Hit the Ground Walking

There’s this WHOLE THING that comes with the new year—a chance to start fresh and everyone wants to hit the ground running.

This is MY YEAR!
I’m going to kill it!

And then, two weeks in—safely after Quitters’ Day—we slow down and settle back into our real selves—the ones who have ambition but also say, sure, I’ll meet you for a coffee instead of doing whatever I had carefully planned to do.

I realized today, looking at the calendar, that the first two weeks of my year have been spent waiting for the tile guys.

My landlord (finally) decided to deal with the water damage to the building, which meant (in part) sealing and retiling my little interior patio. He said he’d stop by Monday afternoon with the tile guy to look at the job. So… TUESDAY they showed up, which is actually pretty good for both my landlord (a sweetie who runs on his own schedule) and the tile guy.

They brought tile samples and my landlord asked which one I liked. I am tile blind. Also, granite-countertop blind. I see color, not pattern. I spot patterns in people, not tile. I liked the plain clay tile that matched what was already there. My landlord preferred one with a streaky pattern. I didn’t care. He did. Decision made.

They were supposed to start Wednesday, but it poured rain. Fine. Thursday they teased me by showing up but then spent the day working on the front entrance. But Friday they knocked on my door. They sealed over the old tile with a thick black waterproofing material that will make the restaurant owner below me—who’s been dealing with dripping water in his kitchen—very happy. Friday afternoon they said it hadn’t dried enough. They’d be back Monday.

This was not news to me. I’ve rehabbed houses. I understand humidity and drying times. But by now I’d spent days waiting, rearranged my life, moved my patio furniture and a strange, indestructible plant into my second bedroom, and was staring at a very ugly black tar surface all weekend. I did what I do best and ignored it.

Monday, they showed up. They laid tile (which didn’t look like the tile chosen, but maybe it was?) and left. Rain on Tuesday. Front entrance tile on Wednesday while I had an appointment. Thursday, one young man came alone to grout. He was meticulous. As he packed up, he said, pointing, “I did not do a good job on that edging. I have pictures for my patron. He may want me to do it over.”

Fine.

And today, after my walk, he was back again to redo the edging so it looks right.

My first two weeks of the year have been a series of interruptions. I don’t work well when I’m waiting—waiting for people, for deliveries, for a Zoom meeting. I don’t eat lunch if workmen are coming in and out. I am easily distracted. I always have been. My fourth-grade teacher wrote: “Barbara does well in class but she doesn’t pay attention.” In my defense, the classroom windows looked out on a courtyard and another hallway. There was ALWAYS something to see.

I’ve lived alone for most of my adult life. I don’t play background music or keep the TV on. The internet is distraction enough. And for the last two weeks, having workers in and out—or waiting for them to show—has been just as distracting.

I have not hit the ground running.

And yet… things are getting done.

I’ve written and posted almost everything I scheduled. I ran a little book swap at a café. I had drinks with friends. I binged Ocean’s 11, 12, and 13, The Night Manager, and The Seven Dials. I worked on my novella—real progress, not huge, but real. I guested on two podcasts and scheduled two more. I even got back to my Portuguese practice.

Next thing you know, I’ll start eating my vegetables. Nah.

I am not running. I am not hitting the ground hard.
And it’s all getting done—without making myself crazy.

Which, of course, makes me wonder what big thing I’ve forgotten.

I am not a super-organized wonder woman. My house needs a deep cleaning. My dining room table is covered in paperwork. I have things on my list that must get done, including one that will push me out of my comfort zone. (God, I HATE being an adult.)

But I think I like this new way of doing things. Not trying so hard. Knocking things off the to-do list one by one. Gently putting myself back on task instead of bargaining with myself like a recalcitrant three-year-old. (And WOW! I discovered not everyone has an interior monologue. How do people function without one?)

By U.S. standards, the workmen are slow. I thought three days of labor plus rain delays would do it. Instead, it’s been ten days, and the young man still plans to come back to clean and protect the surface. He is more concerned with having it done properly than having it DONE.

And so it is with my work. Rushing doesn’t make it better—or even faster.

Portugal is teaching me patience. With others. With myself. It’s showing me that there’s more than one way to do things, and people have their reasons. I’ve always been about the destination, never the journey. I wanted to get “there” without knowing what “there” was.

This year, I think I’ll just be happy here.