I went to my parents’ home today to use them for their pool. Not only is it miserably hot and humid in New Orleans, but Celie was restless and needed to run out some energy in their yard for a while. We caught up while she was darting around, and began discussing a discovery I made last night.
Now, let me first say, I’m not 100% sure about this, but I’m fairly confident that my dog is a mix of a Labrador Retriever and a Great Dane. This realization made us all laugh and led to my dad reminding us of the Seinfeld episode where George decides that since his life isn’t the way he wants (or the way he imagined it would be) his instincts must be all wrong, and to fix this he is going to go against all of his natural inclinations.
You see, when I set out to get a dog I figured a medium-sized one would be a good fit. I’m a 5’1″ girl with zero upper body strength, so a 100-pound animal would be a bit of a challenge. The easy thing to do would have been to select a breed that was small, but I tend to go about things the hard way, so I picked a Lab mix with a 35-pound mother. I figured this little pup would top out at 40 pounds and I was safe. I didn’t make this determination logically, but rather took my feeling as a fact, as if no other scenario was plausible.
Well, she’s growing, and every day she looks less like a Lab. She is all legs, has a lean frame, and is an embarrassment to all other Labradors because she can’t stand the water. Sure, she is less than four months old and has a lot of changing ahead, but this dog that looked “all Lab” when I got her clearly is not. And at fifteen weeks old she weighs twenty pounds – not exactly a big dog, but also not a dog who will be done growing any time soon. A quick Google search brought me to a picture of a Labradane (which I didn’t even know was a thing) that looks exactly like Celie.
The more I read about this hybrid breed the more I was convinced. Thankfully her growing rate is nowhere near that of your average Labradane puppy, but it’s cracking me up to think of how big she could grow to be, and how my intentions will likely not materialize.
For the past five years or so my “plans” have slowly started unraveling, and lately it seems that everything I do, no matter how calculated and thought out, turns into a sitcom storyline. When a person has a chronic condition your intentions can be completely foiled at any moment. You might spend an entire week laying low so that you’re ready for a friend’s birthday party on Saturday, and then one hour before that party have a flare up that keeps you home. Or you go out and plan to leave by a certain time. But then, through no fault of your own (and let’s be honest, it’s never your fault) you arrive home an hour later than you expected to, your pain is through the roof, and you’re messed up for the better part of the next week.
I was one of those people who, even as a high schooler, could tell you what I wanted my life to look like ten years down the road and how I was going to get there. Now, I have a hard time predicting more than a month in advance. Part of that is being single, part of that is being twenty-nine, and a big part of that is having chronic pain.
While I’m not going to take the George Constanza route and do the exact opposite of what my instincts say, I may stop trying to plan so much. Perhaps it’s time to stop trying to predict how things are going to pan out. I’ll focus more on reacting positively to the twists and turns ahead, and not try so hard to see the things I can’t.
Or maybe I’ll just keep complaining every time the opposite of what I intended happens and not change a thing. I don’t know…I’ll keep y’all posted.
Image courtesy of https://www.google.com/search?q=seinfeld&client=safari&rls=en&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjKkc71-cnOAhVMySYKHQBAChUQ_AUICigD&biw=1280&bih=648#tbm=isch&q=seinfeld+diner&imgrc=VknC_5Nxxc_DCM%3A.