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I have nothing for this space this week. I have tried. Really, I have. I have deleted two almost completed entries. One on was on women in the pandemic and how our already hectic workload has doubled or even tripled. The other was about the American flag and a super racist meme someone I know personally shared in their timeline. Both topics just exhausted me because I am in a place where I think my words aren’t going to change anything. So I deleted them.

It’s Wednesday and this week is starting to feel like I’m being dragged behind a horse. I finally planned a time to visit my mother even though it will require me to quarantine for fourteen days when I get back. The stress of finding a weekend that would be most accommodating nearly turned me into a ball of goo. In the end I chose to accommodate myself (for once). Then I found fleas on Josephine. Josephine has fleas sounds like the title of children’s’ book about hygiene. She’s been wearing a Seresto collar since May, but I either bought the one for cats or one too small. The fleas are located in the lower half of her body and I have a plan to fix this that doesn’t involve setting the house on fire.

BUT…FLEAS!

I want to set the house on fire.

I am still managing to get my butt out of bed every morning at 5:30 to do an X-tend Barre class before taking Josephine on her walk. I am still managing to get twelve thousand steps in everyday. I am washing face, brushing my teeth and flossing every night before bed. Animals are being fed. People are being fed. I am doing all of the things I need to be doing to be some kind of functioning adult.

I’m okay.