Against the Current

 

Stroke, splash, stroke, splash.

It is October. My neck aches. I am back in a place of stress even though I vowed I would remain chilled and enjoy the whole building process. Builders push one to the limit. I do realise that building works always take longer than one expects, but the project is now more than a month behind and will not be finished by this weekend as my builder had promised me, merely two weeks ago. It’s the promises and the raised hopes dashed that does it.

 

This year has been far from easy. I lurched from AA meetings to lawsuits and from selling my house to buying a new place in need of a total makeover. I packed my whole life back into boxes, which remain packed as I wait in this limbo for my new home to be ready. As limbos go—it is not uncomfortable here and I have been very happy living on Calle Compás de la Victoria. It’s just time to move on.

 

Speaking of limbo: Do you know that I used to be able to limbo under a pole that was barely higher than my body width? I was very supple as a young girl. In those days I was able to curl my body into a pretzel and lock my feet behind my head. Nowadays clipping my toenails takes an enormous amount of ingenuity.

 

I have an ambition to be able to do a cartwheel again—or perhaps even a string of cartwheels. I make plans to do it on the soft sand of the beach, to cushion my old bones. I doubt I will be able to limbo under a 30cm pole ever again, but a handstand would suffice. In the meantime, I continue doing wall Pilates and working on my core strength.

 

However, I veered off the point of my story. I was talking about being in limbo – not doing limbo.

 

I think I was a difficult birth – my bent and lop-sided nose a testament to the rough ride I had coming down the birth canal. I still feel that I am in that uncomfortable place, bouncing from wall to wall, from pillar to post, from ship to shore, although I try to find the calm waters.

 

Many good things have happened to me this year too, of course. Leaving my drinking behind has put a spring back into my step. Losing the ten kilos I put on through Covid and depression has literally made me lighter on my feet and happier to face the mirror.

 

And when I paid off my debt it felt like a rainbow splitting my brain as the sun shone through the dark clouds.

 

Yet—for each of those positive turning points came another blow of some description—most of them financial, though I am, thankfully, still solvent.

 

Note: a big 'thank you' to all of you wonderful people who offered me actual financial help, or wanted to, if they had it, after reading my last blog. I am also grateful for the psychological support. For this reason, I want to make it clear, that although the year has been difficult and unnerving financially, so far, I have managed to stay on the right side of solvency. I just worry at times that I will never be able to save for the other things I want to do, like travel to see my grand dogs…and my children. But I will cross that bridge when I get to it.

 

And then there is the news…I think I spend too much time watching it.

 

I am disheartened by the outbreak of wars—I cry at the cruelty and waste of life. I cannot understand it. In horror I watch how the political situation is causing the slipping of democracy in so many countries, especially those that once were beacons of fairness and equality. Perhaps I should stop watching? But to stop would make me ignorant and I owe it to my parents, who lived through WW2 and who both suffered the consequences of oppressive political regimes. As a result, they were always conscious of other political refugees—people like all of us. People who just want to live a life of autonomy.

 

So, for some relief, I turn to another channel and watch a kind person rescue another horribly matted animal from a life of agony. As a lovely little doggy emerges from the shell of hair and caked excrement that has trapped it for years, I cry some more at the neglect, ignorance and sometimes even cruelty, and I cuddle my girls, promising them that I will never leave them. Except when I have to go shopping, of course.

 

The other morning, I walked over to the Mercadona supermarket in Olletas—a nice 20/25-minute walk that gives my legs a nice little stretch. I was doing a 24 hour fast and wanted to buy a special type of pork to roast for my evening meal – the cut is called ‘secreto’ and I googled it, knowing that I would have to explain what it is to people who do not live in Spain. Apparently, it is located in the pig’s armpit, which might explain why they want to keep that information a secret. It is, however, a very tender cut with a good balance of fat.

 

I arrived home and began to unpack, discussing with the dogs what time I should feed them and what time I should put the pork into the oven. As I chatted gaily with the girls, reassuring them that their lunch was coming, I carefully put away the avocados and the mango, the sunflower seeds and pumpkin seeds, the cabbage and eggs. I looked for the pork, to prepare it for roasting. But where was it? You guessed it—still sitting on the shelf at the meat counter!

 

I have never owned an apartment and being newly part of a community is a novelty that incurs obligations as well as rights. I was perfectly happy to pay the 16 euros per month to the community fund, for insurance and maintenance etc but at my first community meeting last week, I was surprised to learn that there was a plan in place to renovate the outside of the building. The meeting was to decide which plan would be the best for us. Juanma from the administration company spoke excitedly of various plans and threw out many numbers with reckless abandon. “This one is such a good deal we should not pass it up.” I didn’t understand every word, but the meaning was clear.

 

However, when it came to the finance part, I was at a loss to understand how much each person would have to pay. By this time the meeting had descended into a loud airing of opinions and chaos ensued, so I decided it was time to go home. I followed up by going to the administration office the next morning and discovered that the amount per owner would be in the region of 5,000 euros.

 

Down beneath the icy waters I plunged again before coming back up for air and thinking, “Not too bad,” but then as I felt the noose once more constricting my wallet I thought, “How the heck am I going to pay that on top of my own builder, architect fees, the kitchen and new windows?”

 

The windows had been put on hold a few weeks ago as I tried to work out how much capital gains tax I had to save for next year. At last, my accountant came back with the good news that it was not the 15,000 euros that I had feared, but merely 7,000. Joyfully, I had put the windows into my shopping basket. With the news of the community refurbishment, I have taken them out again.

 

Of course, these things will get done—but why, oh why, does everything have to be such a struggle?  I feel like the raging waters are chucking me from rock to rock, my aching back and neck are joined by stress pains that now extend down my legs—they are the physical manifestation of the tumult inside my poor head.

 

Doggedly, I turn myself onto my stomach and raise my weary arm over my head, cupping my hand I perform a slow crawl through treacly waters. The stiffness in my joints begins to ease.

 

Splash, stroke – the rhythmic crawl – stroke, splash

 

Each stroke takes me through another 24 hours and miraculously the first 90 days of sobriety have turned into nine, almost ten months—I am ticking off the days to my one-year anniversary at Christmas.

 

Splash, stroke—

 

Christmas? It is just around the corner again and along with it my 64^th birthday.

 

Stroke, splash—

 

At 64 I think I am entitled to the odd senior moment, and it was good exercise for me to walk back over to the Mercadona a second time in one day.

 

This year I truly have stepped outside my comfort zone. Well, actually, I was pushed, and I fell kicking and screaming, though I like to think that I kept it—mostly—inside. If I had my way, I would still be sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, when life was simple: doodling, chopping vegetables, baking bread with her, drinking gin gimlets and chatting about life. Instead, my battered body and brain are back on their habitual unpredictable learning-curve.

 

Turn and kick—

 

On the upside: The builder has told me that he will work through this weekend and says I will be able to move in by next Wednesday.

 

…and flow…