Better Days

When last we heard from our intrepid adventurer fortune was not favoring her, yet her spirit remained undaunted.

Since I last posted a lot of respirators have seen their way through a stint of face time and into landfill. In the months that have passed I have relocated to the sticks, found a safe place to winter, and, to my amazement, purchased a little house. The house does not yet belong to the "safe place" category, but I am hopeful. To my further amazement, I find myself living (in sin) with a man I quite enjoy.

The man is a fitting partner for a self-proclaimed super hero and I'll call him Romanticus of Montague. He paints big, colorful abstract works of art and likes to dress up in outlandish outfits--a rhinestoned cowboy shirt, a tasseled turban, or biker gear. He is himself a refugee from urban pollution and struggles to tolerate his acrylic paints, wearing gloves and opening all the windows. I decided he was one of us when he described touching plastic with a look of utter revulsion contorting his face.

Romanticus shepherded me through the house-buying process--and I was one lost sheep. He and the realtor would offer insightful comments about foundations or siding while I stood masked, sick, and dazed. I would contribute requests to put pop-up air fresheners outside and morose remarks about unseen mold. In my world, love means being willing to get down on your knees and sniff foreclosure carpet.

I am aware that things are looking up for me at a time when they are looking down for many others, and that I'm unusually vulnerable to dramatic crashes in the luck department. Generally I try--not with great success--to cultivate a contentment that is independent of circumstance. At this moment my philosophy counsels expanding into unexpected bounty without waiting for the other shoe to drop. Also, I believe in steering as clear of the inflation of praise as of the deflation of blame. Like most people with Multiple Chemical Sensitivities, I've had plenty of practice at the latter.