Fingers Crossed.

You know it’s going to be a day of adventure when the first thing your dad says when starting the boat is: “I hope the batteries didn’t die. Fingers crossed.”

Fingers crossed indeed. Today was the day we were supposed to fish and then pull the boat out of the water for winter. Best hope the batteries aren’t dead.

And guess what? Batteries didn’t die.

So, after starting the boat, we motored out about 24 miles to our final destination.

“Destination” would be a secret set of coordinates that looked an awful lot like the middle of nowhere.

Middle of nowhere is often the best place to fish, and sure enough, my dad had fished the spot a few weeks before and came home with a ‘but load of fish (pun always intended).

And so, in the crisp morning air, we set out our lines and waited for the fish to bite.

Fingers crossed.

As luck would have it, the fish were biting. More particularly, they were biting my hook because not ten minutes in, I was pulling in the big boys.

20 pounder.

30 pounder.

Dare I say 40 pounder?

Pole dug deep into the crevasse of my hip, and left arm bent at an angle best suited for reeling in the the combined weight of the fish/current/depth, we managed to catch our limit within an hour and a half.

Now that’s some fishing for you.

Back at the harbor, as we’re pulling the boat out for the season, I notice a sea otter bobbing by us.

It wasn’t moving and my initial thought was, “Oh my gosh is it dead?”

So I went to check on him.

Fingers crossed.

He was alive (thank the Lord), just taking a mid afternoon siesta in the sea.

Once we got the boat out, we hit the road out of Homer, in search of lunch in nearby Ninilchik.

As we’re driving, the truck starts to slow down.

If you’ve never been to Homer before, there’s this big hill.

It’s lengthly, double lane, and a wee bit steep.

And our aged F150 pickup towing a 14,000 pound boat? It was too much for truckee to handle.

Because all of a sudden, the truck came to a stuttering stop.

In the middle of the Sterling Highway.

On a hill. On the very steep hill.

Uh oh.

And so, for the fourth time that day, we tried to start the car, you guessed it, with fingers crossed.

Unfortunately, our luck had run out because the truck did not start.

And so, we sat in the car, stuck on the Sterling Highway, on a hill, on a Sunday.

To which I say holy moly!

Anyhoo, we wound up getting a tow allllllllll the way from Soldotna by a guy named Buddy.

I have to say, despite things going terribly wrong there at the end, the day as a whole was productive and enjoyable.

And we all made it home safely.

Even the boat.

Fingers crossed…

Don’t Drop it.

You’re a woman of great sentiment, my therapist’s voice echoes in my head.

You are a woman of great sentiment, I whisper to myself as I pick up the shattered remains of the gift I had just purchased.

You are a woman of great sentiment, I repeat again, feeling the tears start to well in my eyes as I hold what used to be a Christmas present that I had so thoughtfully and lovingly found for someone in my family.

You are a woman of great sentiment, I say again even as I feel my walls crumbling and my emotions flooding in.

I am a woman of great sentiment.

There I was, crouched on the garage floor, picking up the broken pieces of a cocktail kit I had just dropped. There was no saving it.

On the heels of a most incredible evening with the gem, my high of all highs suddenly came down down down.

Forcing myself to keep the emotions at bay, trying to keep it together in the presence of my gem, I repeated this phrase over and over and over again, trying to remind myself of why I felt heartbroken at this seemingly inconsequential accident.

I am woman of great sentiment.

I tried to look at this from a different angle: I could’ve fallen and cracked open my head. It could’ve been worse.

And I was right. It could’ve been way worse.

So why was I taking this so deeply? Why was I allowing it to ruin my beautiful evening? It’s a broken jar.

I mean, it’s not like I’m surprised at reacting with such fervor.

This type of emotionally charged overreaction is not new to me.

We’re talking about the same woman who can’t throw a bouquet of flowers away because she can’t stomach the idea of flowers going into a trashcan. So she carefully lays them to rest outside..

We’re talking about the same woman who started crying when her neighbors cut down a beautiful healthy aspen. Poor tree was leaning..

We’re talking about the same woman who bursts into tears at the bar because she comes across animal rescue posts. All those lonely faces..

We’re talking about the same woman who looked forlornly at a dead butterfly that had been trapped in the recyclables trash bag. What a tragic end..

I am, as my therapist so simply put it: a woman of great sentiment.

Which is a beautiful quality, and at the very core of me, the essence of who I am. But when I let those feelings consume me? That’s where the trouble lies.

Because after picking up the rest of the broken remains, I started to seize with embarrassment. As if I wasn’t emotional enough, I was now overcome with shame at how I was reacting in front of someone I really liked. Negative, ill-spoken self-deprecating thoughts slowly undid any sense of calm, and I was horrified that my gem was seeing me in this state: emotional, vulnerable, flawed, and now blubbering on the bathroom floor.

I wasn’t used to guys seeing me like this; in fact, he was the first.

Some guys had hinted at my tendency to overreact, sure. One had even brazenly pointed it out to me: “you seem to over-react a lot”, which thanks I am FULLY aware of, I sooooo appreciate you pointing out my biggest insecurity.”

Others had sensed my tenacious attempts at controlling my emotions, then ran the hell away from me and all my feelings.

But this one? He stayed. Allowed me to cry, process, and cry some more.

All. Without. Judgement.

I’m not used to that.

It’s terrifying, allowing myself to be seen as I really am. Especially in front of someone I adore. I mean, there’s always the fear of: what if they don’t like the real me?

Oh my darling, but what if they do? And accept and appreciate you for who you really are?

Let that one sink in.

Self-acceptance is a process. And this insecurity of feeling so intensely is something I’m still rather tender about showing to most.

It feels like I’m baring my naked soul on my upturned palms.

Here I am: fragile, tender, prone to shattering. Please don’t drop me.

Like I dropped my jar..