THE JOKE

There’s a joke I’ve been told a few times and every time I hear it, I don’t think it’s funny. I’ve heard it told two different ways now. The first telling I’ve heard goes something like this: A woman is in a grocery store at the checkout line. She’s placing her items on the checkout belt. Things like a salad kit, rotisserie chicken, some fruit….usual items. There’s a drunk man standing in line behind her watching as she unloads her basket. The man slurs as he loudly says “You must be single!” The woman turns, and asks “why do you think that?” The man, swaying on his feet, looks at the items the woman is purchasing and then back at her and responds “Because you’re so fucking ugly.”

It took me some time to really unravel what it is about this joke that I don’t find funny. It’s more than I just don’t think it’s funny; this joke makes my skin crawl. It’s because this is not a joke, but is a true story. Ladies, please raise your hand if you have ever had an unpleasant interaction with a drunk man. I can’t see you, but I suspect we are all raising our hands right now. I can’t help but believe that this ‘joke’ started out with one woman recounting the horrible experience she had while grocery shopping to a friend and then like a real shitty game of telephone, the story got passed around until it found a group of sorority boys who turned it into a joke. This so called joke then got passed around through the man-vine and became the antidote for every time a woman didn’t give them the desired attention they were looking for.

A joke can be used as a weapon.

This joke is the reason why women feel the pressure and need to always smile and please and placate. We have learned from experience that the drunk guy most likely will not stop at “you’re fucking ugly” but will continue to harass her all the way out the door. He may even follow her down the side walk, hurling slurs and attempting to touch, or grab. The drunk guy is dangerous. In most every situation, the drunk guy is dangerous. We are either tolerating the unwanted attention with a fake smile plastered to our faces or we are fighting off the unwanted attention, fake smile still in place because we are still trying to placate the drunk guy. Not because we are interested. We are never interested or charmed by this behavior. We do it all for our safety.

Not surprisingly, I have never heard a woman tell this joke because we all know the drunk guy in that story and we’ve all had relatable experiences. In fact, I wonder how funny the joke becomes when the circumstances are flipped. Recently, I heard a retelling of this joke. In his version of this joke, he’s the one the drunk guy is talking to, he’s the one the drunk guy calls ‘ugly’. The man telling this version of the joke did it so well that I didn’t even recognize it as being the same joke. His version was self deprecating, but also he had nothing to fear in this story. The man who told me this version is physically imposing. It took me a minute to see that this version did make me chuckle because there was no threat here. This version didn’t make me feel threatened.

Still, even with the change, this joke just isn’t funny. It’s mean and I’ve never found humor in meanness. The only fix I can come up with for this joke it to burn it.

I'M NAKED

It was a typical Saturday morning. I was at Heirloom, eating a biscuit sandwich and writing in my Fortune Cookie journal, and I watched as a young family came in, a mom, dad and a little girl who was maybe three. She was carrying her baby doll while Mom carried a basket of Shopkins. They settled in at a table in my eyesight and I watched as the mom peeled the child’s sweater off, hearing the crackling of static as it came over the kid’s head. The little one’s hair stood out, charged with electricity and she yelled out “I’m naked!” The mom chuckled and then calmly responded “You are not naked. You have on a t-shirt.” But the little one insisted. “I’m naked!” She proceeded to randomly let all of us know that she was naked as she colored and stuffed bits of cinnamon roll into her little mouth.

Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure that doll she came in with was also naked but then I started to really relate to this kid.

“I’m naked” is just another way to say “I feel vulnerable.” I am naked. I feel naked. I can feel my nakedness under these clothes and sometimes, okay … a lot of the time, it makes me want to put on more clothes. Some of this stems from being two months into the year and still not back on my usual moving routine. I can feel my skin actually touching my clothes and have been conditioned to believe that skinny girls do not allow this to happen. I have also been conditioned to believe that I will never be a skinny girl. The “I feel vulnerable” side to all of this is that I have put myself out there for some things that’s a little outside my comfort level. There’s book club where I reveal hidden wishes and an art show that got bumped to September but where I noticed that I am the only photographer in the line up. I continue to wear a shoulder strap that forces my heart to be open. One of my so called ‘bad girl’ wishes is to take some nude pictures of myself and others. I am full into a I hate my body moon phase. Probably because I’m not lifting weights or training for a marathon or doing any of the things this capitalist fitness industry says I should be doing. I refuse to fall for the “Eat this to lose weight!” click bait, but only barely. This is perfect timing for taking off all of my clothes and taking pictures of myself.

Pile on the vulnerability!

Recently, I dreamed that my friend Sarah Fox and I bought matching jumpsuits. I was in love this thing. It was high waisted with wide legs and a sexy deep v type of halter top. It was perfect, except for the whole halter top thing. I don’t know how Sarah didn’t have this problem, but my halter top would not stay in place and every time I looked down I’d have a boob peeking out from this way or that way. I was constantly tucking myself back in. We were on some kind of roadtrip and we were on a road that contained epically stunning views at every curve and hill top. At one point, I noticed that Sarah was asleep at the wheel and I said “Hey, Sarah. Wake up.” and then we laughed and laughed about it for miles. Our lives where clearly in danger but we didn’t care. In fact, we found it hilarious.

Every curve and hill, a stunning view.

Exposed and vulnerable and finding it all to be immensely hilarious.

THE LIFE I WANT

As predicted, the weekend was everything that was needed. There was talking, listening, laughter, tears, more laughter, new games, a drunk trip to Walmart where I purchased a stuffed, fluffy chicken and some food. It was everything we needed and we made promises to do it again next year. On Sunday morning, Deborah made us breakfast and we ate our last meal together. Then we packed up our cars, but before we headed out in opposite directions, we squeezed each other tight. I told Amy that I would come down for her graduation (she’s been working sooooo hard towards a Masters in Library Sciences). I told Deborah that she’s going to get into grad school (she wants to go into speech pathology and taking classes to make that happen). We drove away from each other, still waving and grinning.

Then our weekend together was over.

I decided to take a different way home when I left Wichita. I chose a country highway instead of the turnpike even though it was not the fastest route. I have been using the weather as an excuse for being uninspired and unmotivated in getting out my camera. The weather is part of the problem, but not the whole of the problem. I thought that by taking a slower road, I would be less hesitant to stop when I saw something interesting. The first impulsive stop was for a windmill in a field of wind turbines. The concept of impulsive stops was too new to me and I rushed myself. The second stop took me down a gravel road to an old school house. The school house, while isolated and alone was at least kept mowed so that you could walk around the school. The building, itself was boarded up though. The field it sat in was quite except for the chattering of birds that I could not see. I spent more time here, listening to birds and judging the angel of the light. Eventually, I returned to my car feeling lighter and satisfied with what I had just done.

I made one more stop before I hit Emporia, a place called Cottonwood Falls with wobbly brick streets. I took some pictures of the old courthouse and then spent too long in search of an owl that I kept hearing. I found myself well off of main street before turning back and driving on to Emporia. That feeling of satisfaction stayed with me the rest of the day. I stopped to go through the Burger King drive thru in Emporia. Michael’s put Burger King on the banned list because they always get his order wrong. I had low expectations when I ordered my impossible whopper. The teenager working the window handed over my order and I found a piping hot sandwich that looked exactly like the picture with crisp lettuce and onions. It was the most perfect Impossible Whopper I had ever seen.

It felt like a reward.

The next day over breakfast, I told Michael about how good that drive felt and that I wanted more. He said that he was always willing to stop if I wanted and I winced. There have been a number of times when I have asked to stop and Michael’s response has had a tone of inconvenience to it. It happened enough times, that I have stopped asking. It wasn’t easy, but I told him this and I told him that I was no longer going to allow this to happen. I am going to ask to stop and I will no longer let him make me feel like I am inconveniencing him with my request. It was not an easy conversation to have, mostly because he didn’t realize he’d been speaking in a way that would make me not ask for something I want.

Effectively communicating wants and needs is difficult.

I devised a plan to ease into the asking by scheduling us on an evening trip up to a wildlife preserve just north of St. Joseph. It was surprisingly simple. I sent a link to the preserve along with a date and time I want to be there. It has been reported that the preserve is currently filled up with snow geese and I want to see them, photograph them. I received an immediate response of ‘yes’ and then we made dinner plans in St. Joseph. I find that I am excited and looking forward to doing something other than our usual Saturday evening thing of couch potato soaked in gin and tonic, but I also learned to stop caring about the reaction I might get to an ask. Because I want more of those lighter and satisfied feelings.

I am learning to ask for the life that I want.

THE VALENTINE COASTER

I put on a tunic shirt that reminds me of an old fashioned valentine doily card and then I took Josephine to the groomers’ for her 7:30 AM drop off. We were the first in line. I handed Josephine off to her wonderful groomer, Wade, and turned around to be greeted by two golden retrievers. I loved on both of them and then squeezed past to get out the door. Right out side the door, I was greeted by an enthusiastic golden doodle who also received some love and baby talk. Then I looked to my left and there was a line of dogs waiting their turn to be dropped off and for a moment I wondered if this was heaven. It was like a scene where the heroine runs down the hallway high-fiving all of her classmates. In this case I was the heroine and the classmates were fluffy puppies. I replaced the high fives with pets.

This is how every day should start.

Then I got in my car just in time to hear the end of a story from a woman from The Midwest Transplant Network about donating her husband’s organs after her husband died. When the story ended, they played one of his favorite songs which happened to be Remember Me from Coco. I pulled into the parking lot at work a sobbing wet mess and once again reminded that I have never been a fan of this holiday. But then I got to go pick Josephine up from the groomers’ and that’s my favorite part of grooming day. First of all Josephine is so excited to see me that she nearly drags the person put to the task of bringing her out to me. It almost feels like I am saving her life. Then there is the added bonus of Josephine looking her absolute cutest right after she’s been bathed and groomed. I just want to squeeze her and smoosh up her little face I LOVE HER SO MUCH!

On the way back to work after taking Josephine home, the radio started playing The Luckiest by Ben Folds which made me a little weepy yet again. In many ways I am the luckiest, for meeting Chris when I did and having our time together. Some people spend their whole lives looking for that thing we had. I’m not the old wife that dies two days after her husband though. I am the luckiest because I entered into my next relationship with a good foundation of what healthy relationships look like. I am the luckiest because I know that I was loved and that I am loved.

No pink doily cards required.

THE LEAST CONTROVERSIAL THING

I have a whole lot of (unpopular) thoughts running around in this noggin’ at the moment in regards to the Super Bowl. I love the enthusiasm this city has for their football team, but I have a hard time summoning up support for the NFL as a corporation, ethically speaking. So instead of ranting on about how the commercialization of sportsball has contributed to the systemic racism prevalent in this country and the perpetuation of glorifying violence, I’ll talk about something less controversial. Red Light Therapy.

Saturday, I posted a picture of myself in the red light therapy chamber at my chiropractor’s. Then, I had a number of people ask me what I thought about the therapy. I will tell you that I went in with the most skeptical, this is bullshit attitude. My chiropractor suggested it after my adjust last week because my arm and shoulder was still causing me problems. I looked at Dr. Fran and I said “Is this voodoo?” To which she replied with a chuckle that it was not voodoo, but then she said the thing that she should not have said to me. She said “it works on the molecular level.” Don’t say these words to someone with a background in molecular genetics. Just don’t. Their eyes will become strained from the severe eye roll they give you. Even though I knew that this was probably total nonsense, I agreed to signing up for six sessions. I felt results after the first session. I didn’t want to admit it, but I felt surprisingly better.

So I did the thing that I do and went back to work to do a deep science dive on Red Light Therapy and it turns out that it is not voodoo. There are a number of peer-reviewed journal articles involved in the use of red or near infra-red light to reduce pain and inflammation, stimulate new tissue growth and the various diseases that could benefit from this treatment. It is believed that the red light is absorbed by cytochrome C oxidase in mitochondria which leads to an increase in ATP production and inducing transcription factors involved in cell proliferation, repair and regeneration. Dr. Fran was not wrong. It works on the molecular level.

I have completed three sessions and I can’t deny that it is helping. I am no longer waking up in the middle of the night with arm/shoulder pain or toss and turn in an effort to get comfortable. I still have some mobility issues where I am not as flexible as I used to be, but I can finally reach behind my back and unhook my bra again. I consider this a win. This doesn’t mean that I do not feel like a ridiculous white walrus while laying naked in the red light therapy chamber. On my second session, I accidentally knocked the head rest out of the chamber while I was flipping over onto my back. I whacked the headrest so hard that it shot out the open end, hit the wall and landed almost completely under the whole chamber. Then I had to army crawl my naked body to the end of the chamber and reach around to fish out the head rest.

It was not my most graceful moment.

I also can’t seem to get Roxanne by the Police out of my head while I’m in there, except I change the lyrics to something about how I have to turn on the red light. Then the song turns from saving the sex worker to letting her just do her job and leaving her alone…Look, you’re in there for fifteen minutes. That’s plenty of rando thought time.

IF I WERE A BAD GIRL

There’s an exercise in this book on women empowerment that I am reading that asks you to fill in this sentence “If I were a bad girl, I’d…” It is an exercise designed to expose your desires. What would you do if there were no societal rules or the rules you set for yourself? I haven’t gotten any farther with this exercise than just giving it a tiny bit of thought. It is a little bit of an overwhelming question because of the infinite possibilities, but in a moment of stillness, I pondered this question and the first thought that came into my head was that I would quit my job and become a real photographer. I’d buy a camper van and drive out to the dessert to photograph all the different shacks and dwellings that break up the desolation. I wouldn’t worry about money because I’d conn some billionaire into funding my adventures.

The way the thought just put itself right there in that spot of my brain between my eyes was like having a cold cup of water splashed into my face. I mean, just two hours earlier, I’d had a wave of self doubt about my showing hit me so hard, I felt like I was drowning in it. But the pure selfishness of the thought itself felt like eating chocolate cake. I get that this is the point of the exercise. It’s not supposed to be about anyone else but yourself. It is your opportunity to be completely and utterly selfish. I also think it is supposed to flip your idea of ‘selfish’.

self-ish: (of a person, action, or motive) lacking consideration for others; concerned chiefly with one's own personal profit or pleasure.

So many of us women were raised with the belief of selfishness as a sin. We are taught to be selfless in all aspects of our lives. Your wants and desires come second to those around you, if they come at all. This, to me, makes those around us who subconsciously take advantage of our selfless acts the truly selfish ones. My bad girl request isn’t even all that “bad”, except the part about stealing. It does draw a pretty obvious map to some desires. This is the time of year when I come down with a case of wanderlust and want to be anywhere but here. I’ve talked about solo adventuring before but lack the amount of bravery required for me to (without guilt) load up and head out. It’s like I’m waiting for an invitation or permission.

Friday evening, Micheal, Phoenix and I travelled downtown to check out the art reception for the artist that is currently in the space where I will be hanging my photos in May. I also needed to measure the wall space. The reception was in the lobby of the hotel the Starbucks is attached to, so we walked in through the hotel. I froze immediately stepping through the doors because I was currently drowning in a new wave of self doubt. The current artist had tables and lots of merchandise. Handbag, backpacks, coin purses, watch faces. Anything he could print is art onto, he had it for sale. Michael took one look at my face and steered me directly into the Starbucks to measure the walls. I loudly in a panicked whisper said “I do not have merch!” Michael assured me that I did not need merch. We measured the walls and then I took a breath. I headed out into the lobby to introduce myself to the manager in charge of the art and the current artist. I asked questions. I socialized. I drank a terrible but strong margarita and we left.

I spent too much wasted time on thinking about possible merchandise options before deciding that I do not need merchandise. I’ll have postcards and prints. Michael made me templates of the walls with proportionally sized rectangles of my prints. I started placing rectangles and making lists. I curated the photos I want for the space and afterwards I thought “I am a real photographer.” Everyone else around me seems to know this better than I do. So my Bad Girl request, my opportunity for selfishness, is a request to do more to curate myself. Even my default Good Girl status can see that this is not a very Bad Girl request.

I guess, the thing I learned from this exercise is that I’m bad at being bad.

A NEW EDITION OF TTITIN

This addition of Things The Internet Thinks I Need starts with a list:

• mushroom growing kits (that’s probably true)

• swimsuits ( I rarely wear the one I own)

• expensive ethically sourced seafood shipped right to my door (I mean, yeah, but who do you think I am? Scrooge McDuck?)

• camper vans (my fault because I keep looking at camper vans)

• wedding planning (record scratch….whut?)

Yeah, so all of those things except one could possibly be of use. Oh…I forgot psychedelic mushroom counseling. Even that is of possible use to me, but wedding planning? Really, Internet? I don’t even know what magic code of words I have entered in any kind of search bar to merit a targeted ad about planning my wedding. They want to sell me the best gift for a bridesmaid and the best destination weddings and tips on floral arrangements. These are all things I didn’t do the first time around and if Michael ever convinces me to get married again, those are things I will not do the second time around.

I like to think that all this means is that the robots don’t remotely have a clue as to who I am and when the Robot Apocalypse happens, they won’t be ready for someone like me.

Pow! Pow!

That’s really all I have to say right now. I’m too busy at work to think about anything other than work while I am at work (and sometimes not). When I’m home, I spend an hour watching TV and the rest of the time reading. Right now, I’m reading Unbound: A Woman’s Guide to Power by Kasia Urbaniak. It’s a book recommended by my friend Erica. She and our friend Abi are going to have book club like meetings to discuss it. I’m on page fifty something and will continue to read even though I’m so wound up in a Good Girl Double Bind that I probably cannot be unbound. After this book, I plan on finishing Project Hail Mary before starting on What Fresh Hell is This?

I have compiled a folder of show prints and made a list of sizes.

I’m eating lots of cheese.

You’d think the Internet would have noticed and mentioned something about the amount of cheese I’ve been eating.

It has not.

I'M DOING MY BEST HERE

Lately, I’ve been feeling like a pod person, just going through the motions. On the outside, everything looks normal. Someone tells a joke, I laugh. It may be a slightly hollow laugh, but it’s something. I am interacting socially. It is the in between moments, those times when I’m alone in the car or walking the building, when I’ll realize at some point in the middle of the activity that I am not thinking of anything. Those moments are full robot mode, like a switch has been pushed to the off setting. My brain is not churning with writing ideas. Memories that often play like out like movies are staying locked away in the filing cabinet at the back of my brain. I’m not mentally placing photos on walls or designing yoga classes. There’s no making note of the things I am seeing as I walk or drive by. It’s just an absence of all thoughts.

On top of the blank empty hole that is my brain, my body feels like it is on loan from the Pillsbury Doughboy. Michael got me an Anthropologie gift card for Christmas, which I’m usually quick to spend, but Ive browsed the sale items both in shops and online and left with nothing. I don’t want to even try on clothes partly because of the whole doughboy situation but also because it just feels exhausting to remove all the winter layers just to try on something that I probably won’t be happy with. There is nothing worse than standing in the cruel lighting of a dressing room and trying on a mini dress that fits me in weird places and not others, my winter white legs bouncing light off the mirror. I always leave my socks on in these situations and the whole half dressed, bare legs, with socks look is particularly sad, but I know if I want to get the most out of that gift card, I’m going to have to try on a number of items and chose wisely. Heaven forbid I spend it all on one full priced item.

Maybe in the Spring, when I can see colors again….

Saturday, Michael and I went downtown to check out the space where I will be hanging pictures in May and to eat lunch at new to us Korean place. We parked somewhere in between both places so that we had to walk over to the coffee shop and then back in the other direction to the restaurant. We didn’t spend a long amount of time looking over the wall space for the showing. I took some pictures of the walls and Michael and I sat with hot drinks while I contemplated what I might want to print. Since we had some time to kill before the Korean place opened for lunch, we strolled for a few blocks, looking into shop windows and speculating on businesses in the area. For the first time in a long time, I felt a spark and an urge to get my camera out. I even got into it and at one point had to tell Michael to wait. When he asked what I was doing, I said “I need to stand in the middle of the street for a minute.” This is nothing he has not heard before, but when I was finally back on the sidewalk I knew that I would have to visit this spot again. I took a good picture, but not a great better. That good picture reminded me that I can do better.

I want to do better.

There are moments where I am really trying to not be that pod person. I can still feel a spark to take pictures. I signed up for an aerial yoga class this evening to force myself into some hanging upside down play time. I plugged my ears into some dance party tunes and moved my body. And then I spent that gift card on singular, full price item.

DEHYDRATION

In the dark morning hours of Sunday, I dreamed that I was at a spa for a spa day. That’s not a far fetch dream. Michael got me a gift card for a spa day for Christmas and I’m all booked for the twenty first. In this dream, I went into a room that was very hospital like and removed my clothes. Then I peed on the floor (because dreams are crazy). My massage therapist then told me to lie down on the massage table face up. She covered me with blankets and then raised the bars up on both sides of the table. The table turned out to be a hospital bed. Then she spent five minutes digging for a vein in my hand so that she could hook me up to a saline IV. The therapist patted my other hand and said “We’re just going to let you rest here for a few minutes and absorb some fluids.” Then she pulled a curtain around me and left me alone.

I woke up thinking that I really needed to drink more water.

I also really hope that this is not how my actual spa day is going to play out.

Oh, it must be that time of year when I have to be reminded to care for myself. I’m not talking about massages and bubble baths kind of care, but the basics. Drink water. Trim nails. Eat a green vegetable. Step away from the cheese. That last on is much harder than it sounds. Months ago I told Michael I wanted a cheese cake for my birthday. He replied “Oh, you want me to make you a cheesecake for your birthday?” and I said “No. I want a cake made out of wheels of cheese for my birthday.” Then Michael said “What?! Is that a thing?!” while googling it and discovering that yes it is a thing. The first layer is already sitting in the fridge because it was on sale at Whole Foods during Christmas. It didn’t hit me until I made our New Year’s Eve charcuterie board that I had asked for an exorbitant amount of cheese.

We will be freezing leftover birthday cheese cake.

I still stand one hundred percent behind my beliefs that making resolutions in January is a waste of time. No one is in a good headspace to start new projects or pick up the old projects. We’re all still recovering from our holiday gatherings and the clean up from those holiday gatherings. I started the New Year with yet another restructuring at work. It’s nothing bad, in fact it is a very good thing, but there’s a lot of new things and questions and weirdness. I’m losing my yoga space and I’m going to have to hunt down a new one. I thought this week, I’d work on consistency in my yoga practice, my walks and going back to torture class. I’m saying no to elevators and I’ve re-introduced a timed twenty minute eating time.

I’ve also had a liter and a half of water today.

I’m not setting any big goals for myself this year because some big goals have already been established for me. A manager of a downtown coffee place posted a request for local artists in a private Facebook group that Michael is part of. He sent her a link to my website and she contacted me last week about a May/June showing for my photography. I’ve been scared to say anything about it because the last time I was supposed to do something like this, the world shut down and I lost my commission. Also, it didn’t really feel legit since I didn’t do anything. She just went online and looked at my photography page. All I had to do was say ‘yes’. I confirmed the dates with the manager yesterday and I’ll go visit the space on Saturday, but I feel like I have all the photos I need to fill the walls. I just need to print and frame them.

I start to get a little bit hyperventally when I think about it, but then I remember all the preparation I’ve already done and how there is not that much left for me to do other than just print the pictures. Maybe if someone came to me and said “hey, we want to publish your book in October.”, I’d finish writing a book. Apparently this how I get things accomplished. I just need to set back and do nothing until someone tells me to do something.

Drink some water. Eat a green vegetable.

SOCIALLY CONSTRUCTED

Okay, I’m going to tell a story about a mishap with a Christmas present order, but I’m not going to name names because it all worked out and I generally like this company. Here’s what happened. Way back in early November, I got a notice that one of my favorite t-shirt places was having a big sale. So I thought “Oh! Christmas presents for the Cabbage!” They have a few of my older t-shirts from this place and they love them. I thought this would be easy and perfect. While I was browsing around, I came across a T-shirt that said “Gender Roles are a Social Construct” and yelped with glee and put it into my cart for the Cabbage. I ended up buying six T-shirts that day, three for the Cabbage and three for Michael. They arrived at the house two weeks later and I just left them in the bag. I figured I could wait to open the bag when I got ready to wrap gifts.

Cut to the night before Christmas.

I opened the bag of T-shirts and started to put Michael’s in one pile and the Cabbage’s in another. They were all there except one. The T-shirt I was most excited about, the Gender Roles T-shirt, was missing and in it’s place was a very bizarro and explicit T-shirt. It has the words ‘cum on me’ on the T-shirt, along with a name that I’m not using. I was stunned and I immediately went to Michael. I contacted customer service while he searched their website. I told customer service that I didn’t even think to check my order early because I have ordered many times from them and never had an issue. Then I had to wait until after the holiday to get a response. This left me plenty of time to stew and fret over the whole thing. We even searched the website and I don’t even think they sell this T-shirt. When customer service returned my message, they were immediately apologetic. They promptly sent out the correct shirt without question and told me to “destroy” the terrible T-shirt.

The fact that they used the words “destroy” really makes me believe that there was some malicious intent at play here.

Two of the t-shirts had planets holding hands on them, Michael’s T-shirts were all bicycle or scooter related. The Gender Roles T-shirt was the only one that someone might see has controversial or political. The more I think about it, the more I firmly believe that someone working in the warehouse the day my order was filled targeted my order because of that T-shirt. It’s possible the person thought they were real funny and maybe it could have been a funny prank if the shirt had said anything clever or funny. The phrasing on this shirt is intentionally malicious, as if this person felt like they were teaching me a lesson. It is a total cliche of toxic masculinity. Which is a concept that is also a social construct.

social construct: an idea that has been created and accepted by the people in a society - Webster’s Dictionary

Every thing is a social construct.

Michael thinks it was all just a simple mistake. He believes that robots fill the orders. He is not as jaded as I am or has had as many encounters with the type of men who like to degrade and mistreat women. And maybe he’s right. Maybe I am seeing more into this than what is truly there because of my encounters with those types of men. If this was intentional, it didn’t work. The Cabbage received their Gender Roles are a Social Construct T-shirt on Friday and was thrilled. They love it and wore it the next day. We went to a gathering of camp friends where everyone there told them how cool they looked and what a great shirt they were wearing.

And that’s how I’m training them to be their own Yoshimi, so that one day they can also fight evil natured robots.

IT'S ANOTHER NEW YEAR

As a little kid, I was always under the impression that something magical would happen when the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve, like we would be able to visually see the difference between the old and new year. I would do my best to stay awake. I’ve always been an early to bed, early to rise kind of gal. I don’t even think my parents had to enforce a bedtime, but if they did, New Year’s Eve was the one night they didn’t. Yet, I always ended up falling asleep on my Strawberry Shortcake quilt on the floor in front of the fire. Much like a dog. Dad would nudge me awake just in time for me to watch, with sleep blurred eyes, the chaos of Times Square as the count down to the new year ended on the television. Three, two, one…Happy New Year! and then I would toddle off to bed, dragging my quilt behind me. Eventually I’d reach an age for parties and celebrating the old year moving into the new would be just an excuse for excess food and drinks.

Those years when Chris and I celebrated the New Year at The Annual Flaming Lips New Year’s Eve Freakout where probably the best ones I’ve celebrated.

Despite the state of the celebration, I’ve usually carried with me some sort of hope of better for the New Year. This is something I’ve held onto since I was small. It falls into the whole belief that something magical will happen at midnight. The December I was maybe six or seven, Katrina lost her second child in childbirth. A sadness settled in on my family that holiday season that we probably still carry with us, like layers in the earth’s crust. If you dig down deep, you’ll find a thin layer of blackness representing that year. Christmas was celebrated that year in a very melancholy fashion. I can remember being scolded for plunking out Jingle Bells on the family piano. Christmas Joy was not permissible that year and when New Year’s Eve arrived, I built my nest in front of the fire with a bowl of snacks and a Muppets mug of root beer, determined to stay awake. My little six or seven year old heart new with all its might that moving into the new year would mean happiness for my family.

No and yes. My six or seven year old little heart had yet to understand the concept of time or how my core sample would end up containing many layers of blackness wedged between layers of good earth. My core sample is a kaleidoscope.

I went to bed just after midnight with the idea that I would get up in the morning and get on my yoga mat. I would start the New Year off right and jump into action of immediate change. I had cleaned the house the day before, taken down all of Christmas the day before that, and this left my schedule for New Year’s Day free and open to possibilities. I would use that time to get myself organized mentally for the self work I have planned for 2023. Part of that plan includes renewing my own yoga practice, but I rolled over in my bed and blinked at the sunlight streaming into my window, surprised that I’d slept late enough to have sunlight streaming in my window. I crawled out of bed, fed the animals and showered. I could have rolled out my mat then, but instead I made coffee and cleaned up the few dishes leftover from our night. Then I sat at my desk and cleared out my email inbox while sipping coffee. The day is early; I can still get on my mat at some point.

You see, I still have that hope for better that comes with a New Year. I’ve just lost the belief that the better and change happens immediately. The only thing magical about the transition from the old year to the new year is that we survived another rotation around the sun. Everything else takes time and patience. My goals are marathon goals and I spent all of last year learning new skills for managing my time while being kind to myself. I spent all of last year training for those marathon goals and this is the year to start running at a reasonable pace. So I’m easing in. Slowly. On my own time.

Happy New Year.

BLISSFUL IGNORANCE

Michael’s been talking about the weather for a week and I’ve been listening but not listening if you know what I mean. Then I had a friend cancel a lunch date and Terry moved the sock party from Thursday to Wednesday. Someone else said something about a storm and then I got a little shaky and woozy because I don’t think I planned our meals around snowy weather, which is what I get for only listening. I have a real bad habit of just ignoring the happenings of the world around me and just going about my business as if any of those said happenings are not going to impact my ability to go about my business.

To be fair, there was at least thirty four years of my life when I could get away with this mentality. If it snows or ices in Oklahoma, things just down and the whole do I or don’t I go to work question is answered for you. Meteorologists start screaming about the sky falling two weeks before hand and do a pretty decent job of putting the fear in you so that you have all the things you need to make French toast. The Meteorologists here are less YOU’RE GOING TO DIE IF YOU EVEN LOOK OUT THE WINDOW and more practical. They say things like make sure you have a decent supply if ice-melt and give yourself plenty of time to get from point A to point B and if you don’t really need to get from point A to point B, stay home. Now I have to decide if I need to get from point A to Point B. Since I tend to lean towards danger, I usually choose the worst possible scenario. Even though Michael says things like “I am not cleaning off your car or shoveling the drive way. You can stay home like a sensible human.” Though, he never says the sensible human part because he knows I’d punch him in the throat for saying it. Also, it makes him feel bad when I clean off my car by myself and shovel the driveway, but then I feel bad for making him do it.

It is a vicious circle.

Monday morning, the weather talk was getting to me and I texted Michael that I was freaking out about food, weather and my credit card (another blissfully ignorant thing I’ve got going). He told me that I would go to work on Tuesday. He said I would go to work on Wednesday, but probably come home early and Thursday we would most likely be Netflixing and chilling. Then I remembered we bought fancy cheeses at Whole Foods and I bought bread. We could make fancy grilled cheeses and I felt better because this felt like a real plan. He said some other reassuring things about my credit card and now, I think maybe I won’t lean towards the dangerous option for Thursday.

Winter is for real happening here this week. Be sure to gather your French toast ingredients sooner rather than later.

DREAM A LITTLE DREAM

Deborah sent out a group text to me and Amy describing a dream she’d had about Chris. It was a beautiful dream, a visit from a great supporter at a time in her life when she probably needed to hear the things he had to say to her. As I read her text though, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. It’s been a while since I have dreamed of Chris. In some ways, that’s good. My dreams of Chris are often not good ones. I am sure it’s because of my own projections of inadequacy and how I failed him in the end. Feelings only I have. I would still take this angry disappointed version of him visiting my dreams. There’s a part of me that relishes the abuse.

That night after Deborah’s text, I dreamed of Chris. We were making out in his dorm room. It was so real, like I wasn’t sleeping, but time traveling back to our early days. I could feel his lips touching mine, his tongue grazing over my teeth. The heat of our breath mingled together and it was delicious. There was no speaking, only touching and I woke up disappointed in not seeing his face next to me on the pillow. I thought about how two days before he died he asked me if that when I got home from work, we could have sex. I said yes. I said yes to everything he asked for then. I didn’t end up going to work that day and we did not have sex. Chris’s decline was quick. He was in no physical shape for it and I, recognizing that we only had hours left, was in no emotional state for it. Instead, I curled myself up next to him and cried while I waited for the hospice nurse to show up.

Coward

It was a craving for human touch that sent me into the world of online dating. All of those ridiculous dates and I could never bring myself to touch any of those men. None of them bold enough to make an approach. Except Michael, but he already had ideas that I was only online for the sex. Maybe that made him braver than all the others. I’ve never been good at initiating and I’m not ambitious. Chris and I probably would still be in friend zone if he hadn’t made the first move. It is quite the quandary to crave physical affection without being able to easily give physical affection. I’m polite….”no, you first.” The reality is that even now, I feel awkward and gangly and geeky and have no idea what to do with myself in a situation of want. Except freeze like I’ve been caught in headlights. Swerve or crash. It’s up to the one behind the wheel.

Intimacy is so much easier in written words. Safer. A better way to communicate. I feel like I lack the ability to verbally communicate in a way that the people around me understand what it is that I am really saying.

I’m better off writing letters.

THE RUSH

Saturday evening, I was finishing addressing Christmas cards while we watched Bullet Train, when Michael said “why haven’t we received any Christmas cards?!?” I paused to look at him and then responded with “Slow your roll. It’s only the third day of December.” Though, I do have to fess up and admit to feeling a little anxious about how time is flying by and it does sort of feel like Christmas is tomorrow. With the exception of some stocking stuffers, I am done with all of my Christmas present shopping responsibilities. There’s really nothing left for me to do but sit back and celebrate.

Except that’s not how my brain works.

Instead of just soaking in the joys of the holiday season, I’m already planning ahead for 2023. In fact, I feel as if I have already projected myself into the future. Kelly approached me last week to discuss co-teaching a yoga workshop in January. She asked me if I was qualified to teach continuing education hours and I had to go the Yoga Alliance website to figure it out. Turns out I have been doing this yoga thing long enough that I can now teach continuing education hours. I am a little bit floored by this and I am suddenly very aware of how my whole yoga teacher side gig may morph into some thing bigger in the next year or so. Since moving to Kansas City, I’ve had a fairly laisseze faire attitude towards teaching. I have been hesitant to accept teaching opportunities and strict with my imposed rule of teaching no more than two classes a week. I am committed to maintaining some teaching boundaries, but at the same time I might be ready to stretch out my boundaries.

Currently, the wheels in my head are turning around how I am going to fit the anatomy of the shoulder and hips, all the yoga strap modifications to support those joints and an hour of asana with a yoga strap into a three hour workshop. Then those wheels set in motion other wheels in my head on my future creative endeavors. I want to pursue some creative stuff, but I also don’t want to burn candles at both ends. How much do I really need to fill up each day and still leave room for rest. Because rest is the thing I really should be focusing on in this present moment. I am still sick. I have woken up three mornings in a row with a sore throat/ear situation and it is not from sleeping with my mouth open. I have the chew mark lines on the inside of my cheeks to prove it. It’s fine as long as I can peel myself out of bed. Once I’ve showered, used my Neti pot, and downed a shot of DayQuil, I’m good to go. I can get through the day with lots of lemon, honey and mint tea. Until sometime around 3:30. That’s usually when you’ll find me curled up under my desk at work.

But it’s fine.

Really.

I have yet to get around to erasing November from our dry-erase calendar and filling in all the things for December. I plan on sitting down this evening and doing this activity. I kind of have a feeling that just the action of acknowledging that the month of December is happening will anchor me more into the here and now. December is not a leap month. It is a month that deserves to be savored as we celebrate all the good things the year has brought us and reflecting on the not so good things. It is a month for soaking in as much light and warmth as we can in order to sustain us through the next few months of darkness and cold. It is a month for me to throw a stick into those turning wheels in my brain. My focus for this week is to do the bare minimum.

I might be able to manage that.

HOLIDAY. CELEBRATE.

This has been the most relaxed Thanksgiving Holiday since we were forced to isolate during the worst COVID year of 2020. Wednesday evening, after I’d finished making the pies to take over to Terry’s, Michael made Korean Fried chicken for our dinner. Then we decided to never fry anything every again. The end. Thursday morning, I attended, and ended up assisting, a Deep Stretch Yoga class taught by Kelly and hosted by Co-op Fitness. We were not expected at Terry’s until four that afternoon and the only thing I had to do was put my tofurkey in the oven.

We spent our Thanksgiving evening at Terry’s where I absorbed as much laughter and love as I could and drank way too much gin. I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, ate a piece of apple pie for breakfast and then went grocery shopping. I went to Aldi and there was no one there. Grocery shopping has never been easier. It was wonderful. Then we went to IKEA and it was the SAME. Deserted! Which never happens on any afternoon. We had to walk backwards through that store twice (don’t ask) and there was no feeling of swimming against traffic. Our next stop was Costco and that place was just as dead as IKEA and for once, I didn’t nearly go insane trying to maneuver our cart up down the isles. Our errand run went so well on Friday, that I came home and set up most of our Christmas. All I had left to do on Saturday was hang stockings, set up my outside Christmas elephant, and finish up the laundry. As luck would have it, my Christmas cards arrived and I got all of them addressed (mostly…I had to place another order).

Sunday was left completely free. There was nothing that needed to be done and I chose to spend my time watching Wednesday on Netflix while working on my lesson plan for a six week beginning yoga series. Then, I spent an hour and half on my yoga mat and ruined a pot of beans (it was the bean and I’m not ready to talk about it). It was such a great holiday that I decided to extend it for a day because the cold that the Cabbage passed to Michael, finally made it to me. Last night it felt like Michael and I were competing for who had the loudest cough. He’s winning.

Today’s Facebook memory was from ten years ago.

I just blew a snot bubble out my nose. I think I should put this as a skill in my online dating profile.

So, really nothing has changed. Or at least not much.

This is the last week of the second to the last month of this year and I have mixed feelings. I have no desire to think about any of the things I did not accomplish this year. At the same time, I don’t really feel like bragging about the things I did accomplish this year. I don’t want to go on about how the month of December feels busy and rushed. There’s not that much more on my calendar for the month of December then there was for any other month this year. Every year is like a giant pot of soup of my own making and I’m really good at making soup (ignoring the whole beans incident; not all beans cook like beans). My soups are guaranteed to have onions, garlic, mixed vegetables and vegetable broth. The rest of the ingredients vary depending on availability and mood. It always turns out to be delicious and satisfying. The same can be said about each year. My perspective in regards to calendar obligations has shifted.

And that’s probably my biggest accomplishment.

IN SEARCH OF SOME MOXIE

Years ago, on one of Chris and I’s many adventures to Pop’s, we stumbled across Moxie Cherry Cola. Pop’s is a famous Route 66 attraction in Oklahoma. Their claim to fame is their selection of obscure and bizarre sodas. If I remember correctly, this trip took place before Pixar released Up and I gravitated to that particular soda because of the name. I remember holding it up for Chris and saying “I’ve got Moxie!” He chuckled and then we both bought a bottle of their Cherry Cola.

I am not, nor have every been, much of a soda drinker. For the first thirteen years of my life, soda was mostly off limits in our household and by the time I was old enough to choose for myself, I lacked an acquired taste for it. Occasionally I crave a Coke but then I’ll take two or three slurps of it and will not want any more of it. Chris and Todd were wandering Walmart right when Coke released those little cans of soda. Todd looked at them and scoffed “Who’s going to drink this tiny amount of Coke?!?!” Chris immediately replied “Cindy. Those cans were made for Cindy.” I can’t even finish one of those. About the only soda I will finish these days is a Mexican Coke and it will take me a long time to finish that bottle.

That Moxie Cherry Cola was the best cherry cola I had ever tasted and if given the opportunity, I would always have a supply of them in my fridge.

This is the thing I look for every time we wander into a specialty soda shop or candy store. I walk past all the cherry mashes and slow pokes and make a beeline for the soda isles. Then I scan them for Moxie. That first Moxie might have been my last because I have not found a cherry cola Moxie since. Soon after we saw Up, Chris made me bottle cap pin like the one Ellie gives Carl when they first meet. He used a Moxie bottle cap and it’s been pinned to whatever daily bag I’m using ever since. He was always Ellie.

On our way home from Rockaway Beach, Michael drove out of the way to take us all to Redmon’s Candy Factory and the World’s Largest Gift Shop, a warehouse filled with keychains, magnets and t-shirts. Michael and The Cabbage made it into the candy shop before me because I was outside taking pictures. By the time I made it in, they were already onto the second isle. I walked right to the sodas. Michael saw me and said “They don’t have it. I already looked.” Now he’s in on my quest for Moxie Cherry Cola. Sometimes I wonder if there’s been a role reversal. I’m no longer Carl, but maybe an Ellie.

No…I’m still a Carl. The difference is that I’ve become the version of Carl at the end of the movie. Chris will always be an Ellie.

WE ALL HAVE TO GROW UP SOMETIME

Traci contacted me last week to ask if I’d take Quinn’s senior pictures. My immediate response was a mixed bag of being unqualified to take these pictures and internal weeping because how is it possible that this kid is graduating high school?!? I swallowed those feelings and struck a deal with Traci. I would take the pictures for free, edit them and then give them a folder of images to choose and have prints made. She countered the deal with an okay, but we’re going to this fancy ten course dinner place afterwards. We are good at negotiations.

They met me in Tulsa where I had traveled to visit with Mom and we roamed around the Gathering Place while I snapped pictures of Quinn. I took well over three hundred pictures and his eyes were closed in probably two hundred and fifty of them. There was a lot to catch up on since we hadn’t spent time together in almost a year. We swapped life stories while Quinn mugged for the camera. Occasionally, Traci and I would give each other a side eye before making fun of his duck face pose. Yes…duck face is not just for the females and a more experienced portrait photographer would have been able to give this lanky man child better things to do with his face and hands. Even if I was an experienced portrait photographer, I would have been distracted by how it was possible that this human was mostly all grown up.

I have so many stories of this person as a small human. Chris and I were right on the other side of the door to his delivery room and were some of the first people to meet him on his first day on this planet. I have such a clear memory of Traci’s Chris holding this bundled newborn up for us all to witness. Quinn’s head was perfectly rounded and made for those little knitted baby caps. He looked back at us with one squinty eye, like Popeye. Chris was Quinn’s manny from the time he was a tiny baby until we moved to Kansas City. On the Saturday mornings when Chris was working, I’d run errands and then grab breakfast or lunch to take over to Traci’s house. Then Chris and I would watch Quinn poke food into his mouth for over an hour or we’d take him to the Bass Pro Shop to see ‘catfish’. We watched countless hours of Cars and Finding Nemo. We spent every Halloween at their place handing out candy to what felt like thousands of kids or walking the neighborhood trick-or-treating. Tantrums, laughs, snotty noses, I’ve experienced them all.

Traci had made reservations at FarmBar, a place that does a ten course tasting menu, the kind of place I wouldn’t ever think to take a teenager. But Quinn is pretty culinarily adventurous and willing tried each dish that was placed in front of us. There was no need to prod or beg him to just try a bite. The dinner was good, some dishes better than others, but the thing that made this dinner the best was Quinn’s commentary on all of the dishes. If Chris left any kind of imprint on this kid, it was his dry wit and sense of humor. The Kanpachi crudo of shiso ganita and charred onion was described as a “vegetable snow cone” which was not far from the truth. We were five or six courses in before Quinn declared that he hadn’t even used his napkin yet and while waiting on course six, he said “they’re probably back there whipping up one mushroom for the four of us.” And we laughed so dang much.

Quinn has a job and a girlfriend. He’s taking college courses and plans on going to nursing school, like his parents. He’s debating between Japan and Mexico for his senior trip. I told him to pick Japan. He still has that squinty brown eye, though his other eye is hazel. He is taller than all of us. He has Chris’s sense of humor and skill for delivering the perfectly timed, sarcastically dry line.

I bet that skill gets him farther than he can even imagine.

FAULT LINES

I went to bed at 9:00 pm, but woke from a dream where I had a Christmas wreath stuck on my head and raccoons where trying to get into the house. That was at 10:30. I fell back to sleep and into a strange world where I was captured by evil aliens who tossed me into a mud pit. I emerged from the pit transformed into a small pig like animal and I woke to the sound of my own voice saying “This is all my fault.” You know how people tend to put the blame on anything but themselves? I am the opposite.

Climate change.

Cancer

Wars

Brain diseases

I don’t recycle enough or well. I don’t take enough action or push for hard discussions that might really need to happen. I haven’t cured cancer or even how to see it in the one I love. I haven’t stopped any bombs or put up much of a fight. I am supposed to be able to hold it all together. I should be able to hold it all together. Wonder Woman is on my wall. Not just because Jen painted it. Not just because it is an amazing piece of art. No; its because she’s fierce and strong and when I look at this painting, it becomes my mirror. As if I have the power to stop, change or fix any of the above. Yes, I know this is unrealistic. I know that I am not the reason for all the suffering of and on this planet.

Yet, there’s always that nagging little voice saying “you could have done more.”

After making sure I had all of the things done that I usually do on Sundays, I drove to my local CVS and got my COVID booster. I purposefully scheduled it for Saturday afternoon because that would leave me with Sunday and Monday to deal with the side effects. I spent Sunday mostly not moving from my bed. Monday was better. At least I showered, but the day was spent mostly not moving from the couch. Even as I sat there soaking in all of season one of The Empress, I shook my head at myself for being so dang lazy. Surely there was a closet to be cleaned out or something to be organized. I mean, I had the house all to myself. It was a holiday that felt like a sick day because Michael did not have the day off. I had ample opportunities and still I did nothing. I didn’t even walk the dog or get on my yoga mat.

Now I’m spending my week soaking in a tub of guilt.

Someday I will write about why am this way. I will place blame on something for the blame I place on myself. You probably won’t be surprise where I point my finger. I’ll point and then add in that I could have chosen to ignore the conditioning, thus turning it back around to it all being my own fault. The nun I was in a past life was pious and devout. Her scars were deep from self flagellation, so deep they transcended lives. I can feel them back there, tight itchy ropes of flesh. I can trace the ones on my shoulder blades. I slather the scars I can reach with coco butter and Arnica gel until I forget or fall out of habit of caring for myself, like forgetting to clip my toenails until I rip holes in my socks.

Someday I won’t need to write about why am this way.

STUFF THE INTERNET THINKS I NEED RIGHT NOW

I feel like this should be a reoccurring post. Like maybe once a month or so, I’ll give you an update on the ads that flow into all of my social media feeds. Most recently, the Internet believes that I desperately need new bras. This is probably true. I do tend to wear one bra until it is falling apart and even then, I will continue to patch it back together with string, staples, and/or gorilla glue. In return, I am inundated with videos of women of various ages and sizes jumping up and down in a bra. Every time I open Facebook, my timeline becomes work inappropriate. So, the added benefit here is that I just don’t go to Facebook during the day.

Now I will straight up admit that some of the advertising coming my way is my own fault. Yes, I have googled “weight loss + menopause”. I am not menopausal, but I was curious and planning ahead. I am considered perimenopausal and thought that might have something to do with my weight and mood. Which it does, but there’s very little scientific journal articles regarding this topic. This leaves me wide open for all the snake oil ads for losing weight after a certain age. My favorite ones are videos of senior citizens doing jazzercise. I have managed to convince the interwebs that I am indeed sixty five years old. I get all the ads for leak proof under things, as well as all the anti-aging miracles and magic vitamins. Most recently, mushroom coffee has taken an aggressive lead over magic vitamins.

By far, my favorite ads are centered around campers and camp gear. These ads are one hundred percent my fault. Ever since we decided to get rid of our camper, I’ve been window shopping for the next thing. I have a list of wants in mind and I can waste a lot of time scrolling through camper layouts. I’m really leaning towards a van because I want something I could use on my own. I have a growing list of needs and wants. It must include a bathroom. It must be easy to pack and maneuver about. It must be reasonably priced. Of course, this is all subject for change since the list of needs and wants go beyond a new camper. A new driveway. A new kitchen. There’s always something.

Except mushroom coffee. I’d like to think I’m sane enough to never fall for that one.

WAFFLES

The landscape between home and the Cabbage’s school is blanketed with trees. When I drove out there last week to take them to the dentist, the sky was overcast and there was a light rain hitting my windshield. The temperature was somewhere between cool and warm. I looked out at the usual sea of green and started to notice hints of yellows and golds. I was not pleased. Later, I was talking about this to coworkers when of them suggested that some of our yellows and golds could be due to drought. That was only mildly reassuring because I looked at the calendar and September is not far from being at its end. Tomorrow is officially the first day of Fall. A cold front is moving in this evening to kick things off.

As always, I am not ready.

September is hard. I want Summer to last forever. I want heat and sun and popsicles and endless scooter riding days. This week, when I have walked into the office in the mornings, I have noticed a shift in the light. It is the beginning of rainbow season, the time of year that the angle of the sun produces rainbows on our walls as it bounces off the edge of our glass cubicles. I remember now that I love rainbow season and I’m always taking pictures of my desk toys with rainbows, me with rainbows coming out of my ears. The changing leaves really are spectacular here. The reds and oranges in particular. They have a way of catching the light so that they appear as flames. Eleven years here and I’m still stunned and amazed, pointing out their spectacular beauty during every car ride, pulling over to take more pictures. And I like decorating for Halloween. Googly eyes on pumpkins are hilarious.

Transitions between seasons is a kind of death. There is a mourning period for what must be lost or sacrificed in order to move on to the next season. As Spring moves into Summer, I mourn the loss of the tulips and the new bursts of color while I welcome the heat, the lightening bugs and the buzzy sounds of that season. I find myself mourning the loss of those things now as we move into Fall and as Fall moves into Winter, I will mourn the loss of color. Winter is a full season of mourning for me. This is why I grasp so firmly to last days of Summer and resist the move into chillier weather.

I know what is coming.

I rode my scooter to work today, probably the last time this year without the need of a jacket. Michael told me that it was going to rain today, but I took a chance and rode the scooter anyway. Weather predictions say that the rain is not expected until this evening. I am willing to take this risk because I don’t know how many scooter days are even left for this year. So I’m soaking up as much joy and heat while I still can.