Old Farts in the Ring
When I was young my father taught me Murphy’s Law: If anything can go wrong, it will.
As I matured, the lessons continued. Pop taught me O’Shea’s Law: Murphy was an optimist.
I learned that optimists are often disappointed while pessimists are sometime pleasantly surprised.
I remember Pop’s philosophy whenever I’m waiting endlessly for a necessary phone call and decide I finally cannot hold it any longer. I sit on the toilet and voila! The phone rings. (Of course these days you can take the phone with you into the bathroom, but I’m not adept at operating a smart phone and might easily and unknowingly wind up on a video call. So I leave the so-called “smart” phone in the other room.)
I thought Pop knew everything, so it took decades to realize that my faith in Murphy and O’Shea was cloaking me in relative darkness. I expected life to deliver a daily blow. And while that might or might not be the sane way to view the world at large, it can be limiting. It instills a reluctance to take chances because stuff might happen. Better not to try. Just stay safe.
I still struggle between letting other people call the shots (then fearing I’ve been screwed) and standing up for myself (risking public scorn, and then I’m screwed). Cornered by Murphy and O’Shea.
I celebrated my 68th birthday on Labor Day. I sat with a friend on her Beaver Lake dock, eating fruit and admiring the scenery. Then we went for a brief paddle in a pair of kayaks—where I discovered that kayaking is like riding a bicycle: you remember the skill instinctually even if it’s been decades since you’ve engaged in the activity.
I loved being in the water, I wished we could paddle all day.
However, I had momentarily been afraid to get into the kayak, with Murphy and O’Shea whispering in either ear: What if I can’t remember how to paddle? What if I tip the boat? What if… what if… what if…
But late in my seventh decade I’m ready to give those two old farts the boot and take a few chances. It’s not like I haven’t ever stuck my neck out before—my husband and I bought land and moved to Carroll County after a brief visit to Eureka Springs. We had no jobs lined up. We knew nobody. And we never regretted it.
In fact, I’ve had very few regrets about major life-changing decisions.
But as a widow, I have no partner to support me through my doubts. I’m alone in the ring with Murphy and O’Shea. But I’m discovering I can deliver a jab and a hook all on my own, if I really try.
It doesn’t come easy. I have to work at it. Practice. And continually coach myself: You can do it. Jab. You’ve got this. Jab. You’re in charge. Right hook. Left hook.
A wise woman once told me: If you don’t want to go to an event because you really don’t feel like it, don’t go. But if you’re staying home because you’re afraid you’ll get lost, say something stupid, or violate some unknown social code—go! Do it!
It’s hard. But the more you do it, the easier it gets.
My stomach is often in knots as I’m preparing to leave the homestead that made my husband and me so happy. But there’s a big world out there. I’m ready for an adventure. And I want to leave Murphy and O’Shea here in the woods. Knock Out!