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Walking Alone For Awhile

I’ve been thinking a lot about a favorite quote from Ram Dass: “We’re all just walking each other home.”

I see many interpretations of that quote, and I’ve always loved it, even though I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Honestly, I didn’t give it much thought because I liked the way it sounded. To me it has always meant that we’re in this together. We are all heading in the same general direction. We may walk side by side for awhile, or our paths may diverge, but we’re all going to the same place, so the least we can do is be there for each other as we make progress.

Recently, though, I’ve felt tired. I could blame it on winter, or age, or too much work. Am I expecting my body to still keep the pace it always has? Isn’t it logical to want to slow down at my age? I’m feeling the years, or the miles, as my funny daughter says. I suspect the exhaustion comes from our many attempts. My soul is tired, as I think hers may very well be, even if she’s only 21 in this go ’round. If we are working at it – and I do believe that is our soul’s purpose – then we will get tired.

How should we walk each other home? How much is required of us, and how much might we expect from fellow travelers? Is it up to me to drag you along if you aren’t keeping up? (For that matter, who am I to determine that you aren’t keeping up?) Is it up to you to drag me if I’m lagging behind? Of course not, on both counts, but I often forget that, especially when I’m tired. I know we all get to go at our own pace. Am I still a good person if I’m too tired to be there for you? Gee, *said facetiously* I wonder which spiritual teaching convinced me that always doing for others is what makes us a good person?

Do I have to be continuously walking? Can I just sit on the side of the road in the sun for a bit, and catch up on some reading and screen my calls? Would Dass be okay with that? Why do I even care what he would think?

Perhaps I’m fickle for prescribing to whatever approach appeals to me at a particular time, lacking loyalty to a guru or spiritual teacher for the duration. It got me to this point, didn’t it? It’s my process, and if switching philosophical/mystical/spiritual teams gets me to the next point, then all that matters is that I’m making progress. As long as I’m loyal to my progress, I can change up the method as many times as I like. If one approach is no longer serving, it’s time to try a new approach.

I’m learning that this experimental approach puts me in a position to meet new people. I’ve certainly met some interesting folks who’ve taught me important lessons along the way, but I’m feeling the need to slow down and process those lessons. Perhaps the tired is from an overload of too many messages/lessons.

Speaking of gurus, I’m pretty sure Abraham Hicks would say that I’m forgetting to have fun with the process. I think I moved on from his approach because it seemed, to me anyway, that I should be working harder instead of just having fun. (That probably comes from the same spiritual teaching that I referenced earlier.) Come to think of it, Dass basically says we’d do well to relax and enjoy the ride. I see pictures of the guy and he usually looks happy, and so does Esther Hicks.

What about you? Have you been feeling more tired than usual? Have you been dragging someone along the path, or have you felt as though you need some dragging? A smart someone recently told me, “Sometimes help is not.” Whether we are attempting to help or being helped, is it always helpful? Would we do better to take a break or focus our efforts on ourselves?

The dormancy of winter will end soon. I can already see the greening of the hill across the street. My energy will surge again, as much as the grass will grow, and I’ll be ready to do the work – in the yard and on myself.

Right now, though, I need to slow down and walk by myself for awhile.

I’ll be back.

Take good care.

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You Have One Job

Yes, Christmas is 8 days away and I have a massive to-do list. Maybe, like me, you’ve managed to cut back on a lot of the holiday prep and even dodged some expectations, but you still feel weighed down with whatever it is that comes with this page of the calendar.

It’s getting dark at 4:30 where I am, and by 7:30 I’m ready to go to bed. I check my list and move the things I didn’t get done to tomorrow, but tomorrow’s list is already jammed. There isn’t any room to add anything left from today, let alone something unexpected, and now I’m feeling like I want to go to bed by 7:00. While I tell myself that it always gets done, and it’s never not gotten done, I keep feeling like there’s something I’ve forgotten to add to the list.

It was when I was thinking about writing this post that it came to me, as it often does when I’m about to sit down to write.

I have one job.

Love myself.

That’s my one job.

I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes when I typed, “Love myself.” (Insert puking emoji.) That statement is so sappy. It’s so cliche. I don’t know what you think of when you read it, but just typing that makes me want to close my laptop and find a juicy podcast and go for a walk to avoid thinking about me or myself or (gag) loving myself. I watched a sweet Hallmark Christmas movie last night (is it me or is every currently popular movie full of graphic violence and sex) and even that wasn’t as sappy as typing, “Love myself.”

Why is it a knee-jerk reaction to be disgusted whenever I even conceive of the notion of loving myself? My therapist says it’s because I have an ingrained aversion to narcissism, and she suggests that even being kind to myself makes me feel like I’m moving further along the narcissism spectrum – in the wrong direction.

What comes up when you consider the possibility of loving yourself or being kinder to yourself, or even attempting to not say disparaging things about yourself to yourself? You know how it goes. You come home from a gathering and lecture yourself about all the “dumb” things you think you said, even though, if you polled the folks at the party, they can’t remember you saying anything dumb, mostly because they are fixated on all the dumb things they think they said. Or you get home from a meeting and chastise yourself for wearing a skirt, instead of the “safer” choice – a black pair of slacks.

We all have a continuously looping playlist of our perceived failures. When everyone else shares their Spotify* Wrapped, you don’t because topping your list is a self-made pod listing all your failings, in chronological order, going as far back as 1977. I can’t remember the name of the guy that sat next to me in 8th grade science, but I can perfectly describe the stupid outfit I was wearing the day he finally struck up a conversation with me.

Call it negativity bias or a toxic case of self-doubt, but why is it we instinctively think the worst of ourselves? Why don’t I love myself the way I love my kids? Why don’t I look at myself the way I look at Will and marvel at his sense of humor or his dedication to his friends or the way he can see through crap to get at what is really going on. Why can’t I appreciate myself the way I am so impressed by how Jen tackles her studies, or navigates her social life or never loses sight of her goals or continuously, but gently, challenges herself.

I do know how we learn what love is. And I’m not naive about how our attitude about self is developed. I know about the lizard brain and attachment theory and generational trauma. I don’t need another counseling session to be reminded of the importance of practicing mindful self-compassion. Heck, Jen has been telling me, since she was 8, to be nicer to myself. At this point, I need to start doing it!

If I can stick with Duolingo for 327 days in a row, why can’t loving myself become another daily practice like walking, drinking water, lifting my little 2-pound weights to hopefully prevent the onset of osteoporosis, even though I sure haven’t avoided “turkey wobble” arms. (See! I did it again. Even when writing about loving myself, I can’t avoid being critical of myself.) It’s societal. Whatever damage wasn’t finished in the familial setting, society makes damn sure to finish off by constantly showing us how we are coming up short.

So, I changed my personal podcast to sound something like:

“Wow, look how strong you are. You walk 3 miles every day. (Well, most days. I walk on the treadmill when there have been mountain lion sightings on my street – I live in town! – and I can’t do 3 miles on my treadmill without dying of boredom.) You always get everything (that matters) done. You love your kids and your garden and your friends. You love your messy life – most days. You are doing great! It’s okay to disappoint and fail to please others. It’s okay to change and grow and leave some behind, but DO NOT leave yourself behind.”

Some days I even look in the mirror and say, “So what about your arms. They held two beautiful babies, they painted the whole house, they shovel every inch of snow and they lift cast iron pans almost every day. Give them a break! They have done their best and they continue to do their best, just as you do.”

And today, if the pod runs out when I have 6 blocks to go, I’ll remind myself that I have one job. Even if it feels icky to write it. (Insert that little green emoji that looks like it’s about to barf.) I do have one job. My job is to love myself. At the end of this life, I’m all I’ve got. I could spend all that energy pleasing and loving others, but what will I have when they are gone and I’ve forgotten to love myself?

You have one job, too. Not trying to add another thing to your to-do list here, but I’m learning that this is the most important thing. Everything else will get done a little easier if you start with this one thing. Love yourself.

And while I’m being sappy (said to myself in a sweet way, not a critical way), what would happen to this world if we all loved ourselves first? Not like the Musks or Rogans of the world (I suspect their behaviors are coming from scary deep wells of self-doubt), but like healthy people. You know that toxic self-doubt has to leak out at some point. You know you’ve been the recipient of another’s unintended pressure-release of self-doubt. Is it possible to reach a point where extreme healthy self-love prevents us from hurting others? Imagine the healing in this world if that could happen.

Love yourself, please. See you next year.

*I got rid of Spotify because of Joe Rogan. (Insert another puking emoji here.)

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The Ivy-Covered Imaginary Wall

She’d cried the first time she’d walked into the house. It would be the perfect home for this new chapter. The house they were leaving was certainly larger and newer, but this new address made up for a lack of square footage and new appliances with acceptance, warmth, the hoped-for ability to sleep through the night and a fenced back yard.

It wasn’t an impenetrable fence. Squirrels, bunnies and neighborhood cats could gain access, but dogs could not. In fact, one neighbor’s cat, after squeezing under the fence, liked to peer in the sliding glass door to try to strike up a friendship with the resident cat. This usually culminated in the two feisty felines body-slamming the sliding door in an effort to prove who was the most fearsome. (This was good exercise for the indoor cat, and an excellent way for the outdoor cat to stay warm.)

The years passed as they want to do, and this little home showed itself to be the haven she’d wished for. Oh, there were bumps and bruises along the way, but the three of them (plus cat) had always found a safe place to land under the roof and within the fenced back yard. They’d heal their wounds and talk of their slights and remind each other that it always works out.

Part of the reason it always worked out was because in between homeschooling, baking cookies and cranking out homemade pasta; after carving pumpkins, figuring out the new job and scheduling the dentist and vet appointments; before one left for college and after the other hurt himself too many times at the job that built his confidence, she’d been methodically building an imaginary wall around the house and yard. This wall was a borderline even though she was the only one who could see it. It was six feet high and made of stone. Over 17 years, Engleman Ivy had grown over the wall and, this time of year, if they hadn’t already gotten a heavy snow, the leaves were crimson and crackly.

She hadn’t planned for the wall to be this tall. When she’d first started the build, she figured a four-foot wall would certainly provide the protection she felt she needed. She wanted the cats and squirrels and bunnies to still have access. The cats had no problem jumping the four feet and perching on the top of the wall. They’d sit for hours on sunny days pretending to doze but really looking for birds. The squirrels and bunnies used the arched doorway that had long ago been hidden under the overgrown ivy. She’d intentionally built a doorway and included a solid wood door that was six inches thick. By now the hinges were rusty and the lock had yet to be used. The door was propped open, and the ivy prevented it from swinging shut.

More recently, with the arrival of unwanted intruders, she’d had to extend the height to six feet. The ivy had no problem getting to work and hiding the addition. It was hungry to stretch its “legs” and thrilled to have more surface to cover with its tendrils. Still, she hadn’t felt the need to close and lock the door. She’d always figured that was a last resort. It helped her sleep knowing she had the option to close the door if she needed to. (Even her counselor had mentioned that boundaries aren’t permanent, they can be flexible and change just as life changes.)

And so it was that a day came along, just as the leaves had turned that dark shade of red, right before the first snow, when the cats had been particularly aggressive in their body slams at the sliding glass door. She’d been feeling stretched and pulled in too many directions. She’d lost interest in the things she loved. The candle needed more than the two ends. She woke in the night and remembered that she could close the door in the wall. The next morning, after that first cup of coffee, she put on her boots and grabbed the coat she’d put in the closet last April, which was really too soon, since they always seemed to get one more snow before spring staked her claim.

She grabbed a pair of trimmers and slowly, apologetically started cutting away at the Engleman Ivy that had been anchoring the wooden door to the wall. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she snipped, “You’ll grow back in no time.” A black cat sneaked through the doorway to watch her progress. Squirrel jumped down from his precarious perch on a sunflower stalk to see if he could snack on the ivy clippings. She turned to wave at indoor cat who was standing at the sliding door making sure all knew who was in charge. Once the ivy was cleared away, she’d tried to pull the door closed. The hinges, having been unused for so many years, had forgotten how to do their job. She remembered she had a can of WD40 under the kitchen sink. As she walked into the house, squirrel and black cat ran off to find something more interesting. Indoor cat met her at the door and mewed her questions. She answered with a couple treats for the queen and said, “I’ll be right back.”

The oil did the trick, and with some effort, she was able to get the door closed. Now to find the key for the lock. Would it be in the tool shed, the potting shed or a kitchen drawer? After much hunting and asking cat if she knew where the key was, she found the key hanging from a nail in the tool shed. Unlike the hinges, this key had been wanting to do its job for some time – one turn and a click, and the door was locked.

She went back in the house, put the water on for coffee and took off her boots. “It had to be done,” she said to cat. “Your buddy has never used the doorway anyway. Bunnies can dig a hole underneath the wall and squirrels never have an issue getting into where they want to be. It always works out, remember?”

That night she was able to sit on the couch and read for an hour. (Lately, she’d had a hard time concentrating). Weirdly, she hadn’t felt the need to pour a glass of wine. She sensed a familiar peace settle within the four walls, a peace she remembered from the first time she’d walked into the house. And the sleep? She slept like bears do when they hibernate. She slept like cats do when they find a sunny spot.

And so, the door would stay locked, and the ivy would grow. One day she might decide to clear away the ivy and open it back up, or she might not.

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Worry Them Home

I remember my dad and his siblings teasing their mom about being such a worry wart. It confused me because, even back then, I perceived my grandma’s worrying as just her way of loving us. As I got older, I understood why they were annoyed.

So many questions.

So nosey.

I’d often think, “Quit worrying about me and leave me alone,” as I rolled my eyes and refused to share the details of my escapades.

I do not remember her ever getting defensive when they gave her a hard time about worrying, she just kept at it. She wore her worrying like a cloak or a badge of honor. She didn’t hide it or sugar coat it. She was in their faces (and mine) about her worries. I do wonder if, because of how my dad and some of his siblings turned out, maybe my grandma hadn’t been worrying enough.

I’m not going to get into how those were different times, and they required different styles of parenting. Did anyone worry about their parenting style back then? I’m sure my grandma wasn’t worrying about whether she was doing a good job, she was just wanting to make sure they stayed out of jail.

Recently, on what had started out as a lazy Sunday morning, Will came running out of his bedroom pulling on a t-shirt and grabbing his boots. He’d just gotten a text from a friend who’d told him that the girlfriend of a mutual friend had texted to say that her boyfriend (a member of Will’s friend group) had not returned from camping when he said he would. Texts weren’t answered. Voicemails had not come in. She was panicked. Will and some members of the friend group had decided to rally and drive out to the mountains where this friend was supposed to be camping. Will was shaky and I warned him to take it easy and make a plan, so that he and others in the group weren’t at risk of harm while they looked out for the missing camper. “Remember,” I told him, “Manifest a positive outcome. Don’t dwell on the what-ifs, unless you are focusing on only the good what-ifs.”

They were 30 minutes from town, just before losing cell service, when he got a text that the friend was almost back to town. The friend was embarrassed to admit that he and his girlfriend had gotten their wires crossed and miscommunicated about his return time. Then the friend said, “Were you guys really coming to look for me?” After giving the camper a hard time for scaring the shit out of them, Will said, “Of course we were coming to look for you.” The friend was surprised that his group cared enough to drop everything and look for him.

Later, Will and I talked about how the Universe will go to great lengths to show folks they are loved. I laughed, “Geez, couldn’t you just tell each other that you love each other?” I like seeing his group worrying about each other. It reinforces that fact that he has found good friends.

Worry has gotten a bad rap. It wasn’t cool (way back in the 70s) to be a worry wart. It’s not cool now, either. Today, worry warts are called helicopter moms or hovering parents. I can see that there are less annoying ways to worry than my grandma’s style, and I do try to worry without being all up in their business. Of course, if you asked them, they might not agree.

The other day, out for my morning walk, I discovered this baby bottle lying on the side of the road. My mind jumped to all the hovering mom conclusions or, some might say, judgments. “That poor child! Who is in charge? How does that even happen?” On and on my brain went, circling around all the possibilities of how horrible this baby’s life must be if it’s parent/parents can’t even keep track of its bottle. (Why I didn’t first go to, “Wow. Bummer, the bottle was lost, but at least this baby was being fed,” is a whole different post.)

Then I got to noticing how worried I was about the baby, and how futile worry is. What was my worrying accomplishing? Did it help that baby any? Then I wondered if folks are less worried about others than they were in my grandma’s day. Do folks care about each other as much as they did back then?

Isn’t worry a form of love? Worry is caring. Worry might even be a form of manifesting. Will told me that he and his two buddies talked about focusing on their friend driving into town, as they were heading into the mountains, instead of focusing on the worst possible scenario. When I’m worried about one of my two, I picture them calling me. I picture Jen calling, from the safety of her apartment, to tell me all about her night out. Or I picture Will calling to tell me of the big catfish he caught, when he was on a river out of cell service. I’ll admit that sometimes, especially if I haven’t eaten, I’ll spiral into all the negative what-ifs, but I am getting better at not sharing all those with Jen and Will.

Worry might be the ripple we send out to the Universe that says make sure they get home safely. But the tone of the worry matters. Worry doesn’t need to judge the parents for losing the baby bottle. Worry can, and should, focus on that baby’s healthy future. Maybe something like, “Oh, I hope they had another bottle in the car.” Or, “I bet it fell out of the stroller as the parent was walking the baby and their puppy.”

In the absence of being able to do anything for others, including that baby, the least we can do is send a ripple out to the Universe and worry them home.

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LTSG – Let That Shit Go

This is my new mantra. Or, more accurately, when I remember that I have a new mantra, this is the one.

Today I learned that an extended family member came to town and didn’t get in touch. Initially, I was a bit hurt. Why didn’t she call or text? What did I do? Why wasn’t I on her list of folks to see while she was here? While I was in the shower, I remembered: Let That Shit Go! (Also, Jesse, remember that the last time she was in town, you weren’t excited about getting together, anyway.)

As the member of the extended family who struggles the most with sweeping things under the rug, I often find that I’m not invited to family gatherings. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry. We assumed you had other plans.” Or another favorite, “The last few times we invited you, you couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t come.” The family Black Sheep needs a poster on her bathroom door that says, “Let That Shit Go!”

When the last social function you went to was attended by library-supporting, long hippie skirt wearing, single women of a certain age, and you wonder why you rarely go out, or why it is that you have found your tribe and it’s nothing like you thought your tribe would be, remember to Let That Shit Go. Let go of those ridiculous expectations of where you thought your life would be right now, or who you thought you’d be spending it with. Besides, those ladies need to have someone to pass the baton to. Accept that baton proudly and with grace. Embrace your patchouli-scented tribe and carry on!

When someone comments that you spend way too much time with your kids and should work on getting a life outside of being a mom (and a dad), give them the side eye and LTSG.

Also, when your kids have issues with their vehicles and you get pissed because their “dad” is clueless and/or rarely checks in on them, LTSG and be glad that he rarely checks in on them because he’d stir up the pot, criticize them for how they handle these grown-up issues, and then give them the silent treatment for not having called or texted him more often. (As you remember, Jesse, he thinks the heavy lifting in the parenting game should be handled by the child, not the parent.) Let That Shit Go!

When you get told that you aren’t doing enough, LTSG.

When you are told that you should do it better, LTSG.

When you are passive aggressively informed that you fail to meet expectations, LTSG. And let them go while you are at it.

When your wardrobe and your yard and your car and your house and even (Goddesses forbid) your kids and your life are not like everyone else’s, LET THAT SHIT GO! (To be clear, I’m not advocating that you let your life and your kids and all that other stuff go. Let the comparisons go! You knew that, right?) It can get pretty quiet over here doing things differently than other folks. Get comfortable with the quiet path. Let the noise and commotion of the well-worn path be for others.

Also, the whole taking things personally? Yeah. I’m trying to Let That Shit Go, too.

Today I’m letting all that shit go. I’m heading out to watch all the bees happily bobbing from one blossom of clover to the next in my unconventional little private funky haven of a backyard.

*I got this cool poster at Society 6. It really is mounted on my bathroom door.

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Believe In Your Fabulousness

Or at least try loving yourself more.

I woke in the night with the lyrics from Miley Cyrus’s song, Flowers, running through my head. I can’t explain it. I hear it on the radio when I’m going from here to there. (Side note: I am hesitant to come to terms with the fact that I might get better sleep if I gave up on my one nightly adult beverage. Damn. Can that one drink really be the cause of my colorful dreamlife?) Anyway, Cyrus’s song makes me think of what I was recently telling Jen: If you have to use even one breath to convince him that you are spectacular, he is NOT the guy for you.

Yes. I do know that I’m not an expert on all things having to do with relationships, but I am a romantic, and I do read enough memes to have a vague notion about such things. Memes make us experts, right?

By the way, just because I wrote a couple books about getting out of a narcissistic relationship, and I passionately announced to the Universe that, “I AM GOOD ENOUGH,” that does not mean that I don’t still struggle with getting out of the “lack of self-confidence” groove. Blame it on a long winter, or too much time on my hands, but that groove is deep! This morning, when I woke with those lyrics still nagging me, I got to thinking, “What do I do to love me better?” That’s a weird sentence to type. It feels self-centered. About the time I start thinking something feels self-centered, that’s the time I need to focus on that groove I’ve spent too damn many years trying to jump. (Jesse, accept that the groove no longer serves you – if it ever did – and get the hell out of there!)

IT IS NOT SELF-CENTERED TO LOVE YOURSELF! It is essential!

What do you do to love yourself? Whatever it is, you don’t need to justify it. You don’t need permission. Don’t make excuses. Don’t think your way has to be like another’s way. I’ve noticed that those who denigrate other’s interests are often the most lacking in self-love. I used to be that way. (Honestly, I still fight this.) For example, I’m not a manicure person. But it’s none of my business if that’s what you love – if that’s how you express your love of self. All the amazing ways of expressing self-love make the world a beautiful place. Get the tats, the piercings, the clothes, and the haircuts. Whatever makes you feel alive, do that to express your love.

Buy the flowers. Schedule the nail appointments. Make time for yourself. Take yourself out to lunch. Make time with friends. Have that one nightly cocktail. (Make it a bit smaller, Jesse, or try having it earlier to see if your sleep improves.) Buy the seed packets. Watch your shows on Netflix, even if you have to stay up later to do so because your roommate doesn’t like British mysteries. Find the podcast and go for a longer walk. Write the words in your journal that you don’t have the nerve to say out loud: “I am fabulous.” (You don’t have to yell or write it in all caps, the Universe already knows.)

If, like me, you’re challenged in the financial department, get the cute tchotchke in the clearance aisle at Target. (This bunny!)

Loving yourself does not need to cost anything. I know that’s easier said than done. Right now, a favorite way to love myself is to sit in the sun, in the backyard, with my eyes closed (so I can’t see all the work I need to get done) feeling the warmth and celebrating the end of winter.

Maybe you have a partner who loves you just fine. (Seriously, I hope it’s more than fine, but that’s up to you.) Even with a fantastic, loving partner there is room for you to still love yourself. In fact, it’s imperative. Nothing is permanent. Everything changes. Love yourself through it all.

You might be surprised to find out that many others think you are fabulous, too. Like your cat, or the elderly neighbor lady, or some guy from high school you haven’t seen in 40 years. Trust that there are legions of people who think you are amazing. Don’t spend a minute thinking of those who can’t see your fabulousness. That’s about them. (That’s from a good meme I may have sent to Jen. – Author Unknown.)

Turn loving yourself into a ritual. Have you noticed how some skilled folks turn ritual into habit? Before you know it, loving you will become a habit. I suppose that once it becomes habit, you lose the mindfulness of it, but at least that way you aren’t overthinking it and talking yourself out of loving yourself. (I know my ritual around coffee is a habit – the grinding, the boiling of the water and the pouring. Sometimes I slow down my movements in order to focus on the quiet and the smells and the steam and the process. But how mindful can I be first thing in the morning before that first cup.) Loving you needs to be a habit like brushing your teeth or feeding the cat or drinking that first cup in the morning.

What matters is that you believe in your fabulousness. If it feels weird to love yourself, get over it. Make that your new groove. Remember, the Universe is expansive! There’s room enough for you to love others and yourself. How good would it be if you managed to love yourself as much as you love others? Maybe, by loving ourselves more, we can come to love others more. (I think that’s a meme, too.)

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An INFJ’s Take on Trust and Optimism

How about those holidays? Raise your hand if you’re glad they are over. Reminds me of a quote I ran across a couple years ago: Tradition is our ancestors’ way of controlling us. Then I think of all the traditions I’ve created that my kids will probably feel like they have to perpetuate – the Advent Calendar for one. What was I thinking?

Anyway, I’d gotten Will a nice shirt for Christmas. After opening it, he held it up and Jen and I both said, “Oh! A date shirt!” He didn’t respond. Never mentioned it at all until a couple nights ago. (Often our best chats happen in a text stream.) While he was out with friends, he sent me a text saying that he wasn’t ignoring our comment about it being a date shirt, but that he doesn’t want to disappoint me by not dating.

We back-and-forth texted for quite a while. At one point I told him that I didn’t care if he dated or not but that I wanted him to be happy. If dating is part of what makes him happy, then I’d be thrilled for him. More importantly, I’m not disappointed either way! He explained that he’s still hesitant after his last attempt – 3 years ago. (I wonder where he gets it.)

Then I texted something about how trust is certainly an issue, but that I really think the bigger issue is trusting yourself. “Trust yourself to not get in too deep with a wrong person. If you can trust yourself, you can navigate anything. By now you’ve certainly learned that you can recuperate from a broken heart.”

I reminded Will (myself?) that all “the experts” say that the real learning happens within a relationship. (Excuse me?! Have I not been learning a ton about how to be a happy, functioning, fulfilled, capable single person? How many of these so-called experts are in happy, committed relationships?)

I talk a big game.

I sound pretty optimistic for someone who is still hesitant to get out there after not having tried for almost 7 years.

I laugh at myself for developing this side story with Hank. Where do I think this could go, knowing all my reservations and my lack of trust? Still, my inner optimist wants to think there could be someone out there, even if he’s fictitious and I’m the one who made him up! Hell, maybe that’s the best kind of partner. He’d be there when I need him, but there wouldn’t be any of the messy stuff like schedule conflicts, lack of alone time or having to sleep together. Ick. Hank is the guy to go out to dinner with, have the deep conversations with, go for walks with and catch a movie with. He’s also the guy who doesn’t get bent out of shape if I don’t want him to spend the night, or move in, or co-mingle bank accounts. He’s a travel partner and ski partner who is like-minded when it comes to politics and open-minded about philosophy, reading and art.

Yeah. He’s definitely a unicorn, but he’s my unicorn.

But, wait?! Aren’t I also describing a best girlfriend? Wouldn’t she check all the boxes?

As I write this, I realize that there’s this tiny part of me that still wants to be attracted to – and attractive to – a guy. Is it my age (mortality?) telling me I’m running out of time? Is this a Crone’s Relationship Biological Clock? Hell, no! The little I’ve read about Crones tells me they wouldn’t give a shit about whether they are attractive to anyone. They are too busy inhabiting their skin and being glorious in their own Crone-y way to worry about whether a relationship would fulfill them or not!

Unicorn Hank isn’t going to expect me to pick up his socks, cook his dinner (and complain about the food), demand back rubs and be too busy to go to a movie with me. But history tells me (at least my history) that an IRL Hank comes with expectations. Thoughts of those expectations start the stress and the physical manifestations of that stress. That’s when I know I can’t really be an optimist, that I do have trust issues (even with myself), and that relationships are fine for other people, and I’m fine NOT being in one.

When Will asks me why I don’t take my own advice and trust myself, or why I don’t get back out there and try again, I’ll explain that I’m really busy with projects. I’ve got to finish recovering the couch because Pansy “loved” it up too much. (Clearly, I’m an optimist if I’m taking the time to recover the couch without attempting to discourage Pansy’s fondness for scratching.) Oh, and I’ve got to get the shelves up in the new bathroom. I’m sure Jen will be coming home soon, so I better plan menus and bake her favorite things. I should really get some seeds ordered and figure out what I’ll be planting where, come May. I’ve got some blog housekeeping to do, and I’m still ruminating on that novel I pretend to be writing. Doesn’t the popcorn on the ceiling in the hallway need to come down? There’s always work and meetings and classes.

Oh! I have to finish those slacks I found at Goodwill. I let the hem out and now there’s a faded line where the old hem used to be. I found a Prismacolor – Light Umber. It’s a close match. (Luckily, Jen didn’t take all her art supplies with her.) After applying the Light Umber, I’ll sketch over top a bit with a black Sharpie to blend it and … Who am I kidding? I don’t let anyone close enough to see a faded hemline on my slacks.

Anyway, I’m entirely too busy. Besides, why would I want to mess up this good thing I’ve got going.

p.s. Will says the couch looks like the 70s – in a good way. Pansy won’t go near it. Yet.

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Piacere!

An old, brown accordion file for storing paperwork.

“Piacere, Hank!”

“You’re learning Italian?” Hank walked to Jesse’s end of the bar and grinned. “Piacere means, ‘Nice to meet you.’ We’ve already met.”

“Shit. I suppose you know Italian?”

“I think you mean, ‘Merda.’ I only know a little, Jess. Why and how do you have time to learn Italian?”

“The kids and I still hope to take a trip one day. Jen is doing well in French. If I learn enough Italian, we can order food in the countries we want to see. Maybe.” Jesse laughed. “Will promises not to fall asleep in all the cathedrals. Besides, I got off Twitter and found extra time. I’m reading more, finishing some painting projects, rearranging furniture. It’s kind of embarrassing how much time I spent on that bird app.”

“So, you found yourself with more time and didn’t come in here?”

“Hank, if I did that, I’d become a pest, and I’d feel guilty. But I’m working on the guilt thing. I found a therapist!”

“Good for you! Give me a second, would ya? I’ve got to get to the end of the bar and run interference.” Hank grabbed a beer and slid it to the guy standing at the end of the bar. The guy grabbed his beer and drank from it like his life depended on it. Hank asked the woman sitting next to the guy if she was ready for another drink. Jesse could hear her say something about a different wine, something about the last one being too sweet. The couple didn’t look like they belonged together, but the guy appeared glued to her side.

Hank returned with a glass of beer for Jesse. “Tell me, is therapy everything you hoped it would be?”

“Enough about me, Hank, what’s with that couple?”

“Oh, it’s a classic pairing. The more she expects, the more he tries to please. You know how that goes.”

“All too well. Reminds me of a recent project. I had five manilla folders full of medical records and insurance forms and all that stuff that accumulates. I never know what to keep or what to throw out. I turned on Pandora and started sorting. I had several piles: Urology, Gynecology, Cardiology…”

Hank winked, “Neurology?”

“Ha, if I’d stayed married, that would have been the biggest pile. Anyway, I sorted each category in chronological order and discovered an interesting pattern.” Jesse noticed the guy at the end of the bar trying to get Hank’s attention.

“Sorry, Jess. Be right back.” Hank returned and mumbled under his breath. “She didn’t like that wine either. Before you got here, the guy ran out to the car two separate times to retrieve different things for her. He’s running ragged.”

“He looks exhausted. I recognize that look.”

Hank shook his head, “So do I, Jess. Anyway, what pattern did you see in your medical records?”

“My trips to the doctor only occurred when I was in a relationship! Seriously. The heart palpitations were stress from a relationship. There were appointments trying to figure out loss of appetite and sleeping too much, all at the tail end of my marriage. The UTIs …”

Hank put up his hands, laughed and backed away.

“Sorry, Hank. I’ll spare you the details. But the pattern was obvious. There wasn’t any paperwork in the time periods when I wasn’t part of a couple. When I wasn’t in a relationship, there was no need to do any doctoring. It reminded me about some article I read where folks who’d lived to 100 were interviewed and asked what they thought the secret to longevity was. This one spry gal said, ‘Staying single and having a can of Schlitz with my evening meal.'”

“Schlitz? She couldn’t do better than that?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the point, Hank. Look at that guy down there. Wouldn’t he be better off single with even a 6-pack of Schlitz?”

Hank nodded. “Hell! I’d even stock Schlitz if I thought it would help that poor guy. He needs to learn what I had to learn. Doing more for them doesn’t make them love you more, and you lose yourself in the process. They are a bottomless pit. All the trips to the car and all the different glasses of wine will not fill that hole. That guy cannot fill that hole, but he’ll kill himself trying if he doesn’t figure it out. That’s why you only went to the doctor when you were in a relationship. You were losing yourself, and your body was trying to get your attention.”

“How come it wasn’t obvious to me at the time?”

“Cuz you were too busy trying to be what they needed and keep your head above water. Did any of them ask what you needed?”

“I think I picked those who just assumed that whatever they provided was enough. I guess I didn’t know I could ask for what I needed. I’m not sure I know how to do that.”

Hank smiled, “Have you covered that with the therapist?”

“I guess I just now thought of it.” Jesse laughed, “Why am I going to a therapist when I can come here?”

Hank laughed. “I can’t answer that, Jess.” Hank ran to the end of the bar as the woman stood so the guy could help her with her jacket. Jess realized the guy had never taken off his jacket. Maybe he felt he was better prepared to do her bidding if he kept his jacket on. Jesse noticed the slump in his shoulders. She could feel his exhaustion. He would break soon, if he hadn’t already.

When Hank returned, Jesse said, “I think that little old lady from the article was brilliant. I might choose something other than Schlitz, though.” They both laughed. “My medical history proves it’s healthier for me to be single. The choice is obvious. What about you, Hank. You’re still single. I never hear of you having to go to a doctor for anything. What do you think of that little old lady’s take on longevity?” Jesse stood and reached for her jacket.

“I’d say that while she may have lived a long time, she might have been happier if she’d found the right someone to share the Schlitz with.” Hank caught Jesse’s eye, winked and reached for her empty glass, “Arrivederci, Jess.”

Jesse paused. She couldn’t think of what to say or how to react. She looked down to zip up her jacket, fumbled with her keys and bag and turned to go. As she walked out the door she looked back and said, “Ciao?”

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Don’t Do It!

This post is for U.S. readers who may be experiencing election anxiety. But let’s be real: With this global economy, an election in one big power player impacts the others, so it applies to those of you outside of the U.S., too.

If you’ve tried pacing, or biting your nails, or talking to the cat more than you usually do, take heed.

If you signed up to be an elections judge and then, on November 1st, turned the page of the calendar and realized that there will be a full moon on Election Day, take heart. (WT actual F was I thinking?)

If you’ve worked the phone banks, or posted the memes on Facebook, or dropped Twitter in protest, or marched in the reproductive rights gatherings, I understand.

It’s real. The anxiety is real.

But don’t!

Whatever you do!

Don’t cut your bangs!

Or you’ll end up as the only masked elections judge with butchered bangs on Tuesday, November 8.

Vote.

p.s. I think I fixed the subscriber glitch.

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This Bird Flew the Coop

I deactivated my Twitter account this morning.

I’m going to miss the folks I connected with on there. I’d been on there since the inception of my first blog, 12 years ago. It’s going to feel very strange not checking in there every day. What will I do with all the extra time?

I know! Maybe I’ll finish some of the drafts I’ve been creating, over the last several months.

I try to set healthy boundaries. An important boundary is set around what news and opinions I allow in my corner of the world.

I’m now more carefully curating my news feed and specifically selecting what I read.

I’ll miss you birds.

My email is still Jesse Blayne @ gmail . com.

Until we meet again …