Drying Off and Getting Soft

Stock photo No goat was harmed in the uploading of this picture

I don't know if you're aware of this but the "holidays" are upon us. It's an easy thing to miss, because it's not like we're barraged with an onslaught of manufactured, capitalist-inspired revelry starting around Halloween or anything. Shit is subtle. It creeps up on you. 


At the farm, things start to slow down this time of year. Because Laini keeps the girls on a relatively natural milking cycle rather than manipulating it so that they milk year round -- which plenty of places do -- things are starting to taper off. We're helping the natural process along by pulling back on their grain and letting some of the milk reabsorb into their bodies, cutting down the twice daily milkings to one-a-days. Because there's less milk, there's less cheese. Which means that finally, after many consecutive months of constant work, Laini gets to take a wee vacay. And when Laini's gone, the whole shebang pretty much shuts down. Which means the likes of me can also take a little break. 

This year for the first time since college I will be winging my way back to Indiana to visit the 'rentals for more than a week. I am looking forward to seeing my fam, because I actually like them and we have fun together. A distant second to spending time with my ma and pa is getting to DO MOTHERFUCKING NOTHING, unless you count watching a steady stream of terrible web television as an activity. Which, let's be honest, I sort of do. 

It's funny now to think back to how langorous my former life was. How inactive I was, even if I exercised regularly or socialized or whatever. Here, not only do I put in more hours at my actual job than almost ever before (with the possible exception of when I was a cub edit assistant and stayed at the magazine til 11 pm on closing weeks), the vast majority of those hours are intensely physical. Before my departure for the Hinterlands that I now call home, I would roll into work around 11 am, cut out around 6 at the latest, and the last hour of my shift I would more often than not be a glass or two into some ridiculous bottle of wine shared amongst my co-workers. Whether it was depression or fatigue or inebriation or some combination thereof, during the last couple of years in New York, I would simply go straight home, possibly continue drinking, make a large bowl of popcorn for dinner and watch Netflix until I passed out. 

You could say I was Over It.

I've enjoyed plenty of years of leisure and convenience, and I'm frankly equal parts overwhelmed and thrilled to be living my current life, in which even the most seemingly simple things seem to require inordinate thought and effort. Getting to and from work is routinely a life-or-death adventure, for example, and grocery shopping requires juggling and much advanced planning -- there is no popping out to the bodega to grab an onion if you forgot one.

Because I am Eastern European and therefore it is my destiny to find the lead lining in every fucking cloud, I am approaching this upcoming respite with no small amount of anxiety. Mostly having to do with WHAT IF I GET SOFT? What if multiple consecutive days of hardcore slothdom makes my farming muscles atrophy and my hard-working determination (a state of mind that does NOT and never has come easily to me) lag and erode and slowly extinguish? What if the ease of turning on a thermostat instead of building a fire, or perusing a stocked fridge or cabinet rather than making each meal from scratch or not being compelled by any obligation to leave my bed before, say, 8 am (I KNOW BUT I LIT'RULLY CANNOT SLEEP PAST 8 THESE DAYS EVEN ON FUCKING WEEKENDS I AM A SENIOR CITIZEN FOR REAL) or just being able to DRIVE TO A GODDAMNED TARGET that is less than 10 minutes away just makes me into a weak-willed flabby whiny little bitch? So that when I come back all of the work that I've finally become accustomed to seems THAT MUCH HARDER? 

These are things that keep me up at night. I can't just be excited for a nice relaxing trip. I can't, okay? 

Also, duh, I'm gonna miss my goat friends like whoa. I swear to Christ the idea of not being close to my little ruminant buddies for a near-fortnight is gripping my heart with an icy palm of dread. What if they forget who I am? Who will appreciate Dee Dee's resemblance to Joan Jett or Annette's kindly old lady offering you a butterscotch candy vibes or Amy's JAPpy Juicy Couture-wearing sorority girl persona or Shelley's anorexic ballet groupie aura or Snoid's martian with a sweet tooth disposition or Elizabeth's wholesome wannabe nun temperament or Shifty's insistence that I nuzzle her for 30 seconds before she gets down from the milking stand or Placer's need to push her eyeball against my cheek while I clean her manger? What if they feel abandoned and try to retaliate by headbutting me to death upon my return? I mean, VALID CONCERNS people. 

So anyway, I'm going home tomorrow. I will not be posting pics of idyllic alpine forest scenes nor of lope-eared cud-chewing creatures for a couple weeks. I may well document my inevitable trip to Target or some weird tablescape my mom creates (hi Bird!). WHO CAN SAY FOR SURE? This is why you keep coming back - because it is a non-stop rollercoaster ride of excitement and mystery.

So I bid you adieu from the wilds of the Northeast Kingdom (assuming Vermont lets me leave this time). See you on the flippity flop.