JOSEPHINE IS NINE

On the very first day of December, I lugged all the boxes containing the Christmas decorations up from the basement. I put together our little tree and decorated it with my favorite ornaments. I set out the menorah and Abominable Snowman. I hung the wreath on the front door and set my light-up elephant on the front stoop. I hung all the Christmas stockings on the wall by the tree. Then I packed up the boxes and put them all back into the basement. I was like a Tasmanian Devil of decorating and I only half noticed the order in which I had hung the stockings.

But the Cabbage noticed straight away.

You see, the order of the stockings from right to left is me, Michael, Josephine, The Cabbage and finally, Albus. The Cabbage saw how the stockings were placed and viewed the order as order of importance. Meaning Josephine trumps the Cabbage. When the Cabbage mentioned this, Michael said “I’m less important than Josephine.” Now…that’s not…true…..Maybe there’s a little truth there. Anyway. I’m the one that decorates. I can do what I want. The only time the other two have any interest is when I decide to not decorate and then there’s complaints. So if the stockings end up in an “order of importance” so be it.

Josephine turned nine on the eighth of December (I believe this is right because the earliest picture I have of her is for December 2014 and her eyes were barely open). We didn’t really celebrate. There may have been an extra treat that day and the discovery of an old lost toy. [Complete side note: I’m missing two spoons from my silverware set that I received from a favorite college professor when Chris and I got married. I made Michael look under the couch for them because who knows?. Instead, he found an old bone and Josephine’s stuffed snail. The spoons are still missing.] I don’t think to celebrate Josephine’s birthday in December because she didn’t come home to us until late January, but also I tend to celebrate her existence every day.

It is winter temperatures and that means, Josephine and I opt out of our morning walks for snuggle time under the covers. She will go outside only because I’ve told her to go outside, but then she runs back inside as soon as she’s done, and hops up onto the bed to burrow under the comforter. The two of us lay there with me scratching her ears or belly until it is my turn for the shower. Sometimes, there is competition from the cat where I’ll only be able to pet with one hand because the other hand has to scratch Albus’s ears. I don’t think Josephine likes sharing, but she tolerates it because like I tell her every single day, she is the best puppy in the world.

And she is.

Josephine is everything I could have asked for in a canine companion. She’s smart and inquisitive. Her personality far exceeds her size. Everyone who has interacted with her all tell me that she is the sweetest puppy. She is so much more than a pet. She is a member of my family and a true companion. Josephine is always by my side. Or on my lap. I choose to celebrate her life every single day because the life of a dog is shorter than a human’s. Which, come to think of it, is how we should probably treat each other. Every day is a gift.

Take a moment to celebrate that gift.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Today, I turn forty seven. I thought about this post last week and how I was going to say that this is the first month I’ve missed a period since I was maybe fourteen, but then my period started. It was almost two weeks late and included a little extra gore than usual. This had me doing an extensive search of medical journals to see how seriously I should take all this extra gore. It took an awful lot of digging to determine that it was probably due to a lack of ovulation. So, in honor of turning another year older, my ovaries are creeping into retirement and spitting out dust balls.

How fitting.

At first, I was a little sad because nothing really says “YOU’RE OLD” like an internal organ ceasing to function because it has reached the end of its life cycle. Then I got really annoyed at the level of research I had to do in order to determine that what was happening to my body is considered to be normal. Apparently, perimenopause and menopause are the real life Fight Club. The one thing I do know is that I have one to ten years of unpredictable menstrual cycles before it is really over. It is hard enough to get the appropriate attention for women’s health needs during their reproduction life stage, unless it is to restrict their reproductive rights. Forget any attention addressed to a woman’s needs when that stage ends. Remember when I said that thing about everything being a social construct? A woman’s aging body is so deeply rooted in a social construct of silence and invisibility that it will take multiple generations to rid this garden of the weeds.

But the revolution has begun. I’ve pre-ordered my copy of Karen Walrond’s new book, Radiant Rebellion (you should too) and I have a feeling it is going to be my handbook for fighting the war on growing older. It is not a war to fight aging, but a war against the negative ideas of aging.

Old, young, it’s all a perception and there are no rules. Recently, I was in the coffee line with a graduate student who was bemoaning adulthood and how difficult it was being a grown up. She is twenty five. Here was my tidbit of advice. I told her that there is no such thing as being a grown up. Sure, there are daily responsibilities that we didn’t have as children, but that doesn’t mean you now have to leave behind the joy and sense of play of childhood. I will even argue that you can maintain an aspect of being carefree. There are no rules other than the ones we place on ourselves. There may be outside voices with advice on how you should feel and act at a certain age, but they don’t know and really are probably only trying to sell you something. Take care of the basics like food, shelter, yearly health checks, and then do or behave any way you please.

I’m taking my own advice. Today is just a celebration of surviving another rotation around the sun. My aging body just makes me a target for the snake oil industry of anti-aging and as someone who tends to think of literal meanings of words, anti-aging sounds ridiculous and impossible. I will have none of that. Life cycle. Our lives are cyclic. My body is just cycling back to pre-teen age.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Thursday morning, we all woke up around here to a thin layer of snow coating everything outside. The skies remained dark for most of the day, a stark contrast to the previous days. Our first week and a half of January has been fairly mild with temperatures reaching sixty degrees during the day and bright sunlight flooding in through all of the windows. The weather helped erase the memory of the deathly freezing temps we had around the holidays.

January is a yo-yo month for many reasons.

I received a card from my mother early in the week and I can see where she started to write my brother’s name, then my sister’s name before finally landing on mine on the envelope. This is an old habit. I do not remember a time when, while calling to me from another room, my mother didn’t run through the names of her previous children before settling on mine. I have always been some form of RandyJanellRaJaCindy. It has never bothered me because I know my mother was keeping track of all of the things at once, making sure we were at piano lessons or dance class or band or choir practice. On top of all of that was her career and maintaining a household. Sure, my dad helped out as best as he knew how, but he wasn’t the one laying on the floor of the sewing room while I attempted to construct my 4-H sewing projects. My mother’s only saving grace was that our age differences made us three separate children.

The lessons I have learned and continue to learn from my mother are invaluable. I have learned through her examples of strength and independence to be the strong capable woman I am today. My mother celebrates a birthday on Sunday, another year of survival. In spite of her beliefs and views on growing older, I am truly grateful to be able to celebrate another year of her life. My wish for her is that her day is filled with good wishes, sunshine that floods her windows and creates dancing rainbow reflections, ease, and the knowledge that she is loved.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Every morning, while Michael and I are getting ready for work, I will tell Alexa to play some music. Sometimes I tell her what to play, usually a playlist that I have curated of music that both of us enjoy hearing. Sometimes, I just let Alexa decide what we’re going to listen to. When it’s our birthdays, I ask Alexa to play songs from whatever year we were born. The first time I did this, it was Michael’s birthday and the first song to start playing was one by Creedence Clearwater. I don’t remember which song it was, but I looked at Michael and said “So….this was 1975?”

Yesterday, when I asked Alexa to play the hits from 1976, the first song to start playing was Don’t Go Breaking My Heart, by Elton John and Kiki Dee. All the songs that followed were similar disco roller skating songs, with the exception of Paul Simon’s 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover. As I swayed my hips from side to side, dancing to this music, I thought “this explains my love of roller skating.” It made me chuckle. I am a toddler of the seventies with my little toddler ears hearing the Bee Gees swirled together with Eric Clapton and Alice Cooper. I am a child of the eighties where I started to lean towards punk rock and alternative artists while still tuning into the tunes of Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. I am a teen of the nineties with grunge and hip-hop and still more alternative music.

I’ve been fortunate to be part of such diversity of musical influences.

I received so many messages of love yesterday. Even the Cabbage sent me a birthday text. Thank you. My dear friend Amani called to FaceTime, which we’ve never done with each other before. I have to tell you, when her live face popped up on my phone, my heart leaped. It was such a joy to see her and laugh with her and oh, how we laughed. I’m sure the people in my office were wondering what the heck was going on, particularly when I got up to draw on the whiteboard to explain to Amani something about work. Which then we laughed even more. It was like we just picked up where we left off from camp. I usually cringe at the idea of talking on the phone and FaceTime makes me want to put a bag over my head, but this was so so nice. I am softening when it comes to communicating by phone and FaceTime.

My birthday is one of those days that tend to be difficult, but not because I am turning a year older. It’s just difficult. Some of you know why and the rest of you don’t need the depressing details. I approach the day with the no expectations and no sudden moves. I just sit back and take in all the well wishes and what a blessing it is to have so many messages of love that I can’t keep up with all the thank yous.

So, with all of the intact parts of my heart, I thank you for the messages of joy.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

No too long ago, we met an old coworker friend and her boyfriend for dinner. It was the first time for us to meet her person and she said “Cindy’s the person that says she’s going to do something and then does the thing.” This was how she introduced me, which was sweet and made me chuckle. I don’t know if this is true, but I will say that Michael has played an intricate part in me doing the things. He may not be 100% on board with some of my ideas at first, but by the time I’m ready to jump out of the plane, Michael is there to check that my parachute is secure and in good working order. He sees the dangerous side of things that I am oblivious to and can point them out for me to navigate around. If I choose to navigate around them. I am sure that there are many times when being with me, for him, is like being in the presence of a baby taking its first steps and the those first steps are happening on the ledge of a firepit.

I have a hard time communicating with Michael and using words in a way that he understands what it is I am trying to convey. We are not on the same emotional or intellectual planes and often times I put too much thought and effort into being on his plane. It can be exhausting and I know that a lot of this is on me and my expectations of how I think a relationship should be based on my past. I am difficult. The struggle is compounded by the living arrangement. Living in a small space together doesn’t help. The last two school years have been really hard on Michael. This school year seems to be worse than the last one probably because he’s dealing with HS freshmen that never really got that middle school transition period due to the pandemic. His battle with work right now adds to the challenge of being in a relationship.

During the first year of our relationship, Michael talked about how he probably wouldn’t live past fifty. He didn’t sound sad about it. It was just matter of fact, his life would not be extensive. Slowly though, as the years have gone by, he has spoken less and less on his limited lifespan. To the point where I don’t think he’s mentioned it in a couple of years. Instead he talks about a lake house and his plans to renovate that lake house during his summers. He talks about a boat and an idea for a skee-do Uber business. He talks about when he retires and the things he’s going to do. There is a small part of me that likes to believe that I had some sort of influence in his change in language.

Today is Michael’s birthday and I should be better and not save up my words for this one day. I am very proud of how hard he works at being a good math teacher and mentor. Many of Michael’s students see him as an ally and he has received a few notes of gratitude from his students for this. As hard as this semester has been, he has still managed to maintain some empathy towards these kids. I truly believe that Michael is giving his best possible effort in a difficult situation. I know that many of the schemes and shenanigans that I come up with take Michael outside of his comfort zone. That’s why he’s not always 100% on board. I ask a lot of him and I don’t tell him enough how much I appreciate his efforts. I am also very grateful for his change in language regarding his future. As much as I don’t really like to admit this, I need him around.

Because who else is going to do my parachute safety checks.

THIS IS 45

It seems that I am always willing to celebrate birthdays of others over my own. It is never because I dread growing another year older. It is always because of history. I have one and some of those dates in my historical timeline are rough. Last year, I received a Visa card full of money from some random car settlement thing. Our plan was to use that money for a spa day in celebration of my birthday. I was going to spend the day getting a massage and a facial. I was going to sit in a steam room and soak in mineral waters. I was going to scrub my skin with artisanal body scrubs and then sit in the steam room some more. Because of scheduling, we could not get into the spa until some time in April. Well, we all know what was happening by April. My spa day birthday celebration was cancelled. I turned my bathroom into a steam room and put a Biore strip on my face. I scrubbed my skin with plain old sea salt and olive oil. Then I used the Visa card money to replace my iPad and gave the Cabbage my old one.

The previous year, Michael took me out to dinner. It would have been a nice intimate evening for the two of us with the exception of the fifty other restaurant patrons yelling at one of the five TV screens strategically placed around the restaurant. We lost that game, but the next year we won that game. The city went crazy. Fountains were died red. Union Station was lit up in red. The whole city was red. The Chiefs won the Super Bowl and the city exploded with fireworks. We had a big parade and then the city went into lockdown for the pandemic. This year looks very much like last year except we are all still in a pandemic. The Chiefs will play the Buffalo Bills in the NFL Conference Championship this weekend and this city is preparing for the win and dreaming of Super Bowl fairies. Living in a city with it’s very own NFL team is interesting and exciting, even if you’re not a sports ball fan. I will say that I think Patrick Mahomes, the Chiefs’ quarterback, is a fine young gentleman.

On Monday, Michael took me on a hunt to find macarons. We called three different places. The first two places both responded with “Do you mean French macarons?” I didn’t realize there were any other kind. The third place, The French Market, said that yes, indeed they had macarons. I mean, you can’t very well call yourself The French Market if you don’t have macarons in your market. So Michael took me there, where I picked out a dozen little colorful meringue cookies. I ate two of them for breakfast on Tuesday. I might eat the rest of them today for lunch. On Friday or Saturday, we will get sushi from Bob’s Wasabi. We will sit in the truck in the parking lot and eat sushi off of the trays we purchased for turning our vehicle into a restaurant. I can taste the unagi now.

I am tempted to say that this year is not much different from previous birthdays. Except that’s not really true. I am entering age forty five with a new body and a reluctant mind. My life, on many days, feels like floating in a lazy river and this where the reluctance comes in. My mind is still struggling with the idea of floating and often I have to cling to my floating device to keep myself from jumping off and swimming against the current. The pace of life these days is quite different and it has been different for a while now. I am reluctant to get used it because eventually I know that this pace is going to pick up. I don’t want to get used to a slower pace when tomorrow or the next day or the next, that pace is going to speed back up to ‘normal’. I am entering age forty five with the realization that there is no such thing as ‘normal’ and that feels almost unsettling. At least it is unsettling until I remind myself that my previous state of ‘normal’ is the one I created for myself. I create my own idea of normal. I have a list of things I want to normalize in regards to me. Things like outward expression of feelings and emotions or releasing that death grip on my floating device and sometimes getting up to swim against the current. Because swimming against currents is my normal. It is what I do. It is who I am.

So here’s what forty five looks for me. It looks like a woman who has stopped trying to change herself. I am not ‘working’ on myself to be something I am not. Instead I am just doing the best I can to be the best version of me.

HERE'S WHAT 44 LOOKS LIKE

My nurse

15 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "My nurse"

Last week ended with me wanting to high five everyone. My friend and yoga teacher, Kelly, is/has put together a summer camp for adults and she posted a need for workshops and people. Now I’ve been thinking about a photography workshop for some time, one centered around using your camera phone. I figure if I can take nice pictures with my phone, you can too. So I presented the idea to Kelly and she was so enthusiastic about it, that it made me want to jump up and down. Tickets are on sale now for Camp Wildling and I’ve had a sneak peek at the entire schedule. If you’ve ever had a dream to attend that camp from Parent Trap, this is your chance. Then, I put my name down on the volunteer list for this year’s AIDS Walk Open and I got asked to do a meditation workshop for wellness week at work. The very best part that ended the week was something I did at work that was a little outside of my wheelhouse. It involved basically writing a program to do a bunch of stuff on a microscope. And it worked! It worked really well!

High five!

Then Sunday morning around 4 AM, I woke up sweaty and nauseated. My body felt like it had been used as a punching bag. When Michael came in my room later that morning, I burst into tears and he cancelled our dinner reservations for my birthday dinner that night. I spent the next two days laying around, drinking water and occasionally eating a saltine cracker. I did eat a bagel with cream cheese and lox on the second day and had some regrets about that food choice. I laid around another day, ate a pb&j and a taco, both of which tasted like ash or mold but stayed in place. So I’m back to work today moving at half my usual speed, but living and breathing and keeping food down. Winner! So far, I am the only one in the house to be struck with this. Michael thinks it was food poisoning. I’m not sure that I have ever had food poisoning so I don’t know. I am very paranoid that Michael’s going to come down with it next, assuming it was not a poisoning situation.

So, forty four looks five pounds lighter than forty three. I have been hankering for a spa day and there is a plan in the works for this once we take care of other things first. I can just tag the last few days on as a spa treatment, the colon cleanse treatment. I don’t recommend it. The massage and facial are much better options, but if you’re feeling puffy and just want to reset everything, food poisoning…I mean a colon cleanse is the way to go. Really, I’d rather not celebrate my birthday on my actual birthday anyway. The Shitty Ghost of Birthdays’ Past tends to overshadow any attempts at a nice birthday. So when things settle down, I will spend an afternoon hanging out in a steam room, getting massaged and scrubbed. I will eat a dozen oysters on the half-shell with a Caesar salad and wash it all down with a Pimm’s cup. Michael keeps telling me how sorry he is that I was sick on my birthday and every time he says it, I just shrug.

It’s one day. One day out of every year. Sure, it’s meant to be celebrated with candles and cake, but honestly, there was serious doubt that I would even make it that first day. Birth was traumatic. Who wants to celebrate that? Celebration comes in the days that follow, when it looks like you’re actually going to survive. Well, it looks like I have survived. Now it’s time to celebrate and I might just spend the rest of the year celebrating. I am really excited about the things I have planned for this year.

43

43

29 Likes, 4 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "43"

Michael walked into the kitchen Sunday morning as I was washing dishes and asked “So…do you feel thirty three, forty three, or fifty three?” I paused and thought about this for a minute before replying “Well…I don’t know what fifty three is supposed to feel like and since forty three is still pretty new, I don’t really know what that’s supposed to feel like either. So, I guess I feel thirty three.” The numbers are arbitrary really. Having never before experiencing this age, I can’t tell you if I feel older or younger. Maybe I feel younger, but wiser. Michael also mentioned how he liked the salt and pepper thing that is happening with my hair. I will say, that in the last two or three months, I’ve noticed that there’s a bit more salt in my hair. I don’t mind this either. When Michael asked the Cabbage if forty three was old, she of course said ‘yes’ because she’s eight and when you’re eight, forty three is a BIG number.

We spent my birthday weekend working on a puzzle and cursing the outside temperatures. Michael made me a strawberry cake that very much resembled Devil’s Tower but with sprinkles. We went to see the Cabbage’s band from School of Rock perform. Michael had my olive branch ring fixed so that I can wear it on my right ring finger. He also gave me a gift card to Anthropologie which I used to buy a dress that reminds me of my youth. In fact, if I still owned a pair of combat boots, I would own an outfit almost identical to one I wore in 1992. Michael and I ate a fancy dinner at the Pressed Penny Tavern amongst a crowd of people wearing Chiefs colors and yelling at one of the six TVs positioned on the wall. Reservations had been made for this dinner way before we knew the Chiefs would be heading to the NFC Champion playoffs game. We spent the rest of the evening at home, watching the rest of that game, with all of the animals piled on me and a fancy tea cup of gin and tonic in my hand. The weather kept me from witnessing and photographing the lunar eclipse and the Chiefs lost the playoffs. Win some, lose some.

Mostly win some.

I think many people would now put me in the category of ‘middle aged’. I have been receiving newsletter style emails lately for things related to women over fifty, things like skin care routines and exercises. I’ve been slightly obsessed with stories of women ninety and older who do things like teach yoga and run marathons. I have a very clear image of myself in my old age. I expect at age ninety that I will be living some where warm and riding my scooter around to run my daily errands. Those errands will include morning yoga classes on the beach, followed up with catching some sweet waves on my sweet surf board. After rinsing the salt and sand from leathery old lady skin, I will strap my yoga mat and surfboard to the scooter and head to the market where I will purchase fresh veggies and fish for my lunch. I’ll spend the rest of my day puttering around my cottage, maybe working a garden. Maybe I’ll learn how to use a loom or maybe I’ll just read trashy romance novels while swinging in a hammock.

I’ll be ninety. I’ll do what I want.

MARCH 8TH

I can still remember the feeling of that itchy collar strangling my neck. #tbt

"I can still remember the feeling of that itchy collar strangling my neck. #tbt"

I remember my first day of my Freshman year at Collinsville High. I was nervous. I'd heard all the rumors and stories of older kids torturing, teasing and tricking freshmen on their first day. Most likely I would be one of the protected ones. I was friends with enough older students to keep me safe. There was always someone looking out for me, but I was nervous none the less. Though I had older friends, I did not have older siblings at the school. I could never say "My brother's going to kick your ass for that." I could, because he totally would have, but he'd have to leave his job and drive the twenty minutes up from Tulsa to do it. My sister graduated high school the year before I started my freshman year and got married. I was officially on my own. But I'd always been the baby who wasn't a baby. Still, I had more than the usual first day of school jitters that day.

The day turned out to be fine. No one teased me or threatened me. I found all my classes. It was just a normal day, but after my last class, as I walked down the hall to my locker, I noticed my sister leaning against it. I don't know why, but I was so relieved to see her. I remember asking her "what are you doing here!?" and Janell said that she just wanted to make sure my first day had gone well. Then she took me to Sonic and gave me a ride home. Even thinking about it now, I remember that I was just so happy to see her. There was always a part of me that felt slightly abandoned when Janell moved out. Randy didn't count. I didn't remember the time he lived in the house with us. I was used to his absence. Plus I knew that I could call him or Katrina at any time and they'd come rescue me. Which they did on a number of occasions. But Janell had always been there. And then she wasn't. She graduated, moved out and got married all in a matter of weeks. I think that was the summer I moved in to Randy and Katrina's to avoid the isolation and the constant bickering of my parents. Janell showing up  at school without any prompting just made things better that day. I felt less abandoned. 

Yesterday was Janell's birthday. She shares it with Dad. I used to tell stories here about Dad on his birthday knowing he'd never read them. It made it easier to write things, knowing that Dad wouldn't read it. Not that I write anything that I think would be bad. I tell the truth and sometimes people don't like it when I tell the truth. I've sort of censored myself. Dad was a topic I never really worried about censoring. I never worried about him judging the words I'd chosen or flipping them around into something negative. I don't know why I didn't feel like writing about him this year. I didn't even really acknowledge the day at all beyond wishing Janell a Happy Birthday. I'm sure it's difficult for her sharing this day with Dad, all the years of joint birthday celebrations. Maybe she's the one feeling slightly abandoned now. I hope she reads this and feels less abandoned.