Flexibility
In the past few weeks, the lesson that the Universe seems intent on teaching me, over and over and over, is that no matter how flexible I think I'm being, it's not flexible enough.
For someone who doesn't like change in the first place, this is not an easy or comfortable lesson. (Not that any of the Universe's lessons are easy or comfortable ones, of course.) I resent it. At a gut level, I feel like the Universe ought to give me credit for going outside my comfort zone on flexibility, ought to reward me for that, rather than punishing me for it by requiring me to be even more flexible.
At that gut level, I think I think of it in compromise/bargaining terms. My default position is 0 flexibility out of, say, 100; I'm comfortable going up to, say, 25; after a lot of stress and angst, I brace myself for going outside my comfort zone and I offer 50; the Universe says "That's all very well, but actually you need to go up to 75." The Universe does not bargain; it does not take my position and my compromises and the degree to which I've already been flexible into account; it makes demands, and I have to meet them. I would like to register a complaint with the Universe's customer service department. I would like the Universe to recognize my years of service and my exemplary attitude, and cut me some slack.
The rational and reasonable part of me recognizes that the universe is full of change, and that flexibility is an extremely important survival characteristic, and that being flexible is likely to lead to one being happier and healthier and generally having a better life. Also, the more kids there are in my life, the more flexible I'm going to have to be; as Mary Anne noted on the phone just now, the need for flexibility is only going to increase from here on out.
But I still hate it.
