“Oh no. Look Mom!” my son exclaimed as we pulled into the driveway.
I looked and didn’t see anything.
“Above Grandma’s window,” he pointed.
I looked again and saw it. The siding – siding I spent five-figures to replace last summer – was waving in the spring wind like a sheet. We hopped out, and I took a picture while mentally thinking of who I could call to nail it back into place. As I bemoaned the fact that I had given up Facebook for Lent and couldn’t ask there, the sheet of siding lifted in the wind again and then came crashing at my feet.
So much for nailing it back.
The siding company will be out to “evaluate” whether this will be covered by the manufacturer’s warranty. In the meantime, it is raining outside, the siding is piled up next to the garage, and I am supposed to trust that a thin wrap – which is not the Tyvek mentioned in my quote, by the way – will protect my house for the time being.
This makes me uncomfortable.
This makes me uncomfortable, and I’m not sure when or why I turned into a person who gets uncomfortable about things outside my control. I didn’t used to be this way.
At one time, I was a person who scattered bowls throughout our old house to catch the drips from our leaky roof when it rained. I did that for months (years?) without batting an eyelash. There was no reason to worry about something I wasn’t in a position to fix, and it would all work out in the end was my reasoning.
(Eventually, we did fix the roof when someone told me the trusses could rot from water damage. I promptly took out a loan from my 401(k) and then later paid exorbitant taxes on the balance when my job ended – don’t ever take out 401(k) loans folks.)
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my current self compared to my previous self. What happened to the 20-something with big plans? The mom who doggedly worked her way through an alphabet soup of diagnoses for her kids? The wife who managed to smile and say, “It’s ok, we’ll figure it out” when her husband came down with cancer? I never felt dread in those times, only determination.
In the past, I was a woman who let everything roll off her back. This life is fleeting and so there is no reason to sweat it was my mantra. When did I become the type of person who feels uncomfortable that a section of my house is missing siding in the spring rain?
Is it because Tom is gone?
Is it because my parents – one dead and the other with Alzheimer’s – have essentially left me orphaned?
Is it because I’ve become too caught up in the things of this world?
It is because I no longer trust that God will make sure everything turns out alright?
Or is this just what happens when you reach your 40s? After decades of life bearing down on you, maybe it’s hard to remain optimistic and carefree about life’s lemons.
I don’t know the answer, but I do know this: I would like to once again be comfortable with being uncomfortable.