Okay, Who Moved My cheese?

    Dr. Spencer Johnson’s best selling Who Moved My Cheese? (Published in 1998) is a story of four characters that live in a "Maze" and look for "Cheese" to eat.   Years ago as an Equal Opportunity Officer, I used the story when I taught classes to soldiers.  It was about two mice named Sniff and Scurry, and two mouse-size people named Hem and Haw.  The "Cheese" was a metaphor for what you wanted to have in life…whether it was a good job, a loving relationship, money, a possession, health, or spiritual peace of mind.  The “Maze" was where you looked for what you want…the organization you work in, or the family or community you live in.  In the story, the characters were faced with unexpected change. Eventually, one of them dealt with the change successfully.  He wrote what he had learned from his experience on the maze walls. The moral was “when you see the handwriting on the wall, you can discover for yourself how to deal with change and enjoy more success and less stress in your work and in your life”.  I enjoyed the lesson so much; I bought the kid’s version for our youngest.  I even used it when I worked as a substitute teacher.  “Cheese” is one of those stories that easily applies to all age groups.  We all, at some point or another, have our cheese moved.  

    Today, I woke up thinking “Okay, Who Moved My Cheese”.  We recently replaced the old furniture in our basement.  The old furniture arrives between 9 and 12 this morning.  It completely disrupted my daily routine.  Most weekday mornings, I get dressed, see my son off to school, and then head downstairs to walk on the treadmill.  It starts my day off right.  Then, once I have showered and dressed, I write in my blog.  This morning, I am stuck waiting for the new furniture.  I hate waiting.  I suppose I could find something to do.  I can do other exercises in my routine.  I just can’t commit to that treadmill walk.  I have to listen for that inevitable knock on the front door (the bell doesn’t work). 

    To make matters worse, we are replacing our carpet this weekend.  I have spent the entire week moving breakables so we can move china cabinets and other miscellaneous furniture.  Up and down the stairs.  Okay, I could consider that exercise.  My husband has been on one of his work trips this week.  When he calls, I tell him what I’ve been doing, a little bit each day.  I am worried about getting it all done before they come to rip up the carpeting.  He knows it.  He tells me not to worry.  Honestly, that’s like telling a parachutist not to jump after they left the plane…and the chute has opened.  Let’s face it…worrying is what I do.  If I’m not worrying about the fact that all the furniture is still in place, I am worrying about whether or not I will twist or pull my back when my husband says “Okay, time to move furniture.  Come on.  It’s easy.”  “Sweetie, it is not easy.  I am not a he man furniture mover.  I am a petite fragile lady with, might I add, a bad back”.  He has always overestimated my physical strength.  How can I blame him?  He sees my other strengths.  He sees the “I can, I will” attitude I show the world.  Most days, I struggle with the urge to say “I can, I really want to.  Okay, I will try.”  Then subconsciously, I am saying, “Please let me lay down on the couch.  I am broken and exhausted.”     

    I know I have to deal with the change.  It seems I am always dealing with change.  I had to start walking because my knees were shot, because the doctor said I could not run anymore.  I still take the stairs, but I hold on to the banister because it hurts and well, for fear my knees will give out on me.  I took up yoga because I could not deal with the constant pain.  It balances me.  I do my kegels religiously, but I still wear those stupid panty liners just in case.  I take the GPS everywhere I drive so I don’t get anxious when we take a wrong turn and get lost.  Men won’t ask directions, but they have no problem with the gadgets.  I plan ahead.  I organize.  I am probably borderline obsessive compulsive.  But I know if they move my cheese, I have more stashed somewhere, my personal continuity plan.  Okay, that’s not the lesson Dr. Johnson meant me to learn.  What can I say?  It’s a process.  The handwriting on the wall tells me I can walk after the furniture comes…