Someone Please Close That Damn Window

On Doing Too Much

Photo by Alistair MacRobert on Unsplash

Yesterday I sat down at my computer with the intention of revealing my deepest and darkest secrets to you all. After the newsletter I sent out last week, I was afraid I had mislead some of you about the durability of my pelvic floor. In the comments there was a request for pelvic floor exercises that I instantly knew I had no business handing out because my warped boards were still very much a work in progress. Hence the story I was going to confess.

But when I sat down to type out my story, for the life of me I couldn’t string two words together.

Okay, maybe I got two or three. But not more than that. And the ones I got were lousy ones, not fit for giving you directions to Walmart, let alone divulging a story that turned my cheeks hot with embarrassment (and a hint of enjoyment) just thinking about it.

No, I needed good words—smart, deliberate, sassy words for this story. But they weren’t there. I ventured up into my brain but was astounded to find that it was empty space up there. I mean deep space, no planets in sight. Completely void.

What in the hell is going on here? I mumbled to myself, but not before I stifled not one, not two, but—count them—three yawns as I warbled out the question.

What was going on here was that I was exhausted.

I mean the marrow-deep kind of exhaustion that had me wondering if I should even be permitted in public spaces on sidewalks near other human beings and swiftly moving vehicles. Who knew what could happen should I for a split second fall asleep on my feet, fall into the person walking next to me and land them in the path of oncoming traffic?

I’d somehow made it to our bookshop that morning without instigating any such tragedies, but I spent the better part of the day yawning and dozing behind the counter when I wasn’t trying to find the words that weren’t there to tell the story that needed telling.

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Last weekend I was introduced to a concept that I had never heard of before: window of tolerance. A friend, who is a therapist by trade, shared it with our Artist’s Way group and gave a brief explanation. A window of tolerance is a metaphor that describes how various mindsets or experiences in life widen or shrink our ability to “handle things.” These are not her words, mind you. She’s far smarter than me and gave a much better description, but this is what I took away from what she said.

A few days later, my husband and I were talking on our podcast with author Lore Wilbert, and I shared with them both how I felt like our endeavor in buying this bookshop has really widened my window of tolerance. A year ago, if I had two appointments in the same week, I was completely overwhelmed. Add in a couple of sports practices for our kiddos, a soccer game or two, and I was a nervous wreck. How would we get from here to there on time, did I remember to get the doctor’s note for school, where in heaven’s name was all their sports equipment, would I have time to get the uniforms washed before the game or would they have to wear them still soaked in the sweat from last week? It was the details that got my panties in a wad. I wanted to know that everything was going to work out…perfectly.

Then we bought the bookshop…and life got legit INSANE.

But to my surprise, my window of tolerance widened. I had so much more to do both inside and outside our home that I had to give up stressing about the details and perfection. I would look at my schedule for an upcoming week, filled with appointments, tasks for the shop, hours I needed to be behind the counter, groceries to buy, dinners to make, practices and games and concerts and performances I needed to attend, and think, “Before the shop I didn’t do this much in a month let alone 7 days.”

In many ways, I am my father’s daughter. From meticulously organized dresser drawers to dishwasher-loading pet peeves, we were very much the same. But never more so than in our drivenness to (in his words) “get shit done.” I love knocking out tasks and taking on challenges and working myself to the bone. It gives me a bit of a thrill. And when I realized that I could do things without knowing all the details or doing it all perfectly, I realized that I could do more and have fun doing it.

But in the midst of that exhilaration, I can sometimes go completely “Price is Right” crazy and fling that window way open, far beyond what I can actually tolerate. And I don’t notice it till I’m catnapping on my walk to work or sitting down to write a story and the words aren’t there. That’s when I realize it’s time to close the window a smidge…or I need someone else to help me realize it.

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At 1pm yesterday, Shawn walked in the door of the bookshop and said, “Go sleep.”

We’d been on the phone earlier in the day and he quickly noticed the dozen yawns that interrupted our 2 minute conversation. “You’re exhausted,” he told me before we hung up, “I’m coming in and you’re going home.”

And that’s what I did.

I stumbled in the front door, gave Winnie the Lab the necessary belly rubs and neck nuzzles she requires whenever anyone comes home, dragged myself upstairs to our bedroom, crawled under the covers, and slept.

For ten whole minutes.

That’s when the table saws and hammering echoed up from our basement and woke me up. But that’s a story for another time.

So many stories.

Next week, if the words find their way back to my brain again, I’ll have a gut-busting story to tell you that involves the streets of Philadephia, two lovers running hand-in-hand through traffic, and the many wonders and woes of being a woman.

Now, friends, as always, it’s your turn. Are you finding your “window of tolerance” widening or shrinking these days? Why? And who are the people who help you to adjust? I’d love to hear from you down in the comments section below!