However, getting there is a bit beyond me.  If it is so very hard now, how much more so will it be in another year??

When it is available, the IPFW performances have free valet parking.  So, theoretically, I can get to those performances, though the drive is long for me.  At the Embassy Theatre, even the best street parking means lots of walking.  Lots of walking before and after lots of stairs to get to and from my seat.  Even if I gave up my most wonderful seat for something on the floor with poorer acoustics, still there would be the walking.  And walking.  And walking.

I wept the entire way back to my car this evening, so weary was I.
There are never any knights in shining armor when you need them.
It is demoralizing to have so very many folk knock into you for being too slow.

Individual tickets are substantially more expensive than the subscriber's package.  Plus, being a subscriber gives me a discount to the chamber series.  Being at the Fort Wayne historical society, I can literally park adjacent to the door that is right in front of the elevator.  I am not sure my penurious soul could justify the higher expense of the chamber performances if I just went to those four each year.

The whole situation is discouraging.
And despairing.
It is getting harder to pretend that I am stronger, healthier than I actually am.

On the way home, I stopped by Walgreen's for milk. It was 9:56.  The manager had already locked the entrance.  I debated times with him and he finally let me in but then followed me to the milk refrigerator and back arguing with me.  The clerk ridiculed me with the other customers and all were in agreement that I was a horrible person.  I waited for my register receipt and then used it to show the manager that the store clock was 6 minutes fast.  I had not arrived after closing.  I felt horrible by how he and the clerk were acting, but I need milk and knew I would be recovering from tonight's outing for days on end.

That was a rather distressing end to a distressing evening.  SIGH.

Last night, I finally got around to putting the new botanical sheets on the bed.  Holy cow, I'm in love!!!

If I were an ancient Egyptian, I would want to be wrapped in these sheets when I die.  And I would want my tomb filled with an eternal supply of Spicy Dr Pepper Pulled Pork tacos.

Last night, giddy from all that botanicalness, I was reading more Michael Card's commentary on Luke.  It struck me how ... materialistic ... my giddiness was and I really don't know what to do with that.  I mean, life is really, really, really hard.  Tonight, sitting in the chair at the theatre was excruciating because of how swollen my abdomen is.  I battle violent nausea every day now, sometimes more than once.  Getting out of bed after being horizontal for a good length of time means fainting, dizziness, sweating, weakness, and confusion.  My blood sugar still remains intractable to treatment.  I am so incredibly tired all the time.  I battle nonsensical nerve pain a lot.  If I don't faint before I have a bowel movement, I do when I have one.  I am also usually screaming from the pain, because screaming helps a bit to endure the process.  I break things all the bloody time now with my crappy, malfunctioning hands.  I forget everything.  I fall a lot.  I am anxious.  The only way to get through my days is with alarms and signs and sticky notes and a white board and patterns.  Interruptions to my patterns throw me into a tailspin. And, when caught off guard, when not having time to rehearse the moment, I am such a base human being.  It is really difficult to like pretty much any part of who I am now.

But I am also the person who is immensely thankful to the designer of those sheets, for them being on sale, and for their price point ($34.99).  I am immensely thankful for GREEN and for botanicalness in a place where lots of writhing occurs.  Were I not so determined to become the queen of fiscal stewardship, I would go back to Target, buy two more sets, and live the rest of my life sleeping on the awesomeness that is those sheets because they are a bright spot to my otherwise challenging existence.

I am not sure, then, knowing this is who I am, where I could possibly fit into the body of Christ.  I mean, it seems pretty heretical or hypocritical or disingenuous of me to be as thankful for the sheets and Pioneer Woman's recipe for pulled pork as I am for the Christian Book of Concord, the Psalter, and Michael Card's commentaries on the Gospel.   

Yes, I had pulled pork tacos today, when I dragged myself out of bed at 3:56 PM so that I would have time to get ready for the symphony.  And, yes, I am back in the botanical oasis even as I type this, tucked in with Amos, ice packs, and my Kindle.