Saturday Survival Notes: Sports, Stress, and the Weeds of Democracy
Welcome to the final Saturday in May — that magical moment when the garden is out of control, your stress levels are tied to the performance of men in shorts, and you’re still trying to emotionally rebound from the other guy in shorts — Felon 47 — who somehow hasn’t yet been banished to a supermax facility where truth goes to heal.
Let’s be honest: I need support. Emotional, moral, possibly horticultural. Between the Pacers giving me palpitations, the Indy 500 drivers flinging themselves into corners at 240 mph, and the football preseason rumors already firing up… I’m one bad play away from stress-pruning the entire yard into mulch.
And then there’s the garden. Oh, the garden. Every spring I start off full of hope, compost, and delusion. By now, it’s me vs. the weeds in an escalating Cold War. I pull five, ten rise up. I mulch, they tunnel under. I swear they’ve unionized. I can hear them mocking me: “You’re 72, lady, and we’re just getting started.”
They may be right.
Because getting older isn’t for the faint of heart — especially not under this current circus tent of an administration, where empathy is dead, decency is exiled, and every press conference feels like a hostage video from the upside-down. It’s like watching democracy slowly dragged behind a golf cart on fire, and the driver’s yelling something about “freedom” while banning books, birth control, and now international students.
Yes, Felon 47’s latest tantrum is a plan to ban international students from U.S. universities. Because that’s what helps a struggling economy, right? Fewer brilliant people with ideas. Fewer researchers, engineers, and doctors. It’s like he wakes up every day asking, “How can I make this worse?” and then answers it with enthusiasm.
So if I’m stressed, it’s not just the sports. It’s the creeping realization that I’m being governed by a man who thinks due process is a liberal hoax and spelling is optional.
Still, there is something wildly comforting about sports, even in the chaos. The Pacers are playing their hearts out. The Indy 500 is this weekend, and I’ll be there for my 69th race, tequila in hand, deviled eggs on deck, and just a touch of caviar to remind myself I’m still a queen — even if the weeds disagree.
Football’s around the corner. I’ll brace myself. Maybe yell at a linebacker or two. It’s cheaper than therapy.
But for today, I’m calling it a win if I water the plants, watch something fast, and remember that resilience is a muscle — and it’s one I’ve got, even if my back says otherwise.
Stay strong. Stay salty. And if you’re feeling buried under weeds — in the yard or in your soul — just know: you’re not alone.
We’ll rage, root, and resist together.
Julie Bolejack, MBA
