I spend a lot more time thinking about writing than actually writing. A lot. Like years.

My last WI64 entry, for example, was about cold water dipping and my almost daily immersion in the Pacific. I’ve been dipping now for three years, which shows I have sticktoitiveness for some things, but clearly not for others.

I received a message this week from an unknown reader asking if I take writing assignments (I do, but only if they interest me). It led me to look at this blog where I found WordPress wanted me to transition to something called Jetpack which led to to me futzing around in publishing technology I know squat about and I unknowingly sent all WI64 followers a dud post. That post, which I gather was a web link to nowhere, led to some lovely messages welcoming me back. People were glad I’m still alive and where had I been?

And I’ll tell you. I’m a procrastinator. I think about writing all the time. I walk the dog and write in my head. I go in the ocean and think writing thoughts. I mow the lawn and think of a grass cutting blog then lose the thread of the idea and walk the dog again.

But also, life happens, especially for those of us for whom the name of this blog is years beyond being aspirational. And it’s not all fun.

Some of the stuff that happens to us all has happened over the past couple years. As the much younger child of parents who were likewise late borns, I was always destined to be the last standing in my family of origin and that point has arrived and I don’t much like it. The beautiful man I share life with is aging and surgery that meant he could no longer shoulder check has caused him to do the responsible thing and give up his driving licence which, as you can imagine, ticks me off royally, but there  it is. Also, I was on a list for knee replacement but took myself off because life at Maison WI64 doesn’t work well without me, but have since put myself back on with word from my daughters they will fly across hemispheres and countries to get me through the lumpiest post-surgery bits. 

And then there was my hair. I’ve been blessed with lots of it. I like my hair. Never wished it was straighter or curlier. Content with it.

Last year, after life events had climbed on the backs of one another, our vacuum cleaner seized up and I asked MrWI64 to take a look.  He took it apart, cleaned it out, then said, It’s clogged with hair. Your hair. Which sent me into a tail spin of panic. Indeed, I was losing hair. When showering, brushing, breathing, my hair was opting out. 

I phoned my hairdresser. Don’t panic, he said. Hair grows back. Eat a steak. You probably need protein. So I ate a steak and still lost hair.

I understood stress was the root cause and that getting more stressed wouldn’t help, so I meditated and went for targeted acupuncture. Ever hopeful.

After seeing a woman with significant hair loss and massive bald patches in my grocery store, I catastrophized and googled ‘hair restoration near me’ and, sure enough, there was such a place. A tricologist – someone who studies the science of hair (who knew?) – examined my head with 200x magnification while I watched on a monitor. If my hairs were trees, at this magnification, I could’ve spread a blanket and had a picnic between them. Yes, you‘re losing hair, she told me. But I think I can help. And, glory hallelujah, a year, a couple of treatments, and devotion to pleasant and costly products, my hair is back. Not as thick as before, maybe, but I’m satisfied.

So that’s the story, complete with excuses.

Thank you to those who told me to get back at it…like Pauline who’s wishing sleepless nights on me in the event I’m a night writer.

All nudges appreciated.