Sorry about the lack of content these last few days.  The holidays were sneaking up on me, so I had to give them a sound talking to.   I have a gift to make, and instead of working on the gift the recipient wants, I was working on a design I’ve been dreaming up for a while now.  And then feeling guilty for not earnestly working away on The Gift.  And then not knitting at all, because avoidance is suddenly an effective coping mechanism in my world.  So today I’ll start making the actual gift and set aside the prototype design for a bit. 

We’ve also been hanging out with a good friend who is in town from California, which is great.  If anyone has figured out the whole teleportation thing, let me know.  Because I could sure use it.  Stupid continent–always in the way.  Scott and I get to catch up with some of our far-flung friends over the winter holidays, but it’s never enough.  Them and their free will, and the continent and its huge girth–none of it fair. 

And then there’s the not breathing so well.  Some kooky people–you may call them "doctors" where you come from–told me last year that I have asthma. 
"Yeah, right.  I don’t have asthma–that’s crazy."  I said in my head, even though I acted like I was being a good little patient.  I took the expensive medication that theoretically acted as an allergy med as well because I knew I had allergies, and my doc and I agreed that taking the nasty little pills was so much better than either being sick all the time or being a little less sick and getting rid of my puppy Kayo.  So it was the asthma I was denying.  I carried an inhaler I never needed to use and wished I could have more yarn with me instead.  I took the meds until my crappy insurance plan decided to triple my copay this month, pushing the cost up to almost $3 a pill, and I decided not to get a refill immediately and see if it was worth the extra money.  Because, you know, that’ll show ’em not to mess with me.  And I don’t have asthma, clearly, because I’ve only had that scary not-so-much-with-the-breathing experience a couple of times, and it hasn’t happened all year, so I don’t have asthma.   (I know, I know, I’m smarter than that.  Except when I’m a dumbass with a bone to pick.  Like now.) 

So this weekend I guess the residual meds finally left my body, because now I’m breathing out without intending to and not so good at the lung-filling, and I’m not singing as well as usual.  Don’t worry–I have an inhaler with me and am in no physical danger.  But I now know what a "yellow" asthma day feels like, and that asthma must really suck if you’re a kid.  I got pigheaded and made myself uncomfortable for no good reason.  I’ve ordered a refill and I’m switching insurance plans, and the sweet elixir will be in my bloodstream within a few hours.  Because the one thing I hate more than my insurance company right now is using my inhaler.  I would kick my ass for being so dumb, but I’d just get winded. 

Psych 101 says Crazy Lanea is attempting to control things in her immediate reach because she can’t control something external. 

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