There’s nothing left of the boat. Tides, surf and vandalism have reduced the craft to nothing but a pile of rubble with an open commode plopped on top.
Seems entropy—that stalwart constant of physics—has reared its ugly head once again.
I live in an ongoing state of tug-of-war with the second law of thermodynamics, that scientific absolute that destines everything to a return to an elemental baseline state.
Why just last week, acknowledgment of my fleeting youth caused me to succumb to pressure from my daughter and husband to purchase an overpriced piece of swimwear my daughter discovered in a sporting goods store.
“It’s worth it. It’ll serve you well for many years,” my husband insisted.
“How long do you think I have to look good in a bikini?” I asked incredulously.
“All the more reason to buy it,” my husband said, plunking it into the cart.
With the countdown to the x-country trip in the single digits, I’m fighting to ward off decline on all fronts—home, car, pets, finances, health--you name it.
With the advent of last week’s stomach pains, I became aware of just how once-in-a-lifetime this trip really is. Next summer, I have to take sequential classes that, if missed, will extend my masters program—not to mention my funding --well beyond its natural lifespan.
By the following summer, my daughter will be 18, and who knows what will have transpired in her life or our ours by then? With the ravages of time aging even the children, it’s all together possible that the 3 weeks we’ve carved out of July could be the only chance we’ll have to make this trip as a family.
It’s a lot of pressure to put on 25 days.
So in an attempt to bolster my regained health, I went to see the herbalist.
See, Dr. M is really just for back up. When I really want to see some health-related action, I go to my herbalist, a middle aged woman who practices homeopathic medicine out of her living room.
Last month, when my jaw was on the fritz, she gave me some drops for my water bottle along with a little jar of coconut oil to use ONLY on my legs, and within 24 hours, my jaw was as good as new.
She’s dissolved cysts. She’s cured rampant yeast overgrowth. She’s even dabbled in the murky terrain of the mind with nothing more than a case of vials filled with floral extracts that I refer to as the “psych herbs.”
She even treats animals. With nothing more to go one than a tuft of fur, she diagnosed my cat’s liver issues with every bit the accuracy of the high-tech vet with the high-high bills to pay for said high-tech equipment.
Why, you may ask, do I bother with Dr. M?
Good question. If pressed, I’d have to say it’s for the cheap thrills.
You see,my herbalist--who some of my friends refer to as The Crazy Herb Lady--is ALWAYS right and beats Dr. M to the punch every time. With nothing more than powders and extracts and the combined secrets of tribal and Chinese lore, she’s typically miles ahead of Dr. M.
Which, although fascinating, often puts me in a state of conflict should I choose to consult both of them—which I tend to reserve for my more dire cases.
For instance, The Crazy Herb Lady agrees wholeheartedly with Dr. M that I have some nasty bacteria running rampant in my system, however, she wants to tackle the issue by giving me MORE bacteria--probiotics. Whereas, Dr. M insists on killing the bacteria with—you guessed it antibiotics.
So what am I doing? Taking both. I’ve researched it. It can be done. The key is staggering the introduction and eradication of the bacteria, so you’ve got this microbiological battle of good and evil waging.
No doubt the bacteria will all manage to snuff each other out and I’ll be stuck back at baseline.