Is sharing observations about an unremarkable life experience a tenable measure of progress when you’re struggling emotionally?

I’ve been thinking about the time when I recently stepped away from a project I’ve been self-flagellating to complete and focused on a twenty-year-old paper shredder instead.

She was abandoned in a corner of the garage and appeared to have spent the last quarter of her life there. Standing at just over two feet tall, she wasn’t an industrial machine but seemed large by home office standards — and a potential heavy hitter.

Could I revive her?

Cloud computing and external drives have reduced my carbon footprint considerably, but I still have a mound of papers awaiting secure disposal.

It was settled. I needed her. So I welcomed her back into the house and immediately got to work. 

I enjoy the process of making old furniture and appliances look new again, and this project was no exception. I carefully polished her exterior with a microfiber cloth. Little by little, her dusty coat gave way to an heirloom’s guarded luster. 

I lifted her head from the receptacle bin and examined the underside. From the looks of the bits lodged in her teeth, she’d enjoyed her last meal but needed a dental cleaning. I used my fingers to dislodge what I could, replaced her head, and plugged her into the wall. She wouldn’t power on, so I found her manual online and reviewed the troubleshooting suggestions. 

The first tip was to clean the operating sensors with a Q-tip and a touch of rubbing alcohol. I followed the instructions and tried again. This time the sensor glowed blue. 

The second tip was to oil her blades. I scoured the garage cabinets for a bottle of shredder oil, but was unsuccessful. With zero desire to leave the house, I found a respectable substitute on hand: blade oil for cat clippers. I laced the oil onto a piece of paper in a zigzag motion and slid it through the document feed.

She chewed begrudgingly at first, but her appetite increased. Thirty minutes later, the “paper full” sensor glowed. I turned off the power and emptied the bin, pleased at the sight of the shrunken pile. I pressed the power button to reboot the machine, but the sensor didn’t light.

Apparently she needed a break. I did, too. It was lunchtime. After rerouting to the kitchen for a tuna, apple and pecan salad, I tried again. She powered on. Piece by piece, I fed her the remaining pile until it was gone.

I recently heard that confronting dreadworthy, overwhelming tasks, or doing anything that falls outside your daily routine stimulates a region of the brain called the anterior midcingulate cortex. So is resuscitating a crumbling paper shredder a benchmark of personal victory? It didn’t feel like one to me. Until it was me.

Feeling obsolete?

Think you’re broken?

Can’t do the things?

Did you shower?

Did you moisturize?

Overwhelmed?

Did you nap?

The things. Can you do them now?

Rerouting my life to care for my mother had its share of challenges, but it always felt intrinsic. Now, as I grieve her loss and the unexpected loss of my father in tandem, rerouting again feels discordant to everything I’ve ever known. Particularly about feeling at home in the world.

Midlife, with all of its requisite dogma — is a curious place to live. It can make the most pedestrian tasks feel painfully out of reach, as if navigating through changes isn’t tricky enough already.

I roll with the punches, continue my story, and try to keep the dialogue lighthearted:

I have brain freeze. (ha)

My eyesight is failing. (tee hee)

My joints are cranky. (chuckle)

My hormones are tanked. (giggle)

Damn menopause. (knee slap)

Midlife wants top billing. It holds a sharpened claw to my flesh and carves out a rewrite in blood: 

Your brain is trash.

Your eyes are trash.

Your joints are trash.

Your hormones are trash.

As I hold the paper away from my face and attempt to read the revisions, the script warps into a hyperbolic distortion. One with all the subtlety of a funhouse mirror. My failing eyes look on in horror when I realize the narrative has changed to first-person:

My brain is trash.

I can’t think anymore.

I’m not making any sense.

It hurts.

My eyes are trash.

I can’t see anymore.

Better not explore or drive.

I’ll get lost.

It hurts.

My joints are trash.

I can’t move anymore.

Skip the gym.

Don’t go for a run.

It hurts.

My hormones are trash.

I’m too tired to move.

I’m too tired to feel.

It hurts.

Then it gets downright nasty:

I can’t do this.

My loved ones are gone.

I’m alone in the world.

I’m an orphan.

It hurts. 

I don’t argue with crazy, but I can define it. Crazy is allowing a distortion to pit my life valuation against a phantom optimality. It’s a gimmick, a distraction. Then I remember that the mirror has another side. I turn it over, look again, and see this:

Perspective change can numb like ice. It doesn’t mean my brain is frozen. Time has passed. Variables are different. Things are heavy. It doesn’t always feel great because physics is a bit of a mean girl, but it isn’t stagnant. It’s a process. Think this.

I tell myself that everything hurts, but I’m rarely in unbearable physical pain. Distortion thrives on dissonance. Reflexive activities like kickboxing and running lessen the noise. Keep the volume at a minimum. Keep it moving along. Feel this.

If anything was bound by a shred of common decency, I could happily stop here. Unfortunately, there’s that orphan thing.

As much as it twists and bends, a funhouse mirror is limited in scope. It can’t distort the other side of the mirror, because the other side of the mirror can only reflect the truth. The other side of the mirror is where my parents live. The parents I will always have.

My parents have earned their rest, but I doubt that’s what they’re doing. Momma’s probably executive chairing the Rainbow Bridge by now — Feral Cat Relations. Daddy’s wearing a tunic the color of wind and teaching the planets to dance. Didgeridoos are singing along. Gankoguis and djembes keep time.

If I was looking for the bar of optimality, that’s it right there — but I’m feeling and thinking about other things, too.

I have brain freeze. 

My eyesight is failing.

My joints are cranky. 

My hormones are tanked. 

Damn menopause.

Like living. Working. Traveling. Alone or with friends. Accomplishments. Deadlines. Airplanes. Flyer miles. Road trips. Oil changes. Time to

I can’t do this.

It’s too cold to move.

I’ll get lost.

It hurts.

get

up.