I swear, I am the worst ironer EVER. I just spent about twenty minutes on a shirt and I put more wrinkles into it than I took out. I mean, honestly. Why do I even buy anything that needs ironing? It’s a losing battle.
I have begun to realize, as I’ve gotten older, that there are just things that I stink at. I think this is a good thing: in fact, I embrace it. Rather than trying to be great at everything (which is impossible) I’m going to take the tack of putting my best efforts into doing the things I do well. I’m terrible at housework, for example. I am sloppy and unmotivated when doing any kind of deep cleaning, but I am a decent vacuumer (I’m sure I’m spelling that wrong: I’m not a super speller, either) so I’m going to focus on that. I am not crafty in the least—and I can only draw houses and trees, and even those not very well—but I have figured out how to post little videos on the web, which is kind of neat. (Speaking of which, thanks for all the comments on the dogs yesterday. I have informed them they are now internationally famous, but I don’t think they quite get the concept.) I don’t have the patience for high-end baking (I’m sensing a theme here) but I do like to cook, even if I do stick to finessing mostly appetizers. And so on. So today, I’ll be wearing a somewhat wrinkled shirt. But I’ll have it on with my favorite jeans, which I found because I am an ace shopper. Nice, right?
Speaking of shopping, someone mentioned that yesterday that it seems like that’s all I do, along with watching television, and suggested I’d be more productive writing-wise if that wasn’t the case. Sadly, I have to say this isn’t true. I’ve been doing this steadily for ten years now, and I’m only good for about and hour and a half to two hours of writing per day. At the two hour mark, the quality goes distinctly downhill: it’s documented. So even given all the time in the world, I’d probably still be cranking out books at the same pace. Although maybe I’d have more time for housework and ironing? Hmmmmm.
Finally, on a more personal note, my great aunt Alice died this weekend. She was my grandmother’s sister, the last of a great generation of my family, and 105 years old. Up until a few years ago, she was still going for daily walks (with two canes!) down our road in Cape Cod and back, waving at us as she went. Something tells me she would say not to obsess too much about the wrinkles in my shirt, or how clean the bathroom is, or being good at everything. A lot of people say life is long, but she knew this for sure. And she will be missed.