I Cannot Deny It Is What It Is

Monday, January 16, 2012

This is one of those weeks when I have nothing better to write about than some of the things that I can’t deny. 


I can’t deny myself the Dairy Milk chocolate bar I found in a flat storage container under my bed. I swear I’m getting rid of it in the quickest way I know how—one square at a time. 


On a similar scope, I can’t deny that my resolve to exercise more is meeting with hurdles. I was sick this past week (and not from too much Chocolate thank you very much) and I’m finding it really difficult to get back on the treadmill after seven days of rain. 


I can’t deny that I’m really not sure my dogs would save my life in a time of crisis should a wolf confront me during our daily walks on the frozen creek bed. 
I have deduced this theory because of a fire log that Cash had in his mouth when we started on our walk one day and which he dropped on the trail when he figured out it was too heavy to carry. 
On the way back home we rounded the last creek corner and he spotted the wooden thing lying motionless ahead of us. 


All chaos broke loose. 


The hair between the dog’s shoulder blades stood on end and he jumped around like the “Chester the Terrier” from the “Loonie Tunes” cartoons.
Cash howled at the menacing object, while Dot stood in place barking her own frenzy and pawing the ground like a raging bull in an arena full of red capes. 


Neither one of them dared go near the log. These mutts should not quit their day job to become bodyguards.
Henceforth, I can’t deny that on my walk I should carry a big stick for self-defence. 


I can’t deny that in as much as I love screaming down the snow hill here at high speed on a Krazy Karpet on my stomach with my arms outstretched one minute and behind my back the next so that I am streamlined in loge precision, my rotator cuffs think that was a stupid thing to do. 

I can’t deny that I am still learning to sail my “relation” ship with the past. 


I know this for sure because when I was standing at the burn barrel a couple of days ago watching the flames blacken the edges of some love letters I’d found from during my years of marriage to Peter, I was rushed back to sadness, pulled into perplexity at the folly of it all, jabbed with bitterness and bits of unresolved closure. 


I still am learning to sail away from that ship almost two years later, with clarity and dignity. 


I can’t deny the Karma of this very moment. Just now the phone rang and a twangy-sounding saleswoman trying to sell me carpet cleaning said “Hello, Mrs. Suppa?” 
I paused and said, “not any more,” and hung up. I can’t deny that made me feel awesome. 


And finally I can’t deny that while I was born in the arms of a wonderful imagination, all of this is true.