Meh and Blah

This morning we visited the Sooke Country Market. Farmers’ markets are not my favorite activity, largely because of an article I once read about some unscrupulous vendors who sell produce they buy from grocery chains.

On the way, Sheryl kept repeating: “I know it’s not your thing. It’s not remotely interesting to you.” I assured her that simply going out was fine. When we arrived, Sheryl asked: “Do you want to stay in the car? You may find interesting people to talk to. Maybe you’ll find someone working on an interesting craft, and be curious to watch how they’re doing it. Maybe you’ll find some vegetables you’ve never tried before.” The last suggestion was so unlike the old me that I eagerly got out of the car.

She continued: “You want to belong, but you’re not doing anything about it because you think it’s too much work to get to know anyone.” That’s true-but I doubt that with my gentle hands I’d be accepted into the farmers’ association. I settled for petting every dog in sight.

I assured her that since attending four different forms of psychotherapy in the past few months and transcendental-meditating daily, I’m a transformed person. I’m open and accepting of most experiences I used to avoid-including small-town farmers’ markets, psychotherapy, spiritual counseling, blood tests, and CT scans. I even use three different kinds of creams for the skin-drying side effects of the cancer pill. Yet, I do have red lines: I refuse to go line dancing.

Nothing signifies an attitudinal change toward the entire experience of living with terminal cancer like “Meh” or “Blah,” depending on your upbringing. So, my souvenir purchase from the market was this magnet of a sheep.