MY ALTER EGO IS NAMED LOUISA

Taken by @birdpony when he passed me on the course.

10 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Taken by @birdpony when he passed me on the course."

People have been asking my about my trip and where we went ever since we got back. When I get to the part about Mammoth Cave, they all seem to tilt their heads to the side with curiosity and say "Mammoth Cave? Where is that exactly? I mean what's the closest city?" My reply every time has been "uhhh...." I guess the closest big city would be Louisville, which is about ninety miles north of Mammoth Cave. Michael and I never made it to Louisville. We came close on our last day when our hunt for Lincoln's birth place and boyhood home turned into a hunt for distilleries. Don't worry. We saw all of the Lincoln stuff before we went on our booze hunt. We did a whole lot of driving around that day and not once did we see any sign of a 'city'. Nor did we ever see a sign for Kentucky Fried Chicken. Kentucky is very rural. We saw a very large portion of rural America on our vacation. 

I've always been quick to pick up accents without intentionally trying to do so. I remember one of my Mississippi cousins making the observation that it was odd that I didn't really have an accent, but at least I didn't sound like a yankee. So...I guess I had that going for me. It only took about one day into visiting with my Mississippi family for me to start picking up their southern drawl. Before I knew it I would be blessin' people's hearts better than my own Aunts could bless them. I figured since it had been more than ten years since my last visit to the south, that I had lost the ability to absorb the local dialect. Not true. We were driving down some pretty winding and hilly roads towards Cave City searching for local radio stations when the dial stopped on a local business commercial. I'm not sure what the business was selling, but the woman started the commercial with a quote from Teddy Roosevelt.

"Do what you can with what you have, where you are."

Except the woman on the radio said it as three separate sentences. "Do what you can." (pause) "With what you have." (pause) "Where you are." (emphasizing the 'r' in are). I took to the phrase immediately and decided that it would be my motto for the rest of the trip. At any given moment I would morph into an alter ego I had named "Louisa". Micheal would stop and ask "Now, what would Louisa have to say about this." and I'd drop right on into emphasizing my Rs. Louisa is a sassy, straight forward woman. Now that I think about it, she really could have come in handy a few days earlier when I had to buy a swimsuit at Walmart because I forgot mine. I was told two different times by the woman at the fitting rooms that I had to "be sure and leave my underthings on" while trying on the swimsuits. 

I'm sure Louisa would have no problem responding to these instructions with "But honey, I ain't wearin' underthings. Should I just go git some from lingerie?" 

TINY BIRDS

Robin

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I dreamed of the tiniest bird I had ever seen that was not a hummingbird. He was the shape and coloring of a sparrow, but he was no bigger than my thumb. I remember marveling at the size of him and how he pecked at some bread crumbs in the palm of my hand, but I remember nothing else about the dream. You should know that there are several sources on the internet containing dream interpretations and what it means to dream of birds. Because the internet is full of every thing from the most brilliant to the most ridiculous. You can find anything on there except your lost keys. 

I only looked at the top three websites that came up in my search for what it means to dream of birds. All of them said about the same thing. They all agreed that birds are symbols of your goals and aspirations, transcendence and liberation, joy and love. Dreaming of birds in various actions can mean anything from an attack on all of those things to an abundance of all of those things. Dreaming of different kinds of birds mean different kinds of things. Magpies are a symbol of dissatisfaction and disappointment. Owls are what you'd expect them to be, symbols of wisdom and knowledge. Dreaming of chickens means you lack will power or are behaving cowardly. Unless it is a dream about a rubber chicken. That one means that you need to lighten up and stop taking things too seriously. 

The only one of those three websites I visited to mention sparrows said that sparrows represent "the ordinary but living parts of you that are special." That gave me some pause. Did that teeny tiny sparrow represent those ordinary parts of me that are actually special? Or does it mean that my living parts are special, but also ordinary? What does that even mean? How can something be ordinary and special? So I edited my internet search to be more specific. Several sources say that the sparrow is a symbol of dignity and pride but also innocence, restlessness and freedom. Most of the sources online say that dreaming about a sparrow is a positive thing most of the time. It can mean anything from being delighted in the simple joys and memories created by my family to a premonition of bad news to come. 

Reading about dream interpretation is trippy and it is very much like trying to diagnose your minor illness through the internet. I've looked at enough pictures to know that the bug bite on my neck is in fact a mosquito bite and not from bed bugs. Any one who reads this blog on regular basis could tell that I often delight in the simple joys of anything. Right now, I think it is particularly hilarious that the cat who used to curl up in Josephine's unused dog bed, now like to curl up in Josephine's dog crate. Now Josephine can found curled up in the dog bed she never even looked at until the cat came around. You know what was truly remarkable about that sparrow in my dream? His size. Small is not ordinary and maybe not special either, but it can be remarkable.  

WHAT IS LOVE, BABY DON'T HURT ME

Morning

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My first lesson in love and romance came from one of the many romance novels that cluttered the corners of the house. Mom tended to gravitate towards authors such as Judith McNaught, Danielle Steele and Maeve Binchy. When given some cash and a trip to the book store, I bought Christopher Pike and Dean Koontz and even sometimes, V.C. Andrews. Sometimes out of nowhere the memory of My Sweet Audrina will rise up in my brain. I'll shake my head and say to myself "Gah, that book was so fucked up." It really was. No young teenage girl has any business reading that book. Any way...that was back in the day when a book lasted me about a day. I'd finish up something and just grab whatever happened to be next in the stack of books by Mom's bed. 

side note: I started reading these books when I was about twelve or thirteen. It is very obvious that I had little parental supervision or my parents (Mom) just didn't really care what I was reading. It wasn't until I was about sixteen when an adult question me about a book I was reading. I was reading The Firm and the stranger sitting next to me on a flight to San Diego looked at me and said "Aren't you a little too young to be reading that book?" I had, of course, perfected the teenage eye roll and general unresponsiveness. 

Those books, even though I knew they were fiction, imprinted me with an idea of what to expect in finding your one true love. And also sex. Those books also imprinted me with some idea of the physical aspects of love. Considering that I can count on one hand the number of times I witnessed any sort of affectionate contact between my parents, these books became important guides in affectionate contact. This is what I knew about what happened when you encountered The One. First there would be a general spark of electricity resembling lightening during the first contact, the first contact being something like a handshake. Then the two main characters would finally kiss. The heroine's thighs would burst into flames and she'd swoon into the hero's rock hard chest. Other fireworks and explosion would thus ensue. 

It was around the time I'd kissed the second boy I'd ever kissed when I realized that those books where most likely over exaggerating the whole experience. I have never been struck by lightening. Not even with Chris. I also would not describe my sexual arousal as thighs bursting into flames. Nor have I ever felt like swooning. I had a friend in undergrad who thoroughly believed that it would all be just like the way it is in the books. Days of Our Lives was a very important part of her day. I remember asking another girl in the dorms once who was getting married, how did she know he was the one. I remember her shrug and say "I just knew. No big deal. He was just the one." They were only married for a few years, but I assume that in that moment she really did believe he was The One.

With Chris, I just loved (love) him. With Michael, I also just love him. Michael left out on his scooter one morning. I was not too far behind him. I was just putting my scooter helmet on when I could hear my phone ringing in my bag. I pulled the helmet off and fished my phone out only to miss his call. I could hear sirens in the distance. It took me three tries to get him back on the line. He was fine. He'd forgotten his glasses and was just calling to see if I'd left the house yet. I told him his call had scared me. We rarely talk on the phone to each other. He said that he was sorry to scare me, but my worry must mean that I do love him. I responded with "Maybe I'm just concerned for your well being." Because I am the Han Solo of this relationship.

I sometimes wonder about that girl from undergrad who believed in the fairy tale version of love. I hope she hasn't been disappointed. I hope she's figured out what I did. The real thing pales in comparison to the fiction. 

DUSTY THINGS

Instagram post by Cindy Maddera * May 29, 2017 at 4:31pm UTC

5 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Rural"

I picked up the box containing my creativity candle so that I could dust around it. It has been sitting on my desk ever since I bought it. In the box. It has been this way for months. I ran the dust rag over the top of the box while frowning. The candle has been added to the ever growing list of things I should be using that are now sitting, gathering dust. An image of my bicycle in the garage pops up behind my closed eyelids. The bright blue paint is dulled with a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs rest in the spokes. The tires are droopy. I am filled with instant guilt and disappointment. I should be riding that bike. I want to ride that bike. My brain is really good about using time as a sabotage. It reminds me of the hill that starts at sixty third street and peaks around fifty eight. This is my slowest section and the place where I feel the weakest. 

Why is there always a voice in your head telling you that you can't?

The candle falls into a category that I generally reserve for colored pencils, crayons and notebooks of any kind. I still have not sharpened that pretty blue pencil. Though I will admit that I tried to sharpen it, but it was too big for the mechanical sharpener at work. I like the look of a brand new pack of crayons or colored pencils, all lined up with sharp points. Blank white pages in a notebook are like clean sheets on a bed. The candle is like that. Right now the wick is still white without scorch. The wax is unmelted. The decorative picture on the outside is still in one piece. There's something soothing about the perfectness of all of those colored pencils before points have been dulled and pages smeared with ink. Same goes for that creativity candle. It's not like I believe that burning a 'special' candle is going to make me become more creative or even more prolific. 

All of that soothing perfectness is a mask. It hides the fear of messing up. If I use that pencil, the tip will get dull and fragile. I will be left with broken pencils. My handwriting will make the blank page ugly. If I don't use those things, I can not ruin them. The beautiful words on that candle with not melt away. If I don't ride my bike, I can't feel my weakness. I can't feel like I am ruined.  I am a little embarrassed to admit this hesitant side of me. I am the girl who stands too close to the edge of the cliff in order to capture an image. I am the girl who flies down Troost on a scooter, weaving in out of traffic. I take risks. I leap.

Michael has adopted "get back in the car Cindy" as his warning phrase for whenever he sees me doing something slightly dangerous that makes him nervous. It came from our trip to the Dakotas with Talaura. We were pulled over to the side of the road, watching a large heard of bison come down the road. I was hanging out the car to get pictures. Suddenly the pace of the bison picked up to a trot, but I stayed where I was. A few minutes later, we were watching the video that Talaura had taken of it all and you can clearly hear Michael say "get in the car Cindy" when the bison picked up speed. This made us laugh and laugh, mostly because it's funny but also because we all know Michael can't stop me from being slightly dangerous. I've been making my loved ones nervous my whole damn life. Even Chris, who near the end, confessed that he worried about me because I think I can do things I shouldn't really do. 

Like continue to ride a scooter with a bald tire. 

I am fearless, yet here I am admitting to all of you that I am not always fearless. What harm could I get into by sitting still and writing or even coloring a picture? Okay, there's some danger in setting the house on fire with a burning candle. But how often does that really happen? There's no risk involved in using a crayon or filling a page with ink. 

I hesitate with the safe stuff.

THINGS I DID THIS WEEKEND

Bit-O-honey

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• Had breakfast at Happy Gillis that made us happy.
• Bought vegetables at the City Market.
• Finally purchased tomato plants (and a few other plants).
• Bought two whole tilapia with heads and everything for grilling.
• Finished up our grocery shopping at Trader Joe's where we received a refund for the zero fat Greek yogurt I bought last week. It tastes like paste. Trader Joe's is awesome because they let you 'return' anything you don't like. 
• Went to feed store and was charged $1,112.99 for $75 worth of chicken/dog/cat food.
• Spent forty five minutes on the phone with the bank trying to fix the accidental over charge from the feed store.
• Dropped chairs off at Terry's. Found him in the process of rebuilding his patio. That man is a machine. 
• Ate lunch.
• Ran the weedeater around the garden. 
• Reclaimed garden from massive weed attack, thus saving some bean plants from choking to death.
• Planted tomato plants (and the few others).
• Took a shower because I am allergic to grass.
• Watched Storks while Michael took a nap. 
• Helped Michael get food ready for the grill.
• Made a salad with greens from our garden.
• Drank some gin.
• Laundry.
• Made new pickles (they'll be ready next week).
• Made ghee.
• Cleaned the house.
• Took everything out of my closet and only put back things I wanted to keep. 
• Edited some pictures.
• Read some on a book I've been reading.
• Watched three episodes of American Gods and two episodes of House of Cards. 
• Slept.

I started to write a list of things I didn't do this weekend. 

VALUABLE LESSONS

Instagram post by Cindy Maddera * May 24, 2017 at 1:36pm UTC

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This week I have learned valuable lessons from trying to speak rationally to a person who doesn't want to be spoken to rationally. They've come for a fight and expect nothing else. They want to sling arrows. So I have let them sling their arrows. I've let them call me a cunt and a condescending bitch. I've let them tell me that I am 'loathed'. I am sure they feel justified in their anger and their feelings are valid feelings. Whether you are mad, sad or happy, feelings are valid. It is how you react to those feelings that truly matters. I choose to react differently than some. That's my choice. I don't have room in my life for hatefulness. My reaction is to step away and remove it from my life. 

I recognize also, that I have made mistakes. Butting in to get others to stop butting in is like two wrongs that do not make a right. If I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have unleashed this person's true feelings about me. I don't know if that's better or worse, but I do recognize my part in all of it. That's a hard lesson. Like sticking your hand in the beehive for a honey comb and expecting to not get stung. It is hard to admit that I should have never reached out in the first place. I didn't pause to consider the consequences or that it would inspire and incite so much vileness. I just don't think of those things. I just don't expect people to behave so hatefully. That is another fault, expecting others to behave the way you would behave. That's not fair to the other person particularly when they are reacting in a way they chose for themselves. My choice is not better than their's. Just different. I apologize for inciting.

All of this sounds vague and cryptic, I know. It's just that writing all of it down is therapeutic and helps me. I know only to share the bare minimum out of respect. Writing it all down takes it out of the space in my head where can clog things up. It helps me remove the things that do not serve me out the way so that I can replace it with things that do. 

CROUCHING TIGER

Instagram post by Cindy Maddera * May 23, 2017 at 5:20pm UTC

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I left work a little early yesterday so I could go rescue Josephine from the groomer's. It started raining right as I pulled out of the parking garage. By the time I made it to Brookside Barkery, it was pouring buckets. I managed to do a crap job of parallel parking on the curb right outside from the Barkery and I sat there a minute trying to decide my best exit strategy. Do I have an umbrella? Nope! Do I have my rain jacket? That's another Nope! I am never prepared for weather of any kind. I went to Oklahoma this weekend without a sweater or jacket because it is late May and Oklahoma in late May is summer. Except it wasn't. I ended up wearing Mom's sweaters, one of which I stole and may never give back.

I've got nothing to keep me from getting soaked. I look over at the passenger seat and then out the passenger window. It's probably two giant leaps from my car to the safety of the storefront awning. I pull myself up and climb over the center console and step into the passenger seat. Now I am crouched in the front passenger seat with my wallet clutched in my teeth and my hand on the door handle. I am ready to pounce. At this moment I am hesitating because i have a couple of thoughts running through my head. First of all, would you look at this 41 year old body and it's ability to climb up into this position in the first place?! Yoga! Secondly, I am thinking about all of the things that can go wrong. In my head, I see myself springing from the car like a cat, but the reality could very well be that I end up rolling out of my car like a hedgehog.

The rain is not letting up. In fact, it is getting worse. I have to take action. So...I fling open the car door and I actually do spring out of my car and in two hops I am under that awning. There's a crowd inside my head totally cheering and imaginary hands pat me on the back. It truly was an amazing display of athleticism and grace. I know you're probably waiting for the part where I tell you I tripped and fell in a puddle or slammed into the glass door of the Barkery or something slapstick. None of those things happened. AND NO ONE WAS THERE TO WITNESS IT! No one saw or video taped my amazing feat of grace or my ninja skills. 

So...you'll just have to take my word for it. 

I'M ALMOST READY FOR MY CLOSEUP MR. DEVILLE

Really there's six steps. First learn Japanese. Then wash your face. Somewhere in the middle you need to study the strip you just peeled off your nose for all the gunk it pulled out of your pores. #tonymoly

5 Likes, 1 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Really there's six steps. First learn Japanese. Then wash your face. Somewhere in the middle you..."

I have a knew obsession. As if I need one more thing to obsess over, but I do. I really really do! This knew obsession is my pores. I might be lying about this being a 'new' obsession. Let's just say it is a new to you guys obsession. When I look at my nose in the mirror, I am often reminded of my dad's nose, even though I don't have his nose. I have the distinctive McCool nose, but I still think of my dad's nose because right smack in the middle of it, he had this huge gaping pore. Sometimes I would be so surprised by the size of it, that I would take a step back when he'd come too close. I often wondered in a very grotesque way what would happen if that pore was squeezed. It's a scientific curiosity. 

I'm sorry Dad. I love you, but you had giant pores on your nose. 

Now that I think about, Dad's giant pore could have been skin cancer. I never saw my dad ever put sunscreen on his body and he had some seriously suspicious looking moles on his arms. Any way, I'll look at my nose in the mirror and wonder if or when I'm going to wake up some morning soon with a giant hole in my nose. Sort of how I sometimes wake up and wonder if this will be the day my brain starts to break. Genetics is an asshole. I will say that I have seen a huge improvement in my skin since I've been diligent in washing it every evening with ground flax seeds and tea tree oil. God, I swear I am not as hippy as that last sentence makes me out to be.

Along with the face washing thing, I've been using a Biore pore strip on my nose once a week. I had run out of those recently and it had been a few weeks since I had last used one. I was thinking about that when we walked past Ulta yesterday on our way to Trader Joe's. I dragged Michael into the store with me and we looked at the many many options they had available for sucking gross things out of your pores. Michael picked up a three step packet from TonyMoly . I said "I don't know....it's a one time thing." He replied "So what? We're getting it. I'll get one for myself too. Let's just go." Can you tell that shopping at Ulta is his favorite thing ever? I said "fine" but also grabbed a box of regular pore strips to have on hand. If I were the kind of blogger that did sponsored posts or reviews of stuff, I'd totally write a good review for the TonyMoly packet. It worked well without making my face break out in an allergic reaction. That's a win with any face care product in my book. Also, TonyMoly is just fun to say. TONYMOLY!

The best part of peeling any of those strip thingies off your nose is looking at the strip to see what it pulled out of your face. I study them in the same way a witch studies tea leaves in the bottom of a cup to predict a future. You see that row of gunk there that came out of the crease of my nose? That means I'm going to live a long, clean life. Gasp! That boulder looking like thing there? That means you're destined to have giant pores. I haven't pulled out any boulders lately, so maybe I'm starting to change my destiny. Actually I feel like I'm lucky that I haven't turned complete crazy and started washing my face with a brillo pad.

I bet those things exfoliate the fuck out of your skin. 

ANTI-MOTHERS' DAY

Come sit

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It's kind of like wearing a shoe that doesn't fit, but you wear it any way because a) you spent a lot of money on them and b) they're a really cute pair of shoes. This is how I refer to my situation of sudo sort stepmom. Really, I am childless, without child, consciously barren. I am one of those women who just decided that motherhood would not be my bag of tea. Sure there have been moments when my ovaries have twisted up at the sight of a cute baby and a tiny voice has ever so quietly whispered "hey...we should have one of those." But I also think at times that it would be nice to just have a baby something...alpaca, goat, pig, monkey. Babies are cute for a biological reason. It is so we won't eat them. I have a million excuses for not having one of my own like timing and money, lacking the abilities required to raise a good human being, but if I take an honest look, those excuses can be boiled down to just one. I am a selfish human being. 

I mean I'm not selfish selfish. I give to charities. I occasionally give my time as a volunteer (I should actually do more of this). I tend to put others' needs before my own. Really, I am a giver almost to the point of being a doormat. I let people walk all over me and take advantage of my generosity. Case in point: I once gave a monk ten dollars for a cheap beaded bracelet. He had asked me for a donation while popping the bracelet onto my wrist and when I pulled a five out of my wallet, he saw the ten. He said I needed to give ten. So I did. Like a sucker. Because they needed to finish building their temple. I bend over and into a pretzel to make those around me happy and comfortable. So when I say my reasons for not having a child is a selfish reason, I say it because I feel this could be one area of my life were I could be completely selfish without making anyone (too) unhappy. Let's face it. Children are not easy to please and they let you know in no uncertain terms that they do not like something or are not happy about whatever. I didn't feel like being a constant disappointment to yet another person. 

Gratitude and appreciation is not an ingrained behavior. It is not just enough to know what those things are but to practice the art of being grateful every day. I know plenty of adults who struggle with this idea daily. The Cabbage has gotten better at this. Her tone is filled with less disdain when she doesn't like something. She's gotten better at being quick about saying when she does like something and saying 'thank you'. I think a big part of it has been that I've stopped trying so hard to please. I don't twist myself into that pretzel where she is concerned. If anything, the Cabbage has taught me to not be such a doormat. So there's that. The Cabbage is very quick to tell people that I am not her mother, which is great because it keeps me from having to explain. She tells people that I am her stepmom and I correct her and say "wicked stepmom". Though I don't really consider myself to be a stepmom either. I understand that there's a need to label things and people. 

People mean well when they wish me a 'Happy Mothers' Day" and every other weekend you can find me doing mom like things. I make sure a six year old has access to the short list of foods that she will consume, that she has clean clothes to wear and goes to bed at a reasonable hour. I have cleaned up vomit, wiped a snotty nose, and cleaned her butt. But I am not her mother. I know that there are those who resist my anti-mother stance when it comes to the Cabbage. It comes down to that need to put a label on me. Also, I have yet to hear about a National Stepmom Day (thank the gods). So my whatever role gets lumped in with Mothers' Day because I am female and a part time care giver to a child. In fact the feminist in me screams against being lumped into the Mothers Day group. The things I do for the Cabbage are the things any general care giver would do. It does not make me a mother. My womb does not ache when she's not with me. In fact there have been times I have sighed with relief after dropping her off at her mother's.

I do recognize that I have influence and I'm helping to mold her brain. I have become one of the women in her tribe of women who are helping to raise her. It takes a village right? I am happy enough to be part of her village. No label required. 

THROW EVERYTHING IN THE BOX

Tilt

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This was probably the fullest weekend that we have had in a really long time. The house filled up with friends and family starting on Friday and stayed that way for the whole weekend. There were plenty of hands to help me prepare for Michael's party and we got things done so efficiently that there was extra time for relaxing in the backyard. We had two evenings of sitting around the fire pit. All of the boys got added to our doorway where we mark the growth progress of the Cabbage and where we tend to also mark the height of guests. It is my favorite doorway of all the doorways. I got to spend some much missed hours with Amy's little one where she told me knock-knock joke after knock-knock joke and Boo Boo Butt was always at the door. I ate cake and relaxed in the hammock. 

I looked at my phone today and realized that I only took a handful of pictures over the weekend. Most of those pictures are of Amy's little monster who is the most hilarious child that never stops moving or talking. So you can guess that most of the images are blurry. I have a weekend photo folder of a handful of blurry images. And it is perfect. Those blurry images are a true representation of the weekend. Colors and sounds swirled together with the smell of a campfire. That's what this past weekend was and usually how weekends filled with friends and family tends to go. There are always the moments that you want to stretch and pull out like pink taffy. These are the kind of moments that can't be captured in a picture.

There's a handful of us who will bust out laughing any time someone in the group yells out "WHERE'S MY COOKIE?!". Terry learned more about the feral hogs of Oklahoma then he ever thought he'd probably ever learn. Our backyard looked the best it has ever looked, but not because of all of the yard work Michael and I did. Our backyard looked good filled with our people with the dog and a couple of little kids running around chasing bubbles. The backyard was down right perfect when the sun dropped down below the horizon with the fire in the fire pit roaring. We'd watch the bats circle above us while someone took a turn telling a story or joke. 

So...I don't have a whole lot of pictures from the weekend. I've taken those moments, the stories and words, and I've tucked them away in it's own special memory box.  

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO...

Green KCMO

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It was when the woman made eye contact with me that I realized I had been staring. She was sitting in a group of four at table by the window, just diagonally from where I also sat with a group of four. I lifted my menu up and looked away, but I continued to glance over at her while trying to stay focused on the conversation happening around me. It's just that she looked just like my college roommate, Jenese. I was too timid to go over and say anything because the woman looked just like Jenese from 1998 and I guess it's possible that she hasn't aged, but I would have expected some aging. I sent Amy a text telling her that I just saw a woman that looked exactly like Jenese from 1998. She replied that maybe it was her and I should have asked. Stranger things have happened.

Then I got to wondering about what ever happened to Jenese. A quick Google search brought up nothing. No Facebook. No Instagram. No twitter. I felt bad about not staying in touch. Jenese and I were paired up into a room of four girls our freshman year at USAO. By the end of the first semester, one of those girls had dropped out. By the end of the second semester, Jenese and I were the only two left in that room. Eventually I would get my own room when I became a resident assistant and Jenese would move into a single dorm room, but we remained friends. I guess I stopped noticing her presence when Amy, Chris and I moved out of the dorms our senior year, but I could have sworn that she was at many of our breakfast night feasts. The more I looked for her online, the more it bothered me that I had let myself fall out of touch with her. What was she doing now? Is she teaching? Did she get married? I bet she's a mom. Jenese was mom material. Did she still live in Oklahoma? 

Then I wondered if she knew about Chris. She had been there when Chris and I started dating. She had witnessed it all really, just like all the others in our group. Did she know that Chris is no longer with us? I think about these things on occasion. I wonder if people we've lost touch with know about Chris, people like Jensese. Even Melody, the woman who owns the coffee shop we loved in OKC. We sent her a Christmas card every year and she'd put it up on cork board above the sugar and cream counter. Did she know about Chris? I can imagine scenarios where I run into these people and they ask "Where's Chris?!" and I have to say "Oh, he's dead." Then I have to watch the look of shock and confusion on their faces as they try to make sense of what I just said. Sometimes the person I'm having the imaginary conversation with even cocks their head to one side like a confused puppy. "Did you just say, 'he's dead'?!?" Yeah...yeah, I did. 

Any way, Jenese if you're out there some where reading this, email me! We should catch up! 

RANDOMNESS

Adult Easter Egg hunt

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Saturday morning, I got out of bed and went to a yoga class. We had plans to meet Michael's moms for lunch at 1:00, so I felt like I had plenty of time to go grocery shopping and lolly gagging around Target. I was on my way to the check out line in Trader Joe's when I noticed a text from Michael wondering where I was and that we needed to leave the house in thirty minutes. This sort of shook me out of lolly gagging mode and I replied back with  "whoops! On my way home!" Even though I had just stepped into the checkout line. Sometimes yoga makes me loopy or just so relaxed that I don't give a shit about anything, particularly time. Michael's text reminded me that we had things to do, people to see. I wiped the fog from my brain and hurried home.

Except that I never really seemed to completely wipe the fog clear. I feel like I just sort of floated through the weekend. About the only things I accomplished were laundry, washing the stinky dog, and hiding Easter eggs. We spent Easter with my KC family doing our traditional Adult Easter egg hunt and burning of the Easter effigy. This year's effigy was Trump as the Easter bunny. His polyester sports jacket went up in a flash and burned up completely before anyone had time to cue up an appropriate song to play. I drank too much gin along with random shots from airport sized bottles of Fireball and whiskey and tequila. I ate too much food because I'd skipped lunch. I laughed hard and danced a whole lot. A woman at the party told me that I would get breast cancer from wearing my phone tucked into my bra strap. I swallowed the urge to say "lady, you're crazy pants and this is the least of the things that I've exposed myself to over the years of working in a lab that's going to give me cancer." Instead, I respectfully pulled my phone from my bra strap and set it on the table. The woman is older and potentially wiser.

The next morning I woke up an hour late for work. My mouth was dry and I could still smell burning polyester and paper mache. The dog who had spent the evening begging food and chasing Miles around the backyard, was still tucked into my right side under the comforter. We all had hangovers. I spent the day lounging around, getting up on occasion to vacuum and wash the couch blankets. I haven't entered my food in my Loose It app since Sunday morning and I'm feeling the guilt of that settling in. I'm feeling the guilt of all my imperfections settling in and how I should do better, be better, eat better. I should spend less and toss out more. I should be more organized and on top of things. The house should be cleaner. I should be better at verbal communication. I should be teaching yoga. I should be reading more because it makes you a better writer and I should be writing more because I am not a good writer these days.

All of these thoughts makes me mad at myself. I tell myself to snap out of it, don't let yourself fall into the pit of not enough, but it's too late. I've done it and now I have to drag myself out of it. I know it's the hangover talking. At least I think it's the hangover talking. I hope it's the hangover talking because I don't have time to battle with a bought of malaise right now. Maybe I really do have radiation poisoning.

STARS GONE BLUE MY GEORGIA I STILL LOVE YOU

My reward for working in the garden and getting things planted.

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There were towels ready to come out of the dryer for folding and sheets in the washing machine ready for drying. I needed to search the internet for a dinner plan. I had planned on making a curry, but I needed guidance on what spices to use and how much. There were things that needed to be done, but here I was lounging in my hammock. I found that I could gently rock my hammock by reaching over my head and grabbing the hammock stand and giving it a shove with my fingers. I would gently rock my hammock side to side while my eyes drifted close. "Someone should make one of those timer contraptions like what's on those baby swings for swinging hammocks on hammock stands." I told this to Josephine because she was the only one around at the time when the thought entered my head. 

There was (is) a dime sized blister on the pad of my right thumb. I kept pressing my index finger to it, feeling the raw sore layer of skin now exposed because the blister had broken. It is proof of the work I did that morning. I watched a bright red cardinal jump into the honeysuckle that had started to grow along the top of the fence. I could see bits of red as he foraged around inside and wondered if maybe there was a nest tucked in there. I felt certain that if I got up and moved some of the vines away, I'd see a nest with three little eggs. I pulled on the hammock stand again, swinging my hammock. I stopped thinking about the things I should be doing and closed my eyes to the sun shining on my face.  Michael finished mowing the front yard. He cleaned off the mower and then dragged a chair over to where I laid in my hammock. 

We chatted about nothing. I told Michael my idea about the automatic hammock swinger. He told me about his idea for a privacy fence and new driveway. We talked about food for Michael's graduation party and what or if we should do anything about backyard lighting. I might hang some lights on the clothes line so no one runs into it. I tell Michael about the cardinal I saw in the honeysuckle. He tells me about how he mowed the front yard twice. We are quiet for a minute. That minute stretches to two, five, enough to feel like hours pass by as I swing myself in my hammock. Finally I tell him that it should be prescribed that I spend at least one hour out of every weekend in my hammock. Michael agrees whole heartedly. He already thinks that I don't sit still for long enough periods of time, buzzing around from chore to chore. There's always something that needs to be done. 

The clouds thicken and the wind shifts from light breeze to windy, bringing a chill with it. This is my cue. I peel myself out of my hammock, unhook it from the stand and fold it up as I carry it back inside to finish the things that need to be done. 

MYSTIC VOODOO YAYA

Buddha and dragons

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Not too long ago, Michael and I were watching Ghostbusters (the new one) and things came up that started a small conversation on the belief of ghosts. Michael said "Could it be that little Miss Scientist Cindy believes in ghosts?" I said that I wasn't sure but there was definitely an unseen force messing with stuff in my dorm room when I lived in Chickasha. I am almost positive that if you interviewed any young lady who lived in those dorms, you will hear a story about some weird unexplainable encounter that happened to them while living in that building. More than half of those young ladies will say those encounters where with a ghost named Nellie. I don't know who or what it was, but someone liked to turn the water on and off in the bathroom sink of the room I shared with no one. There was also a nighttime incident where I was sure there was someone standing on the other side of my bed, but when I turned my head to look, all I heard was the click of the door. When I got up to check the door, it was locked. 

Ancient Greeks gave us our earliest western philosophy that the soul is the thing that gives a body a life. Science has yet to prove the existence of the soul and in fact, Physicist Sean M. Carroll wrote that the idea of a soul is the antithesis of the quantum field theory.  Yet there are several theoretical physicists out there who disagree with Carroll. The idea of a soul and what happens to it when the body dies is the greatest unanswered scientific question. Maybe there's really no such thing as a soul. Maybe there is and souls just transfer to the next new life. Maybe some souls just travel around on the winds until it transfers into the next thing. That would explain why Josephine sometimes reminds me of Pepaw. Maybe this is why I believe that something not in a human body was hanging out in my dorm room. Maybe this remains the great unanswered scientific question because there are bigger and more important things to figure out like cancer and sustainable energy. There's a lot of maybes.

I've always walked a line between the scientifically explained and the voodoo sciences. I suppose there is the part of me that wants to believe in something magical. Ghosts are not particularly a joyful experience, but the idea of being in the presence of something unexplained is thrilling. Despite knowing that there is a scientific explanation for rainbows, I am still thrilled and in awe whenever one shows up in the sky, especially if it is one representing all the wavelengths. My massage therapist uses a heated 'bio-mat' containing amethysts crystals. You can tell me whatever you want about magic purple crystals healing my body while laying on a heated table with someone rolling the knots out of my shoulders and I will totally nod my head in agreement. I have purchased mala beads to aid in meditation. I have scrubbed my body with salts to clean my energy. I have burned sage in our house to promote wellbeing and because we like the way it smells. Recently, I purchased a candle that, when burned, is supposed to foster creativity. 

That candle is sitting on my desk, still in the box and I think it's already working. Since it's purchase, I've gotten my fancy pants camera out three times to just take pictures of stuff. I have also written this rambly post on unexplained phenomena. I am a scientist who believes that there is a scientific explanation for everything but that it is just fine and dandy to believe in the mystical until that explanation is found. I am a scientist who understands the power of the placebo. I am a scientist who gets that there is a basic philosophical human need to believe in something, anything really. 

I am a scientist who is going to go home this evening and light that damn candle in hopes that it will light a fire under my creative butt. 

SHARE A TABLE

Snow

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I have decided that when I am in town and I don't have a million and one things to do on a Saturday, that I should get up and go to a yoga class. My favorite yoga place has a 9:00 AM class on Saturday mornings and I have found that I still get up early enough to stop in at Heirloom for a light breakfast and some journal writing and have time to digest a little before starting class. When class is over, I run to the grocery store and then I'm home just in time for lunch. Some times Michael is even up and showered when I get home. My favorite yoga place is not really close and this Saturday I didn't want to stray to far from my neighborhood. So I went an 8:00 AM class at studio close to me. 

It was a nice class, different from my usual practice. The teacher incorporated more flowing sequences than I tend to do and less holding of poses. We prepared for headstand and then I did a headstand. It was good, but I didn't really make a connection with the teacher or the other students and I didn't really get a yoga home vibe. This is okay. The important thing was to try something new. After class I headed over to Heirloom and immediately realized that my original get there at 7:30 AM routine is a much better routine. Heirloom was packed. I parked on the street and got in a long line. By the time I'd finished placing my order, I looked up to find that all the seats at the bar were taken. I wandered the small table section and found one empty table for two and I took it. 

I had just opened the Fortune Cookie journal when I noticed a young man wandering around with his coffee mug and the alphabet letter card Heirloom uses to find you when your order is ready. Someone came out with a tray of biscuits and gravy. I heard the man say that it was his, but he couldn't find a place to sit. I raised my voice so they could hear me and asked "is it just you?" The man replied "yes" and so I gestured to the chair across from me and said "have a seat." Both the young man and the server still holding his tray seemed a little surprised by my offer, but then both of them smiled and he gratefully took a seat. There was a brief exchange of small talk, enough to discover that neither of us had lived in the city for more than six years and both of us were surprised by how big St. Patrick's Day is around here. Mostly, we left each other to our own devices, him hastily eating his breakfast and me attempting to write a story prompted by a fortune cookie fortune. The young man finished his coffee and got up to bus his side of the table. He thanked me once again for letting him sit at my table and then we wished each other happy weekends.

I am still stuck by how surprised he was that I would offer a seat at my table to a perfect stranger. I think of places I have been where it was just assumed that someone sit in the empty seat next to you. There might be a courtesy "is this seat taken?" before they sat, but they'd have themselves seated before you were on the second head nod. I have been on subways that have forced me to redraw my boundary for personal space. Chris and I used to go to You Say Tomato at a crowded time in the mornings and always ended up sharing our table with another couple; sometimes a whole family. It was something we did without question or pause. It is still something I do without question or pause. Personal space is a luxury, a given in our own homes, and taken for granted in the wide open spaces of this country. I forget that I live in a city in the middle of wide open spaces and that so many of the younger residents here moved to this place from farmland. They are still getting used to a smaller boundary for personal space. 

All of this makes me aware of the boundaries we build, even for those we love.

LOSING TINY THINGS

Purple

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I felt it when it happened. As I drew the seat belt down to buckle in, I felt the shoulder strap catch on my earring and rip it from my ear. Maybe 'rip' is too dramatic of a description. 'Rip' implies pain and blood and it didn't really hurt. It was more of a sickening shocking dreadful feeling. The strap pulled my earring free from my ear. I reached up and retrieved the backing of the earring still stuck to the backside of my earlobe. Moving very slowly and carefully, I reached over and dropped the backing into the open pocket on my purse. Then I sat there for a minute wondering what to do next. I hadn't heard the sound of my earring hitting anything, so maybe it had dropped into my coat or shirt. I got out of the car to check around the floor board and seat just in case, but I immediately regretted that action because if the earring was in my coat, it could have fallen out when I got of the car. 

I got back in the car and headed home. All along the drive home, I fretted over that earring. I hadn't just might have lost a simple silver elephant earring. I might have lost the silver elephant earring. These earrings were the first earrings I had spent real money on. They had been handmade by an artist that doesn't offer them any more. The elephants have tiny diamonds for eyes. They are my grown up fancy version of the pair I used to wear as a child. They are the kind of earrings I will leave to a niece or a stepchild in my will. Those earrings were my gift to myself on my birthday the year after Chris died, the year after the birthday of really bad news. These were my thoughts as I drove the four miles home from work. I had no idea how I was going to replace them and I was preparing myself for the loss. 

My mother had a pair of jade earrings once. I don't remember her ever wearing them, I just know of them because they are earrings that were lost to her. My sister had 'borrowed' them and had worn them while swimming at the lake. By the end of the day, she only had one earring. I heard my mother lament the loss of those earrings many times. This story is filed in a file in my brain labeled This is Why You Can't Have Nice Things. This file includes light blue furniture and why I still haven't replaced the living room rug that is as old as I am. I can't have nice things because they will get lost or ruined. This file is also filled with sound bites from ugly voices telling me how stupid I was to spend that kind of money on a pair of earrings and that I do not deserve such extravagant (by my standards) treats. That voice tells me I am so irresponsible. That voice reminds me that my fancy birthday present to myself didn't change anything. They didn't bring Chris back or erase the memory of awfulness.

 I recognize that the This is Why You Can't Have Nice Things file needs to be pulled and shredded.   

When I got home, I carefully made my way to my bedroom. As I pulled my coat free from my arm, I heard the thud sound of something small and hard hitting the bedroom rug. I bent down and retrieved my earring from the floor. Then, after also replacing the backing on that earring, I set it on my dresser to be worn another day. 

FAT, PARDONS, AND SACRIFICE

Dinner

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Remember those days when I used to celebrate Fat Tuesday and make Everything Jambalaya and sometimes even beignets?  Okay, I only made beignets that one time. It was the first and last time I used a Fry Daddy and I was so disgusted (and overwhelmed) with the leftover grease that I threw the whole thing away and I've not deep fried anything since. But we always had Abita beer and that's the second most important thing of Fat Tuesday. Then, because of Tiffany, we'd all give up something for Lent. I tried to keep up with that Fat Tuesday tradition, but it isn't really a thing up here. I think it has something to do with being more north and also our distance from the Mighty Mississippi. 

So instead of Everything Jambalaya, tonight we will be having soyrizo tacos with mushrooms and black beans, which is what we have every Tuesday. Though, I think pancakes are the thing up here. They replace the "Fat" with "Shrove" and eat pancakes because making pancakes uses up all the things in the kitchen that are considered to be rich foods. This way, you use up all your butter, sugar, milk and eggs (if you don't have chickens) before you start your forty day fast. I like how Wikipedia describes fasting for Shrove Tuesday as "refraining from food that would give pleasure." I should give up cheese for Lent. We will not be eating pancakes because Michael hates pancakes (I know, how can you hate pancakes?). Sometimes traditions change and morph. We cooked crawfish on Saturday and I drank a couple of Abitas at work on Friday. A conversation with Talaura yesterday made me feel at peace. Absolved isn't really the word to use so I'm going to replace it with peace. Tomorrow morning, I'll smear some dirt from the garden on my forehead. 

I think it is funny that Lent, for many people, has gone from eating bland foods or eating just for the basic sustenance of the body to giving up something that brings them joy like chocolate or soda or cookies. We give up things we have formed habits with. We commit to forty days of something like writing or yoga or meditation or jogging. I am guilty of committing to something like forty days of yoga (never jogging). I am also guilty of giving up things that do not serve me like self doubt and worry. There is nothing wrong with being guilty of any of those things. The whole point of Lent is taking time to be mindful and reflective and if committing to something or giving up chocolate helps you do that, then so be it. Personally, I am leaning towards forty days of Buddha bowls and simple meals of lentils and greens. 

I spend a lot of time on making a weekly meal plan that is not only nutritious but one that will not lead to Michael pulling a face of disgust. The meal plan is more than a plan devised to appease my OCD tendencies. It keeps us on a budget, which is really important right now if we want to pay for the camper and be able to use it. I could free up time for reflection by just making the weekly meal plan out to be beans and rice every day for forty days. I'm sure Michael would love that or I could just spend the next forty days only being responsible for my meals and let Michael fend for himself. This is also something I doubt he'd be all that pleased with. I guess the bottom line is that I am probably giving up nothing for Lent. I am probably not even really committing to anything. Instead, I am just going to try harder to be more mindful and reflective every day. 

Like I said. Traditions change and morph. 

PEBBLE IN MY POCKET

I found these while scrounging in my purse for something.

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I was rummaging around in the front pocket of my purse looking for the charging adapter for my iPencil. Have you guys seen that thing? It's about the size of a Tic-Tac. I am amazed I haven't swallowed it. Any way, my fingers kept brushing across tiny things that could or could not have been my charging adapter. In order to get those things out of the way, I just pulled a handful of crap out of the pocket. Most of that crap turned out to be rocks; three of them to be specific. I held them in the palm of my hand trying to remember what beach I'd picked them up from. Last year I stood in the spot where the sun first touches the US in the mornings. I also stood in the last spot the sun touches before it goes down on the continental US. Those rocks could have come from New York, Maine, California or even Wisconsin. 

I bet the largest one came from Wisconsin. It is flat and smooth. It fits perfectly in the hollow of my palm. I am sure I picked it up with the intention of skipping it across Lake Superior. At the last minute I held onto it because I found the cool, smooth feel of the stone to be soothing to rub with my thumb. I took a picture of the rocks in the palm of my hand and my mother left a comment about how she still has pebbles in the pocket of her raincoat. She had picked them up off of Dingle Beach when we were in Ireland. Apparently my pebble collection is a genetically inherited trait. I am more likely to look down at the beach under my feet than out to sea. I will fill my pockets and the pockets of those walking with me with rocks and bits of shells. It has always been this way.

As a child, the discovery of an interesting rock was equivalent to discovering buried treasure. It didn't take much to determine a rock to be interesting either. A specific shape. A sparkly quality. A fleck of gold here or a fleck of silver there. Most rocks were special. Most rocks are special. I think one of our favorite family travel stories was the time we found a bucket of rocks at our campsite in Colorado. It was like we had discovered the Holy Grail and the Ark of the Covenant...IN A BUCKET! The rocks from that bucket later became decorative garden rocks, terrarium rocks, show-and-tell rocks and even pet rocks (googly eyes make all things funny). There are bags of rocks stashed in the toy cubbies now. I brought back rocks from the Dakotas for the Cabbage. I have brought back rocks from different places for Katrina. The best time I had at Deana Rose Children's Farm with the Cabbage was sifting through a bag of dirt for pretty stones. I think there's a large granite rock in the car right now. 

There is a moment, a line really, when all the kids are trick-or-treating in It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown where a kid looks into his treat bag and says "I got a rock." Except he says it in a disappointed, dejected way. It is probably my favorite line and some times I say it in reference to receiving something unexpected and slightly unwanted. Now that I think about it, now that I look at the rocks I carry around in my purse, maybe "I got a rock" is something I should say with joy. 

BE MINE

Red Bridge

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Valentine's Day has never really been a day I go out of my way to celebrate. Every time Chris and I would make an attempt at doing something special for Valentine's Day, we'd end up disappointed and annoyed. Planned romance is canned romance and we discovered very quickly that we were so much better at impromptu romance. I didn't really know how to approach Valentine's Day with a new lover. The first year Micheal and I were together, I got him a card. He made us reservations at Buca Di Beppo and we ended up sitting at a small cafe style table wedged between similar tables, all containing teenage couples. It was sort of romantic. At least...it was cute to watch the youngsters. One couple tried to order cocktails and got really indignant about being denied with their fake IDs. Any way, after that, we didn't really mention Valentine's Day again.  

Last week Michael looked at me with a hang dogged expression and asked if we were doing anything for Valentine's Day. He looked all sad and disappointed with my response of "I hadn't made any plans" and decided we'd go out for dinner on Friday. I met him at Jazz for happy hour (they have $1 oysters at happy hour) and after placing our order I looked at him, reminded him of Valentine's Days past and then asked "why the sudden interest in doing something for Valentine's Day?" He shrugged and mumbled something that sounded like "can't a guy be romantic?" Michael is still learning that a guy can totally be romantic and that being romantic is not dependent on a particular day. I shrugged my shoulders and said that I was just wondering why he had a sudden interest in Valentine's Day and then I let it go. 

Of course, I know why he had a sudden interest in romance. We haven't been all that lovey dovey lately. Work and illnesses has turned us into two people who just happen to coexist in the same house. Michael is working on his masters and this with his work responsibilities have been all consuming. Then you add in the week he was sick, followed up with the next week where I was sick and you've got a recipe for how to become just acquaintances. We also share a wariness of February in general. His (ex)wife left him right around the same time my husband died. I tend to crawl inside myself this time of year while he gets anxious. Cupid and hearts and Russell Stover's are things we are least likely to worry about in February.

Saturday turned out to be a beautiful, warm day and after driving out to the DMV to tag the trailer, we came home and traded the car for our scooters to finish running our errands. We loaded the last of our grocery purchases into our scooters and Michael said he needed to go to the hardware store. He suggested that I go on home and he'd meet there. Since I was balancing a not so cheap bottle of whiskey (a gift for a party we were attending that evening) on the floor space between my feet, I agreed to just meet him at the house.  He wasn't all that far behind me. I had just turned my scooter around in the garage when he pulled up in the drive. "What did you need at the hardware store?" I asked him while he tugged his helmet off. "Nothing important." He moved on, started pulling groceries out of his scooter trunk. "We need to leave the house a little early before the party. There's a detour I want us to make, something I want to show you." I eyed him with suspicion and started asking questions but he shut them all down. 

Later that evening, we headed out again on our scooters and I followed Michael as he took us to Minor Park and the Old Red Bridge. The Old Red Bridge is part of the Sante Fe Trail and is the third red bridge. It's the bridge that Michael remembers riding on in his youth. It's been replaced by a fancy new bridge, but this old one is still in use as part of a walking trail. They light the bridge up on Friday and Saturday evening in February so people can put locks on the bridge, a Valentine's thing. They even had the bridge decorated with dangling hearts and carnations. As we got closer to the bridge, I saw the locks and then I knew why Michael had made a stop at the hardware store. I looked at him and said "did you get us a lock?!" He had. He didn't have it engraved or anything. It was just a lock, but it was our lock. We picked a spot on the bridge to place our lock and locked it in. Then we each took a key and tossed it into the river. 

We started walking back to our scooters when Michael stopped at the end of the bridge and said "You wanna kiss me on the Old Red Bridge." I looked up at him and said "Yes. Yes, I do."

A TRUE STORY

After savasana.

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Cindy woke to the chiming sound of her alarm clock. She rolled to her side, maneuvered her arm around the dog curled up at her hip and turned the alarm clock off. Then Cindy slid that dog over so she could get out of bed. Cindy always got up out of her bed with mindfulness, first coming to a seated position and then placing both feet firmly onto the floor. Feeling her feet pressing into the rug helped to bring her out of dreamland and into the day. From here, Cindy stood and made her way to the bathroom. She stood there staring at her naked reflection in the full length mirror. Her first thought was of how they really should not have replaced those burnt out bulbs with new LED bulbs. The new bulbs made the bathroom too bright and every thing too clear. Her skin was almost translucent in this lighting and she could see her blue veins well enough to trace them. The bathroom was too bright. 

Cindy leaned forward to get a better look at the new pimple forming on her chin. Her eyes then caught sight of a red handprint impressed on the space between the tip of her sternum and her bellybutton. She cocked her head to the side with a curios expression. Cindy knew the imprint must be from sleeping on her hand, yet it was so distinct and detailed. She must of have been laying on her hand for most of the night. Cindy traced the fingers and noticed that even the lines in her palm were noticeable in the impression. She frowned at her reflection, at the hand print that seemed to accentuate her belly. Cindy could see that the stress of the last couple of months had taken it's toll. Her belly seemed bloated and flabbier then she wanted it to be. In the past few weeks, she had started a nightly ritual of placing her hands on the flabby part and willing the fat to dissipate into thin air. That's probably where the hand print came from. She had fallen asleep while waving an imaginary wand. 

Of course, Cindy never believed that willing her fat away would actually work. She just needs to step up her workouts and eat less food. She's working on both of those things, but Cindy is also very aware of the probability of weight loss versus age. She has noticed the signs signaling the changes to come. Those signs are equal parts relief and depressing. Today, as she stares at her reflection, Cindy feels older than forty one. More like eight one. In fact, she's sure she can feel the twinges of arthritis in her left knee. Cindy shakes her head in an attempt to clear out this sudden old tired feeling that has come upon her. She would not fall for it. She would not listen to the hateful girl whispering in her ear. If Cindy were the type of girl to believe, she could say that handprint was placed there by the Gods. They have placed it there as an affirmation that this belly is beautiful. They have placed that handprint there to remind her that the most famous Renaissance artists painted and sculpted women with such bellies. Cindy looked herself in the eye and thought "Too bad I'm not the type of girl to believe." 

With that last thought, she turned and stepped into the shower to start her day.