Guilt and Inspiration

 

An odd thing happened this afternoon.  I wrote a story.  I’d hit a dry spell, so the urge caught me off guard.   

Inspiration comes in many forms.  I read about an author who finds powerful inspiration when his accountant calls to tell him his checkbook is running low.  

Today I’m thinking about Meriwether Lewis.  The journals describing his exploration across our great nation to the Pacific Ocean are wonderful.  But he had an unexplained dry spell.  Several months went by during the epic trip without his penning a single word.  Historians theorize that a manic depressive disorder gripped his mind and drained him of the desire to share his observations.  If only my experience were as dramatic.  

I simply lost faith.  And got lonely.  Also fat.  Sitting for hours gazing out a window with the laptop’s cursor flashing away can do that.  

But then it comes!  That flash of inspiration, evilly disguised as guilt, in the form of the family Christmas letter.  My generous - yet devious - husband inserted a paragraph in the annual newsletter informing family and friends that I had a new hobby.  Had in fact written a book, taken classes, and - here’s the problem  - started a blog.  Started in fact, but subsequently abandoned.  See reasons above.  

But now the phone is ringing.  A blog?  You have a blog?  How can we find it?  We want to read it.  

And of course they’ll find out there’s been no entry in months.  Slacker!  Fraud!  Liar, liar, pants on fire!    

And suddenly the words begin to flow.  

I wonder if Meriwether Lewis’ family sent a note begging for news and the guilt lifted him out of his misery.  

Works for me.  

Complaining

I was standing in the lobby of the Performing Arts Center. I’d been assigned to a volunteer post for exactly one hour. On the surface it seemed like a simple job. All I had to do was say two words. I could say them simultaneously or separately at my discretion, and a big smile would be a nice touch, but not required. If I wanted to hold the door open for the incoming patrons, the organizers thought I was a superstar. I simply had to repeat the same two words over and over: Hello. Welcome. That’s it. I tried to vary the tone and pitch a bit to make it more interesting, but there really wasn’t much material to work with.

At the end of the hour, I’d stop smiling, stop talking, collect my free ticket and go watch the show.


So it came as a bit of a surprise when people began to ask questions. Questions like “Where is the restroom?” and “Where can I buy a ticket?” I wasn't trained for these difficult problems. I wasn't trained at all. I was a volunteer. Hello. Welcome. That’s all I’ve got.

But I tried hard to be helpful, directing the questioners to more knowledgeable volunteers and staff. And for the most part it worked out fine, all of us generally in a happy mood, since the entire audience had obtained heavily discounted tickets at this opening night performance. In a few short moments we would all enjoy a visit from Peter Pan and a flight to Neverland. What’s not to like?

Apparently even in the presence of fairy dust and happy thoughts, things can get ugly. A woman yelled at me because I didn’t know the answer to her question. Here we were, standing in this beautiful facility, with a majestic curving staircase, plush crimson carpeting, and a crystal chandelier casting gentle light in the summer dusk, and this woman yelled at me. In her opinion, I wasn’t a helpful volunteer; I was a useless person who had no business being here.

I studied her face carefully, trying to detect some justification for her unreasonable wrath or, alternatively, some reason to feel sorry for her. I found none. In fact, with her long stringy gray hair, and a protruding, knobby chin that sprouted two or three spiky hairs in need of tweezing, all wrapped up in a dark robe-like linen jacket, she reminded me of an off-duty Wicked Witch of the West. Maybe she’d been expecting to see the Wizard of Oz.

It got me to thinking about how often we complain. We complain about big things, little things, silly things, and sometimes things we won’t even remember an hour from now, let alone at the end of a lifetime. How often do we complain even though we are so overwhelming fortunate? How often had I done the same thing?

After settling the cranky woman with a capable staff member, I went back to my post, resolving to leave her unkind words behind. Hello. Welcome. Smile.

After all, it was such a lovely night, what did I have to complain about?

I Know

The phone rang again for the third time in an hour. She knew who it was. The caller.

He’d started a few months ago. At first she thought it was just another solicitor and ignored it. She even called *69 once or twice, but the caller’s number was unavailable. Then, just out of curiosity, she started to pick up. A few of the calls were the usual fundraisers and the like, but sometimes there was just silence. If she waited long enough she could hear the distinctive breathing. A kind of scratchy sound, like the lungs of a long-time smoker.

Randomly at first, and then more regularly, the calls continued, always in the evenings. After 7:00, before 11:00. Why? Why would someone harass her, frighten her? What was so frightening about breathing? There was no real harm in it. Still, it was creepy.

She called the phone company of course, but the calls could not be traced. She changed her number, but the calls continued. She began to dread coming home, and found excuses to stay away, but the demands of an early morning commute combined with her need for a solid eight hours of sleep, meant she was frequently home when the calls came through at 10:00, 10:30, 10:45.

Then on one call she heard the voice. “I know,” he said. Just that. “I know.” And then the hang-up.

She told her doctor she had a stressful job and needed some help. She didn’t tell him it was only in the evenings that the stress was more than she could bear. The calls continued. A Valium with dinner helped soothe her jangled nerves. “I know.” Some nights she took two and even three. “I know.”

Finally, she unplugged the phone. Peace. Then she heard it again. “I know. I know.”

What could he know? How could he know? No one knew. “I know.” More Valium. A drink to steady her nerves. Another. Lay down. Rest. In her head now. Ring. Ring. Ring. “I know.”

Not any more. It’s over.

I Have A Lot To Do

“So what are you doing with yourself these days?” I get this question a lot. Now that the children are grown and I don’t have a job, my friends want to know how I fill my days. I’m probably the wrong person to ask. I actually enjoy the mundane routines that provide structure to my days. I remind them that I still have laundry to fold, bills to pay, grocery shopping, cleaning, and dogs to tend. They sigh, and nod their heads sympathetically, but I know they’re disappointed with my answer.

It’s as if Lewis and Clark returned from their magnificent journey with the Corps of Discovery and explained that other than hunting and fishing and a whole lot of walking there wasn’t much to report. I’d get a better response if I said I’d taken up pole dancing or professional poker. I think they’re hoping I’ll provide evidence of something exciting just around the corner.

But once in a while, I get a day with no chores or lists or appointments and I get to think about their question. Maybe the better approach is to start at the end. On your very last day, when you look back over the years, what will make you smile? What moments stand out? Are there things you’ll wish you’d done? People, places, and experiences that brought you joy or fill you with longing to try again?

And here we are, with this day stretching out before us like a blank page. I hope you’ll excuse me. I have a lot to do today.

Romance Novels

Recently I discovered a wealth of fiction that I never knew existed. Romance literature. Oh sure, I’ve paged through lots of famous bestsellers and thumbed through paperbacks at the beach, but I had no idea how vast is the scope of romantic literature these days.

At the county book sale last year, eBay entrepreneurs wandered up and down the aisles of the paperback romance section with grocery carts (yes, grocery carts) full of slim volumes, each of which could easily be finished in a sitting or two. I asked if there truly existed a lucrative market for this enterprise and they insured me that - yes indeed - buying and selling these little jewels was profitable business.

Romance isn’t just romance anymore. If you look at the spine of the books for assistance, you’ll find descriptions of several fascinating sub-genres: Paranormal Romance, Historical Romance, NASCAR, Western, Sci-Fi, Young Adult, and Chick Lit Romance. The list goes on and on.

I was prepared to make fun of them. After all, the cover art is generally – well – ridiculous - for lack of a better word. I couldn’t find a better word because I was staring so intently at the shirtless, smoky-eyed, hard-bodied Adonis on the cover that I was distracted. And of course the stories are entirely preposterous. Frequently, a damsel in distress is involved with a lusty hero who eventually sweeps her up, takes her away, and unfailingly pays homage to her body in descriptive vocabulary of a lightly erotic nature. (Okay, technically they weren’t just talking about it.) At least that’s the way it worked in the dozen or so I read last weekend. Some chapters I read several times – just for research. What I particularly liked (after Adonis and the descriptive vocabulary) was the assurance of a happy ending.

Romance novels always have a happy ending. I like that. Our lives may be full of unresolved challenges, but for a few moments each day a romance novel guarantees that everything will turn out okay. No wonder they’re so popular. How comforting it is to tell a book by its cover.

Mammogram Fun

I am very cold. My arms are stretched out in front of me so that I am able to clutch the paint-chipped handles of the machine in a death grip. I am very cold because from the waist up I am naked.

It’s mammogram time again. I hate it. Don’t look at me like that. I know I have to do this every year. I know it saves lives. I know I should be grateful for this miraculous technology. I will think of all that later. Right now I just want to get the hell out of here.

“Are you comfortable?” the nurse asks.

“Yes, thank you,” I respond through gritted teeth. “I haven’t been this comfortable since the last time I gave birth,” I add to the empty room after she leaves.

Every woman who has endured this necessary humiliation has her own pet peeves about the procedure. I have several. The first is the embarrassingly short torso-length medical gown that is barely long enough to protect my modesty. The garment makers have either tried to cut fabric costs or have simply made false assumptions about the affects of gravity on the female anatomy. It makes me break out in a nervous sweat as I walk across the public hallway and since I am prohibited from wearing deodorant or cologne, it also means I am smelly.

I am not the kind of girl who walks around the house or locker room au natural, so this is difficult. Not only am I unclothed, but the technician has tagged me like a steer at roundup time. I glance down at the stickers. L and R. Left and Right? Large and Round? Lush and Ripe? Lucy and Roberta? My mind conjures any number of combinations.

And then the final blow. I try to appreciate how hard it must be for the harried nurse to move quickly while attempting to provide a modicum of compassion. But she is very fortunate that I am in the lock and load position because her next comment nearly results in homicide.

“You’re lucky. The young girls with firm, perky breasts have a much harder time of it,” she remarks cheerfully as she continues to compress the plates another notch or two.

At home later I fume anew over the accumulated indignities: cold, naked, vulnerable, tagged, humiliated, and insulted. Oh yes. And one other thing.

Alive.

What Time Is It?

Tick. Tick. Tick. I don’t know why I never noticed it before, but my watch is noisy. It’s a perfectly serviceable and fairly new Timex. I bought it because it goes with all my clothes and the hands on the face are large enough to read without my glasses (almost).

But while I was in the store it never occurred to me to hold the pesky thing to my ear and listen. Watches don’t make noise anymore, do they? Mine does.

We have a stately grandfather clock in the family room. It chimes majestically every quarter hour, Westminster in miniature. Unlike my wristwatch, it is a comforting sound. It swings along gracefully, as if to say there is all the time in the world. No need to rush, one day will follow another in its own good time.

But for some reason, this watch drives me crazy. It might be because it’s strapped to my body like an albatross. Perhaps it’s the nature of the sound itself – all tinny and shallow - that seems to nag rather than reassure. Hurry up! Slow down! Too late! Too early! Never quite the right time.

Maybe it’s not the watch that’s the problem. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Those Eyes: A Fantasy

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment,” she says, smiling seductively as I make myself comfortable on her sofa. She begins to undo the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse, exposing the delicate lace hidden beneath. “A very long time.”

Of course she has. I know she wants me. They all do. I’m a good-looking guy. We’ve worked side by side all these long months. I toyed with her at first. Who wouldn’t? She’s exquisite. Her streaming raven hair frames a face blessed with absolutely perfect features. But her eyes – those piercing black-brown eyes – overwhelm your senses. They pull you into their liquid depths, threatening to drown out every desire but hers.

And who needs that? So I dumped her. It’s not as if there wasn’t plenty out there to choose from. In my business, beautiful women are everywhere. Most of them are like me. We know life’s short and opportunities are fleeting. We usually agree to have a good time, kiss good-bye and move on. But not her. She was always watching.

She approaches me now and leans over my reclining form, allowing the blouse to slip off her shoulder. I swallow the icy champagne she hands me, noticing the contrast between the light bubbly wine and the dark, exotic woman speaking to me now.

“The anticipation has been so sweet. Now that it’s about to end, I’m almost sorry,” she says.

Suddenly she snatches the empty glass from my hand and flings it passionately against the wall, where it shatters it into a million pieces. I close my eyes and everything goes black.

And then, of course, comes the applause. A roaring chorus from the audience as I hold my position a little longer for dramatic effect. It’s closing night and I can tell that we’ve given our best performance. And it’s none too soon for me. I can’t wait to be rid of her. All these months of pretending have taken their toll on me. I’d planned for us to have one parting fling at the cast party, but now I’m not so sure I’m up to it. In fact, I’m starting to feel pretty dammed odd. What was in that glass anyway?

She leans over me and whispers so no one else can hear, “Actually, I’m not sorry at all.” My eyes spring open for one last time and I look into the mad, inky depths before me. Then it all fades away.

Rejection

Another day, another rejection letter. I’m getting used to it. At first, job hunting was fresh and exciting. Even a rejection letter was a thrilling event. But as the sad responses piled up week after week, it became depressingly tedious. And like the stages of grief, I find myself moving through a wide range of emotions: anger, frustration, sorrow, self-pity, and a nagging sense that I’m an old fart loser. My husband remembers that one of his college friends papered the walls of his dorm room with rejection letters. Though I don’t possess that kind of in-your-face youthful chutzpa myself, I admire the sentiment.

So - if a sign of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result, it’s time to determine what I’m doing wrong so I can put an end to this depressing spiral. On second thought it might be easier to have a go with corrective pharmaceutical intervention. Hmm . . .

Permit me to provide some background. Some years ago I notched up a bachelor’s degree in business with a concentration in finance from a highly regarded institution (Go Pack!). 4.0 GPA. Suma Cum Laude. Voted Most Likely To Succeed. Doesn’t that sound promising? So when I saw a job post for a part-time entry-level bank teller, I thought my prospects were pretty good. Apparently not.

It seems I made one very big mistake. Thinking my stellar achievements would safely simmer on the back burner (forgive my hubris), I detoured off my personal Yellow Brick Road for a few years to focus exclusively on raising a family. The career counselors advise against this. By the time I returned to the twenty-first century version of Oz, the Emerald City had been turned into a Super Wal-Mart. Dorothy was all grown up and working back in Kansas at the helm of a venture capital firm. The Wal-Mart is not hiring. (I checked.) Dorothy has outsourced HR to the same people who turned me down for the bank teller job. It’s discouraging.

Fortunately I’m the kind of girl who believes in happy endings. If the final step in the grief process is acceptance, I’m ready to accept whatever opportunities lie before me. But I’m hanging on to the pharmaceuticals just in case.

Here Comes Cameron

“Here comes Cameron,” we’d say.

Over the years we’ve attended dozens of Friday night football games at our daughter’s high school. We’d settle in the parent’s section on cold, hard bleachers, primarily there to support the marching band of which they were both members. The band students gathered in the adjoining section playing pep tunes, cheering for the team, talking and laughing endlessly. They were a close group of friends.

Invariably, somewhere along the line a tall lanky fellow bounded up the steps and plopped down beside us. Cameron was comfortable talking to anyone. If I saw him at the grocery store where he worked part-time, he’d stop whatever he was doing to come over and say hello. When yard work piled up beyond our ability to manage it ourselves, Cameron would round up a friend or two and come work alongside us, doing the heavy lifting.

He was always on the go, full of more dreams, plans, and goals than some people dare in a lifetime. And there was just enough adolescent mischief mixed in to make him entirely human.

When we learned of his death in a motorcycle accident at the age of 20, we were devastated. Time has passed since that heartbreaking day and our grief has begun to heal. In its place are precious memories of this special young man.

Look out heaven, here comes Cameron.

Adventure

“You don’t get out much, do you?” a friend asked.

Once again, I’d been exposed for the entire world to see. We’d been enjoying a relaxing girls’ lunch, catching up on all the news about family, men, and shoe styles.

And then it happened. I said, “I’ve never tried it” one time too many. Why couldn’t I learn to just sit there with a mysterious smile on my face? Look how well it’s worked for the Mona Lisa all these years. I’m just not that adventurous. We’ve gone to the same vacation beach house for about twelve years. By the time I head over to the cool new restaurant, there’s a FOR LEASE sign hanging in the window. I wait for movies to come out on DVD.

It’s embarrassing. My idea of a good night includes a mug of Sleepy Time Tea and listening to classical music recorded by the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields.

But I need to store up material for these feminine tell-alls. Something that will keep me from looking like a complete brick in front of my friends.

So when a sign appeared at the local shopping center that said “Hot Yoga. Ten Sessions for $10,” I thought that I might finally have something to report in the cheap thrills department. Sign me up.

After a brief phone call giving me the outline of the Bikram workout, I showed up early one Saturday morning. A group of ten or fifteen of us assembled in a Zen-like waiting room. From the newcomers they collected the aforementioned ten bucks and gave us a few forms to sign. There was lots of small print about how I wouldn’t sue them if I didn’t have a good time. Should have been a clue. We then moved on to an exercise room quite different from any I’d ever seen before. The walls were dark, the lights were low, and it was friggin’ hot. I’m talking summertime in Miami, menopausal hot flash, didn’t you pay the electric bill so we can turn on the damn air conditioning hot. I was beginning to get the Hot Yoga idea. The regulars took their places close to the front of the room and began stretching in rather suggestive poses.

A large calm man entered the room and fiddled with the thermostat. Thank God. Then he reported that he had adjusted the temperature to bring it UP a bit to the optimal 95-105 degree range. Swell. I’d paid ten dollars for a first class ticket to Hell.

He discussed the routine we would follow for the next hour or so, demonstrating the poses carefully and with reverence. He explained that we might experience mild sensations of light-headedness. I tried hard to follow along but to tell the truth I felt like an idiot. I could see in the mirror that my face was bright red, I was sweating profusely, and my hair was frizzing into a giant Afro reminiscent of the Jackson Five. This is not a good look for me.

Then the large calm man said the most ridiculous thing I have heard in some time. “At this point in the exercise, it is normal to feel nauseous.” That was when I packed up my sweaty old beach towel and headed home. I do not want to be part of any universe in which vomit is normal.

I stepped outside and breathed deeply of the beautiful 70-degree morning. I couldn’t wait to get home and take a nice cool shower. The next time I get together with my girlfriends, I’ll have a new experience to share. But in my book, adventure is vastly overrated.

Doodling

Do you think it’s significant when you hear the same little known theory uttered by three different people on three different occasions within the same week?

The first time I heard it, I tipped my head the way our dog sometimes does when he’s listening carefully to us speak. He’s very interested in the words, but it takes time for him to process their meaning. The second time I heard it, I suspected there was some conspiracy and that the two speakers had somehow been in cahoots. But the third time, I decided to think about it more carefully.

It’s one of those simple ideas you probably heard in a high school English class, but didn’t pay much attention to, because at the time you were doodling a picture on a note you wanted to pass to your best friend when the teacher’s back was turned. I should have paid attention.

The theory states that in the literary world, with its countless millions of stories, there are very few unique plots. Arguments continue as to the exact number, but the pattern of fictional narratives boils down to this: birth, problem, struggle, resolution, death. I may have missed a few details during my doodle fest, but I think I‘ve got it about right. The saga is fundamentally the same, because human existence is essentially the same. We may think our troubles are bigger, nastier, and more painful than everyone else’s (I am certainly guilty of this), but we’re all traveling down the same road in one manner or another with just a few tweeks in scenery and wardrobe.

I was pondering all this as I sat in a church recently, surrounded by people I care about. Churches are good places to think about things like this. Whether it’s a baptism, a funeral, or one of the events in between, we’re all here together. And that’s the point. As in literature, the story may be the same, but the only thing that keeps us moving toward the resolution, that keeps us from giving up during the dark days, and enhances the rejoicing on the good ones, is the cast. Regardless of what role they play, the characters make all the difference. The hands we hold, the shoulders we cry on, and the laughter we share - especially the laughter - combine to create a tale worth remembering.

So when I heard this same theory repeated three times this week (and you do tend to listen more carefully to subtle hints while sitting in a church), it made me wonder if I need to take more notice of the characters in my own life. I thought about how often I get so busy with the details of the plot, that I forget to reach out to the people who make the story worthwhile. Maybe it’s time again to doodle a note.

The Garden Tour

This weekend my friends and I gathered together, formed a caravan, and enjoyed a favorite tradition: the Garden Tour. Armed with cameras and notepads, we tromp through the yards of patient gardeners, hoping to find inspiration and secrets for our own gardens back home. I usually return with both a zest to improve my own landscape and a nagging doubt that it will ever measure up to what I see there.

The garden locations are identified with ribbon-strewn signs. In previous tours, a strict schoolmarm-type of Club member would welcome us with exhortations to stay on the path and follow the signs please! She was very protective of her sister’s home. Along the way we encountered the owner, usually a lady of advanced years with rough hands. She would lovingly gesture towards particularly interesting specimens, interchangeably calling them by their common and botanical names, with the intimacy of friends who have known each other a long time.

But this year I noticed a change. At the first house, a gentleman stood unobtrusively nearby to assist with our questions. He and the homeowner were “partners” in the garden design. At the next house an effervescent lady with manicured nails and a chic outfit stood on the path. She pointed to the magnificent house addition, which had taken a year to complete. The garden had been installed in three months. She referred questions to the landscaper. I thought it was particularly gracious of him to refrain from offering a business card. Surely next year he would need to move on to a new project, leaving this one behind like a woman abandoned for a new trophy wife. Another garden was elegant, perfect, and institutional. It had no soul. There was no one around to comment on it. I guess the design team doesn’t work on weekends.

The highlight of our day was a home of enormous proportions. The Club member who greeted us giggled and admitted that she was unable to answer any actual gardening questions. “Isn’t that an awful lot of collagen in her lips?” my friend whispered as we strolled by. We are keen observers. The lady of the house was wearing flip-flops. She does not garden, but her husband does. We spent most of our time admiring the interior of the extraordinary home, which had been generously opened for our enjoyment. In it I was delighted to find the husband-gardener so that I could query him about the vegetable garden design. His polo shirt was embroidered with the words Duke Basketball. The stitching was in Carolina blue. Can I trust his advice?

Rain began with a vengeance and we decided to call it a day. As I pulled into my driveway, I noticed that the dogwood I received as a Mother’s Day gift some years ago was in full bloom and that the azaleas we’d moved several times were finally thriving in their beds. I looked around and realized I felt a sense of peace and contentment that was comforting. I was home. Maybe this was the best tour ever.

Squirrel Battles

We live in the suburbs on a nicely wooded lot in a neighborhood we love. The birds sing, the bunnies hop, and it is not at all unusual to see a family of deer strolling through the yard as we walk out to get the newspaper in the morning. It is a bucolic setting that surrounds and comforts us, an insulation from the chaos beyond our gate.

One of the first things we did upon arriving here many years ago, was to hang a bird feeder. We set it just outside the window by our kitchen table, and the sweet little birds that gathered each day delighted us. Cardinals, finches, chickadees and many others flocked to the simple feeding tube, which we faithfully filled with the best black-oiled sunflower seeds we could find.

And then the squirrels arrived. At first we didn’t mind as they helped themselves to a nibble or two in happy harmony with our winged friends. But as time went on, things began to get ugly. The greedy squirrels began to monopolize the food source, scaring the timid little birds away.

We struck back. We acquired a high tech, battery operated, Yankee Trader Squirrel Flipper. It still had the pretty tube, but the metal resting place was designed to rotate rapidly and toss any creature that weighed more than a pound or so. We were in business. We roared with laughter as the little buggers were foiled time and time again in their efforts to drain our seed. Ha, ha! Take that, evil tree rats!

But hunger is a powerful motivator. Somehow the members of the on-going parade of rodents discovered that if they persisted long enough, the battery would wear down, pause, and finally die so they could empty its contents again. They would dig their little squirrel toenails into the wood of our deck railing, stretch their scrawny arms out and hold on to the metal perch for dear life until it yielded to their labors. I pictured them going back each day to squirrel headquarters, reporting their progress to a potbellied commander in military garb who chomped fiercely on a smelly cigar. “Aye General, we took casualties, but I think the next brigade should accomplish the mission,” one would say, while massaging his bruised shoulder.

We yelled at them, we banged on the window; we released our dogs to frighten them away. But the reinforcements appeared in an endless procession and the birdseed disappeared ever faster. Finally, my husband discovered a way to raise the contraption just beyond their reach. Victory again for the humans!

The score is now Humans-2, Squirrels-1, and it is embarrassing to admit how proud we are of our triumph. For a day or two, peace returns to the scene and we smile contentedly at one another over our breakfast cereal. Then we notice a lone four-footed scout sitting on the deck. Just sitting. He does not attempt to reach the seed, he does not move, he just sits with his back turned to us, appraising the latest development. After a few moments, he scurries away. My husband and I exchange a glance. We may have won the battle, but the war rages on.

My Day

Today is Friday. I am at the Mall. I am at the Mall on Friday because Friday is my day. Or as I like to think of it: My Day. This has always been my little secret. Well, I guess it’s not a secret anymore because now you know. But there you have it. It is My Day.

My Day began about twenty-four years ago with the arrival of our first child. Since I was home all day - every day - with this little dumpling, life had taken on a rather predictable repetition. Like using shampoo. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Only with children it was: Bottle. Burp. Change. Repeat. So one day was pretty much like another. I began to feel a bit numb. One Friday, when our first child was three months old, I packed her up, went to the Mall and had a cup of coffee. It was lovely. So as a kind of therapy I developed My Day. I would save the things I liked to do (or least minded doing) for Friday. Sometimes if there was room in the budget, My Day included shopping for little luxuries. Like underwear that did not have small animal characters on it. Sometimes it was a trip to the home improvement store for a new flowerpot. Sometimes if the budget was a little tighter, My Day included a nice cup of tea in a cafe without a playground. The babies were always with me, of course. But it gave my week a kind of anchor to hold on to. Chances to stop for a moment, change the routine, and look around a little. It probably kept me sane.

As the years went on, I held on to My Day. I developed a loose set of guidelines. I never go to the gynecologist on My Day. Never. I allow myself to reschedule to a day other than Friday if necessary. I have often compressed My Day into one fleeting hour or so during particularly hectic weeks. I sometimes have lunch with dear friends on My Day. But only the dear ones. I save up the little errands and projects that give me pleasure, knowing that on My Day I will be able to throw myself into them with absolutely no guilt whatsoever since I have spent the rest of the week doing everything else. I still include my babies sometimes on My Day for lunch or shopping. Now that they are all grown up those days are the most precious of all. Sort of a passing of the My Day torch, which I hope they will carry on as well.

We all need a My Day.

Proud

It’s 7:50 on a Tuesday night and I’m getting nervous. We’ve finished the dinner dishes and my husband is back in the kitchen after taking out the trash and the recycling. He’s warning me that it’s getting chilly and the meteorologists are probably right about a frost tonight. I nod my head and murmur appropriate responses, but my eye is drawn to the clock. 7:53.

I try not to let him know the extent of my addiction, but the truth is I am a “Biggest Loser” junkie. There -- it’s out. Every week I hear those lyrics, “What have you done today to make you feel proud?” and I well up like a fool.

I know. I know. The whole production has been manipulated to suck me in. It begins with those humiliating before pictures that I guess are meant to shock us (how can they be that big), reassure us (well at least I’m not that big) and warn us (but you will be that big unless you put down this box of ho-hos). Next we see glimpses of dangerously grueling workouts complete with sweat, temper, and tears. I envision a team of medics standing around the perimeter of the gym holding defibrillation paddles just in case. We watch as they make phone calls to loving families they’ve left behind and break down in front of millions of people. There is no sugarcoating. This work is hard, hard, hard. Who would subject themselves to it?

But we’re so glad they do. We get to test drive the victory without the pain. (The treadmill is here in the room with me; it is dusty.) Mixed up in the doubt and insecurity, there’s a little hint of steel. They’ve hit rock bottom and it’s now or never. And the dream is so ridiculously ambitious it seems outrageous that an Everyman should even attempt it, let alone believe in it.

That’s why we watch of course. If the most unlikely heroes can beat the odds, we know there’s hope for us too. As the show winds down to its conclusion the trainer says “make impossible your favorite word.” The crowd roars. A new winner is crowned, and as the confetti falls down on her mega-watt smile, the theme song kicks in and I wipe the tears from my face. Wouldn’t it feel good today to be that proud?

Too Many Answers, Not Enough Questions

One of the things that women do better than men is to carefully analyze an issue before taking rash action. We huddle together around coffee shop tables, discussing the nuances of a problem from every possible angle, including facts as well as feelings; careful to give every person in the group the opportunity to provide the wisdom of any personal experience she may have on the subject. Or as men like to say, we talk too much.

It seems to me that the world is overflowing with information. Some of it can be useful in practical ways, like searches on Google and Wikipedia. And I don’t argue that we need to tune in enough to keep up with current events taking place around us. But thanks to hundreds of cable channels and round the clock programming, we have become accustomed to a stream of mindless prattle. I wonder if we really need dozens of reality shows that allow a glimpse of what someone else is thinking all the time. I think my life would be just as meaningful if I didn’t know how Snoop Dogg raises his children. I don’t think I need any more useless answers in my life. What we really need are a few good questions, like “Why don’t you just turn it off?”


So after two and a half hours of soul-searching with my girlfriends in comfy, overstuffed club chairs fueled by cups of decaf mocha latte, my friend finally asks, “Well – what are you going to DO about it?” There is a pause in the conversation while everyone stares at me intently. This is unchartered territory. Choices, decisions, action, and responsibility all swirl around my head like thoughts in a cartoon strip balloon. “Do? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” I lift my head, adjust my shoulders, and stand up tall. “I’m going to get another latte.”

Do You Mind Turning 50?

“Do you mind turning 50?” she asked.

The irony of this question was simply delicious. I was sitting in the chair while my talented young hair stylist applied color to the roots of my hair. I had mentioned a milestone birthday that was fast approaching. We’re doing this little touchup every four weeks now in an attempt to keep the inevitable from taking hold. It’s not that I mind gray hair. I just mind MY gray hair. I have a shock of silver that sticks up from the crown of my head, making me look like Pepe Le Pew’s love child.

“Do you mind turning 50?”

I’d never lingered on my age before. My teens and twenties were mostly spent wishing I were older so I could get on with things. The thirties and forties went by in a happy blur of marriage, babies, diapers, bottles, then dance lessons, softball, band competitions and graduations. I even squeezed in a college degree, and a brief entrance into and departure from the job market.

“Do you mind turning 50?”

Not long ago my mom sent me a birthday present -- a subscription to More magazine. Have you seen it? There’s always some extraordinary 50-something woman on the cover looking very sleek, powerful, sexy, wealthy, and filled with passion about this new phase in her life. The accompanying article is always very reassuring about how this could be you too. Personally, I have my doubts that their lives are always so glamorous. Where is the issue with the cover girl sitting on the sofa on a Monday night in a chocolate cake induced haze watching trash television she would never in a million years have permitted her children to watch? I’d like to see someone fess up to that “passion” for once.

“Do you mind turning 50?”

I feel like a slalom skier who put everything into getting down the hill. Barreling along with joy, fear, excitement, panic, delight, and an absolute certainty that this is where she was meant to go. Now I’ve screeched to a halt at the bottom of the mountain and it’s cold, clear, and quiet. I look back up at the mountain and wonder. Do I have the energy and desire to head up and try another trail? Or do I just want to coast over to the lodge for some cocoa and a snooze?

“Do you mind turning 50?”

Sweet Tea

I like living in the South. Although I wasn’t born here, I have spent most of my life in the South, and it suits me just fine. In spite of the affects of globalization and the presence of look-alike shopping malls, things are different here in a lot of ways. Take iced tea for example. Sweet tea is a staple of southern living; we take it seriously. During a college commencement address I attended, the displaced valedictorian made the mistake of saying that after four years at this fine southern institution, she still didn’t “get” sweet tea. The room fell quiet with the same shocked hush as if she had publicly insulted her momma. We don’t do that here either.

So I have grown comfortable with some of the quirks unique to Southerners. Our trademark drawls and generous hospitality set us apart. We use language differently here. In other parts of the country the word “nice” is a simple adjective. In the South we understand that it is a call to arms and we have been taught to be nice at all times. Nice people offer to baby-sit and carpool. They prepare casseroles for church gatherings on a moment’s notice. We gather with them at committee meetings that occur with amazing frequency at inconvenient times in order to accomplish ambitious goals set by fervent idealists. Nice people are defined by action and sacrifice, perhaps reflecting Confederate roots. We raise being nice to an art form.

So when someone asked me recently if I would be nice enough to help out with a particularly unpleasant task, I neither doubted the amount of free time I would forfeit nor how much my reputation as a nice girl would suffer if I said no.

Fortunately I had a large pitcher of sweet tea standing by to soften the blow.

I Do Not Like My Dogs

We have three dogs. I do not like them. On another day I will tell you they are clever and entertaining and they make me laugh all the time. This is not that day. At this moment I do not like them at all.

I am on my knees scrubbing the carpet. Before I could start scrubbing I had to scrape up big globs of disgusting green matter that all three of them expelled more or less simultaneously. Would you like to know what that looked like? Me neither.

“It’s the chlorophyll,” my husband explained. His role is this drama is to corral the dogs so that they do not eat the regurgitated grassy mess. They sense my mood and stay away from me. Why do dogs do this? Why did we do this to ourselves?

Our friends smiled sagely several years ago when we began to accumulate these pests at the same pace our children grew up and left home. I know they thought we were crazy. They were right. At a time when we could choose to downsize, simplify, and lighten up, we instead acquired hairy, barky, up-chucky nuisances.

I have just about finished cleaning up. I make a mental note to purchase more carpet cleaner tomorrow and ironically, more dog food. I feel a gentle nudge at my arm. He is testing the waters. He knows I won’t stay angry long, and with the instinct dogs have, he can tell I may be ready to forgive. I absentmindedly rub his head and he erupts in joyous tail wagging. I do not like my dogs today, but they love me.

And So We Begin

Welcome to my blog! Ever notice how the big stuff in life happens when you least expect it? If you don't pause to think about it, it slips away. So pull up a chair with me on the curb and let's watch the parade go by.