Hold please. I gotta go wash my hands again.
The world feels so upside down and none of us are sure what to think, so we thought we’d give you something ahhhhh to think about.
Comfy. Cozy. Loungewear. That’s what this post is all about.
That, and half written grammatically incorrect sentences. And how I got punked by a racoon, fell in a river and got locked in a hut.
Here we are. Our imperfect selves. Shopping at the grocery store in our hazmat suits. It feels like April 74th. The only road trip we’re taking is down the road, and tripping.
What are you up to these days?
I’m working from the cabin… buried deep within my sofa with half eaten potato chips on my shirt and chip dip on my sleeve. Why did that sentence just make me drool? Who am I right now? Also, my butt looks like a pancake.
Annnnnnnd it’s cold in the cabin. My nipples are exhausted.
Lately, I’ve been forcing myself to go outside and walk in the forests and fields of our property, and remind myself that the sky is …in fact… not falling.
I don’t want to brag, but I’ve walked 3 times in three weeks.
So far, I’ve fallen in our river, witnessed a drunk racoon, and inadvertently locked myself in a hut.
GASP. I DIE.
You’re calling me a loser in your head right now, aren’t you? Wait. It gets worse. You’re like, really? I thought this fiasco was over.
I went for a pajama-clad-parka-wearing (how’s that for a visual?) walk in our backyard forest and drank beer (yeah, I stashed one in my pocket, because that is what this grown ass adult does in a crisis.)
Like the pajama and parka visual wasn’t horrific enough. I had to top it off with a beer in my pocket.
You’re like.. “my eyes, my eyes!” I can’t unsee that.
Uhm. It’s gets miles worse.
First. I sat on a rock pondering what kind of DIY craft I could do with moss. Who does that? Don’t answer that. It wasn’t a real question. As I sat there thinking about my stoopid imaginary moss craft, I spotted a very happy drunk racoon, sunning himself. He stood up, wobbled, scratched himself like a drunk man in a pub and then stood on his head. Someone furry ate a few too many fermented apples. And it wasn’t me and my furry unshaved anklets.
Things get weird in the countryside, don’t they?
Hold on. They get weirder.
As if, right? Yup.
I almost died. In an efffffing hut.
Day 2 of my walkfest.
I thought I should try another
torture session walk, and check on the raccoon <— My new best friend. He had sobered up and toddled off. Phew. Safe and sound. All clear. I meandered like my 102 year old self, through the fields and forests to our sons hunting hut at the back of our 100 acre property. I was in. All in, on this 3743 mile walk to nowhere-ville.
Note to self: I effffing hate hunting. I mean, I’m an almost-every-once-in-a-while-sometimes-vegetarian. But I super love my son, and his tiny homemade hut. That wee hut suddenly looked like heaven on earth. A nice escape from the cold.
I had this picturesque vision in my head. I could walk in the hut and be transformed. Maybe I could even look like my friend Rachel, walking into our treehouse laTREEn bathroom. My imagination is crazier than a twirly straw and I’d obviously, unequivocally lost my mind at this point, because I did not look like this going into the hut….
Guess what happened next?
I sat in the hut for a good long time thinking that life was pretty great. It was confirmed. The sky had, in fact, not fallen.
I sat a little longer. And had a really big cry. The thing is, I’ve been so sad about Michaels health. Cancer is horse shit. Things had been taking a downturn in his cancer rollercoaster. I worry what my life would be like without him in it. I felt sorry for myself and my hut-like fashion statement, all at once. No really. I’m a hot mess sometimes.
Then. I got ready to leave. I turned the handle to the door, and the outside part of the door handle fell off. The handle fell offfffffff. BOOM. Handle on the ground. I was locked in. I stood there wondering if this was a symbol of my life. I perpetually feel like I’m a piece of cheese sliding off a cracker.
I die. I guess this is my forever life now. Living in a forest. For the rest of f.o.r.e.v.e.r.
Can we just talk about the fact that I was locked in that mother-f*cker room for a good long time?
Legit. A loooooooong time.
I FaceTimed my son.
No answer. I wrote a will.
I carved LYNNE WAS HERE on the wall, with my imaginary pocket knife that I didn’t bring with me. I have my regrets. Too
many few to mention.
I googled sumo wrestling and door kicking.
Because I’m obvs a total weirdo : truth is, I’d actually fallen in love with the wee homemade hut my son had made, and the escape it gave me for a hot minute. But then, after I discovered that I couldn’t escape my escape hut (wait, where were we?)… it was game over. Let me tell you. There is a fine line between love and hate. Now you know why I need to travel with beer when walking our
death trap property.
I was starting to worry that this would now be my forever home. I now hated the panic room I found myself hyperventilating in and wondering why I only brought one beer.
I threw my body into the door. I horse kicked it from the rear. I took a run at it with all my might. I pounded. I got a sliver in my delicate Princess hand. I pleaded with the hut gods, and promised that I would start exercising and stop swearing … if …. just this once… I would be allowed to escape unscathed.
Ya no. Too late for hut prayers.
Then it happened. I kicked the door down. Yeah. I. Kicked. That. Wafer. Thin. Mofo. Door. Down.
It was a hollow, airy fairy door, and I don’t know why I’m admitting, in my outside voice, that the door was as light as a feather. Because I am super woman, hear me roar with my flimsy door. Still.
Just.Remember.This….Beyond the scary headlines, there is happiness and good news too.
I’m still here. Living my best scaredy-pants life with a husband with super shitty scary cancer, and kicking down doors. If I can do it, you can too. Although, in hindsight… I did stare at a drunk racoon, fall in a river and inadvertently lock myself in a hut. My life choices are debatable sometimes.
Basically, what I am trying to say is this…..
When one door closes, another one opens. And if it doesn’t, kick that damn door down and drink a beer in your pajamas while you’re at it.
Annnnd if there is anything I know, it’s how to be comfy at home. In a cabin. In a hut or panic room. I’ve been practicing self isolation and living/working from home for a loooooong time. Uhhmm yeah, that’s my bra on the bed. I’m also the gal who sneezes three times right after she puts her mascara on. I, obvs, have this comfy thing down pat.
I feel like I’ve been training for this moment, my whole life. I know it’s possible to feel good (even during a crisis), and be comfy too.*
*Although the racoon may disagree.
Happiness comes in the little things. Even in tragedy, the sun will still rise. Find the good. Feel the love. Do the little things that make you feel good.
That, and life is just too short to wear uncomfortable clothes. We all need a little PICK ME UP these days, don’t we? Even internet window shopping & dreaming is a good pick me up. Tristan and I gathered up a few of our fave cozy things. Truth be told, we got so inspired internet window shopping, we bought some things too haha. *puts superwoman suit in online shopping cart, along with a bag of potato chips. The problem with the internet is that you can buy things in the middle of the night. If my husband asks, I bought nuttin’. Innocent. As usual. We cool? Good. Moving on.
Here is our all time fave curated collection of comfy cozy loungewear to wear around the house. Or backyard. Or for when you go for walks.
P.S. You can do your online shopping … wearing no makeup, no shirt, no problem. Try THAT in a mall.
P.S.S. I love you. That is all. What are you doing to cope? I need these details to thrive in life.