Digging in my heels …

It should come as a surprise to no one (particularly my therapist and my father) that I can be a stubborn cuss when I choose to be. I don't think of myself as stubborn, of course; I think of myself as an eminently reasonable person with an unassailable grasp of reality. Which is neither here nor there; the point is, after eight years of stonewalling … it seems a few things might be sinking in.

For the last eight years, almost everyone I know has been telling me to get involved in some volunteer activities that I am passionate about (either the cause or the activity itself). For eight years, I have been resisting. After all, I am a single parent, can't do anything because I have no money and a strange schedule and sole responsibility 24/7/365 for my daughter and nobody likes me and everybody hates me and I guess I'll go eat worms. I plan to go to work and come home and sit in my chair and wonder why the universe doesn't send me friends and lovers and acclaim, and mope when they don't show up. Which, I still maintain, is not an altogether bad plan.

However, the universe has conspired against me. It started with some ideas for a blog I could write for the local humane society. Then our new station manager announced that each staff person would need to select an area non-profit that they were passionate about (her words) and help marshal the resources of the station to assist that non-profit. Before I knew it, I was coordinating an on-air and web campaign for the new shelter they're hoping to open in February, and stalking the group's executive director, leaping out at him from unexpected places trying to get him to look at my "media plans."

About that time, one of my best friends from high school showed up as our church's interim minister. As if a good friend who's going to be in town for two years isn't enough, as if a standing coffee/lunch/ginger-lime- arugula-tea date every Monday at 1:15pm isn't something to look forward too, she's asked me to help her set up her new blog. And since just about anything that lets me fool with computers and pick on other people's spelling makes me happy, this has been a lovely addition to my life. Now my Monday coffee with Gail and my Friday coffee with Jeff make the perfect Oreo -- with the creamy filling of Wednesday group.

The final Bronx cheer arrived in a bizarre confluence of events involving The Child's Father, weekend arrangements, Thanksgiving and my indefatigable friend Brian. Brian has been extending invitations for years to participate in a unique form of theatrical torture called "The Chicken Hat Plays." Saturday, eight directors and a bunch of actors show up, draw scripts and their actors' names out of hats, rehearse all day and perform all eight shows at 7pm that night. So after a 15 year absence from the stage … I'm gonna go back – for twelve hours.

So despite my best efforts, I find myself authoring three blogs (including one of the Ten Best Mental Health Blogs on the Web, not that I'm excited about THAT or anything), assisting with another and plotting my next, just as soon as I can catch Jim in an unguarded moment at Cub Foods. Or his doctor's office. I'm thinking about all the cool things we could do at the station to help the humane society, and I'm feeling an energy and excitement about work I haven't in a while. I still don't have a lot of people to talk to, but I have standing dates with two good friends every week and a chance to hang with the funniest group of depressed people I've ever met in between. And although I won't be doing the full-fledged production of "Hedda Gabler" I used to fantasize about, I'm gonna hang with theater people again and put on a show. Volunteering with causes and activities I'm passionate about and which used to give me joy back in my old life … contributions I can make working from home … the regular delight of time with old and new friends….

Brings to mind the old story of the little boy who dived gleefully into the pile of manure shouting "I know there's a pony in here somewhere!"

As a matter of fact, my saddle is downstairs, resting on a makeshift saddle rack of wedding-dress boxes (that's right, plural). That's right; I did used to ride, didn't I ….