Tag: random observations

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The Prom

She was staring at the camera, lips pouting, hand on her hip, showing enough cleavage to make me certain that her dad did not approve of her dress.

Her lipstick was darker in the next photo.  She had to have wrenched her neck when throwing her head back the way she did.  Her hair was so lacquered, it couldn’t have moved if it wanted to.

She’s not engaged with her date in any of the pics.  He looks like a prop for her display.  Does he want to be there?  Does he know he’s a tool?  Will they even text each other after tonight?

One comment said the dress was $500.  Another comment talked about where to get the best spray-on tan in town.  Others talked about where to find the time to do eyebrows, nails, hair and tanning, all in time for the big night.

 

It’s prom night on Facebook.

 

As I scroll through the photos, I can feel my blood beginning to boil.  I sense a serious case of judging coming on.

Under her breath, Jen says, “Who wants to spend that kind of money to awkwardly dance for 45 minutes in a gym that smells like feet?”

Of course, that’s coming from an introverted homeschool kid.  Prom isn’t even on her radar.

Hasn’t prom outlived it’s usefulness by now?  Was prom ever useful?

 

(My feminist side types faster and gets snarkier.)

 

My mind races with a million objections.  What about the kids who can’t afford the prom?  What about the kids who can afford it and never get asked?  What about this whole #metoo thing and not wanting to be treated like objects?  Isn’t this just the kind of thing that puts a bigger divide between the haves and the have nots?

I feel the need to yell.

 

Then …

I scroll further and see a set of photos that make me grin.

The gal and the guy are hamming it up for the camera – together.  They take turns being the center.  They engage with each other.  They are laughing and teasing and comfortable with each other.  They both want to be there.  I know that they will text each other long after this silly night – a night that was a tradition for their folks, and will be a tradition for their kids, too.

 

The dust I kicked up about the prom (really, Jesse?) begins to settle.

 

I start to see that my issues with the prom have less to do with young women dressing inappropriately, and more to do with distraction and forgetting which battles need picking.

 

The prom is a metaphor for life, with much nicer clothes.

There are the ones who make it all about them.  There will always be the excesses.  There will be the ones who are happy not participating, and thriving in the shadows.  There will be the ones who have fun, enjoy each other, and don’t take it too seriously.  And there will always be those who try to make a mountain out of a molehill.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Sultans of Swing

We were driving up the mountain road, heading to the ski hill.  The mounds of snow on either side were as tall as I’d seen them in awhile.  I reached over to turn on the radio and heard Stealers Wheel singing, “Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right …”  How can anyone hear that song and not immediately picture the clowns and jokers that populate their own life?

I’m grateful my kids will listen to the Oldies station with me, and even more grateful that they’ll still ski with me.

As we climbed the mountain, the snow got deeper and the temp got colder.  Dire Straits came on next.  The “Sultans of Swing” brought me back to binge-watching MTV in the early 80s.  (Let it be known that some of us binge-watched long before Netflix.)  In between classes, or during skipped classes, I’d be “studying” and watching and listening.

In this flashback, I was going through some Psych notes, still in my pajamas, sipping from a huge mug of strong coffee.  In those days I wore men’s boxers and baggy t-shirts.  That was long before this phase of always being cold.  I remember her long hair, long arms and legs, and that endless cup of coffee.  Some things never change – the coffee is a constant.

 

A friend believes that our lives are concurrent – no past or future.  All we experience happens in the same time continuum.  If that reality exists, then my 20-year old self and my 55-year old self are journeying at the same time.

 

If she was along for the ride today, skiing with Will and Jen and 55-me, what would we talk about?

 

20-me is surprised I’m still listening to the music from the 80s, and she’s slightly disgusted that it gets the “Oldies” label.   55-me tells her it’s hard to give up on the really good stuff from that time.  She reminds me to keep my mind open to the new good stuff, too.

I acknowledge her trepidation about the future – finishing school, the what-ifs of relationships, the decisions about career and work.  I remind her that the apprehension and nervousness is all part of the process.  “I don’t have it so bad.  Re-invention is possible, all along the way.  Don’t be afraid to try something.  Don’t be afraid to change your mind.”  I down-shift as we approach a small town of snow-covered cabins, some decorated with old wooden skis.  “The same advice applies to relationships.  Don’t be afraid to change your mind.  There will be clowns and jokers.  Be mindful of who you get stuck in the middle with.”

20-me laughs and says, “It’s good you are skiing today.  I’m glad you still see the value in having fun.”  I turn down the music so I can hear her better.  55-me laughs and says, “My hearing isn’t what it used to be.  Too often I forget to include fun in the mix.  About the time I can’t stand to be in the same room with myself, I realize I’ve let fun go by the wayside.”

20-me reminds me to turn on some music when I get to that point.  “That’s a quick way to shift the mood.  Your Pandora is awesome for that!”  55 says, “I know!  Right?”

20 points at Jen and Will, “They have our long legs, should you be thinking about getting a bigger car?”  55-me says, “I thought about it, but Will has his truck now, and I like not having a car payment.  Besides, this car will be great for Jen when she wants to start driving.  Maybe I’ll get something then.”  20 nods her head, “So, we pretty much live on this college budget forever, then, right?”  55 says, “It could be worse.  This way we can afford to ski.”

55 says, “Quit worrying so much about your choices.”  20 says, “I could say the same to you.”  55 says, “Damn, I was hoping to make more progress on that front.”  20 says, “I guess that’s why we still like the skiing so much.  It clears the mind and helps us recalibrate.”  55 laughs, “Which gets us back to the value in fun.”

55 says, “And the taking things so seriously.  That’s a waste of time, too.”  20 says, “So then it’s okay to while away the hours watching MTV and pretending to study?”  55 says, “You’ll miss those days.”

20 says, “Yeah, but look who we get to journey with,” and she looks at Jen and Will.  “At least we get to be stuck in the middle with these two.”

 

I’ve been mulling over this post for a week, waiting to have the time to sit down and write.  I made a coffee, set up the laptop, sat down to write and checked my phone.  I’d received two messages that included song references.  One was a text with “Here Comes the Sun” by *duh* The Beatles.  The other was an email introducing me to “Third Day In A Row” by The Stray Birds. 

I’m not making this up.

Serendipity.

 

 

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Where is Your Focus?

“How are you, Hank?”

“I’m doing well.”  He closed his notebook.  “Getting caught up on paperwork.  This weather is crazy, right?  Either we’re blasted because everyone has cabin fever, or we’re dead because no one wants to get out in the cold.”  He patted the stool next to his, “What’s new with you?”

“Don’t let me interrupt your bookkeeping.”  Jesse draped her jacket over a stool.  “I’m just getting out of the house to get a break from climbing the walls.  Kids are good.  Things have been a bit bumpy lately, but after a minor course correction,  I think we are headed in the right direction, again… for now.”  She shook her head.  “Parenting isn’t for sissies, Hank.”

He smiled and said, “Not even for the parents who have awesome kids like yours.”

“I’ll take that.  Thanks.”

 

Hank pointed to a 20-something sitting alone in the far corner.  His pint was half empty, and had long since gone flat.  His focus was on his phone.  “He’s an up and coming App Designer.  That kid is making a name for himself.  He sleeps and eats the stuff.  I wish I had that kind of focus.”

He looked up at the TV screen mounted in the corner above the bar to see an update on the most recent school shooting.

Hank nodded in the direction of two women sitting at a nearby table.  They were going over paint chips, fabric swatches and catalogs.  “Those two recently joined forces to open up a staging/interior design firm.  There aren’t enough hours in the day to meet the needs of their clients but, somehow, they’re getting it done.”

Jesse took a drink of her beer, and glanced at the TV in time to see the local news channel announce a new Amber Alert.

She looked at Hank and said, “I admire folks who know what it is that they love to do, and then apply all their energy to that thing.  It’s inspiring!”  She pointed to the opposite corner.  “What can you tell me about that fellow?”

“I don’t know much about him.  Keeps to himself.  He usually brings in some kind of geology books to study while he’s having a beer or two.  Mining engineer, maybe?  I don’t know, but he studies that stuff all the time.”

The newscaster casually mentioned opioid epidemic, sexual harassment, and AR-15, with less emphasis than he used when discussing the current weather forecast.

 

Hank shook his head and got up to walk around to the business side of the bar.  “You know, Jesse, working here gives me an opportunity to observe people.  I see where they apply their time, energy and focus.  The damn TV is always on, too, for those that like to keep up on what’s going on in the rest of the world.”

He grabbed a bar rag and started polishing the bar.  Jesse had long ago* noticed that he usually polished the bar when he was about to start explaining some insight about the human condition.  He said, “A few years back I had what you might call an epiphany.  I noticed that the more folks focused on outside stuff, the more the news got worse.  We love our distractions.  We are distracted by our phones, our jobs, our cars, our hair and nail color, our relationship status, our bank accounts, and the lack of or spectacular existence of our abs.”

He folded the rag, placed it on the bar and forcefully flattened the rag with his palm.  “Where do you think this world would be if folks applied the same kind of focus to parenting and family?”

 

*Hank, the bartender, makes several appearances on my other blog.

 

 

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When 2018 Looks Like 1953

There’s a guy I work with who asks a lot of questions – some are work related, some are of a personal nature.  He has told me that he feels comfortable around me so he asks for parenting and relationship advice, as well as suggestions on how to properly fill out documents.  He also shares too much about his wife and kids

It can get exhausting.

He’s a nice enough fellow.  You know the type – earnest, polite, inquisitive, lacking in self-confidence and completely unaware of personal space, but basically harmless.

We share a large, open office area.  I know when he’s about to ask me something personal because I’ll hear him wheeling his chair across the expanse of industrial grey carpet between us, and park at the side of my desk.   This particular day I heard the squeaking wheels and turned around in time to see him plant his can of Mountain Dew on my desk, next to the forms I was attempting to complete.  He was rubbing some sort of ointment on his shoulder as he told me of his injury.  He then placed the tube of smelly, greasy ointment on my stack of forms.

Some people are tragically unaware.

He says, “Jesse, I’ve a question for you.”  I extracted my forms from under his shoulder potion and said, “What’s up?”

He took a loud swig from his can of pop and said, “You know how you mentioned that you are a single mom and that’s why you’re only in the office in the mornings?”

“Mm hm,” as I tried to keep working.

“Well, it’s like this,” he stammered and continued.  “I notice that you wear rings on that finger,” he said while pointing to the ring finger on my left hand.  “So, are you single or what?”

 

At first, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.  I glanced at the motivational calendar showing a picture of a hot air balloon, and checked the date.

Yep, 2018.

Then I looked up at him to see if his expression would tell me that he was kidding.  I stifled a laugh when I saw the serious look on his face.

I composed myself, smiled and talked to him like a third grade teacher might address the boy in class, who can’t get his point across without hitting.  That teacher is frustrated and has to keep from yelling.  She looks the kid straight in the eye and calmly explains why he needs to keep his hands to himself.

Like that teacher, I wanted to yell.  “Are you kidding me!?  This is 2018!  Get your ointment and your sticky pop out of my space!  Wake up and look around you!”

Instead I took a breath and said, “Dan, I have some rings I like to wear, and they fit this finger.  I think of these rings as a promise I made to myself to stay single.”

He looked from my finger to my face and said, “Oh …”  He picked up his can of Dew and started to wheel back to his desk.

“Hey, Dan,” I tossed his tube of ointment to him, “you forgot something.”

 

 

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Out With the Old on the New Moon

This morning I wrote “Cleanse – ask me” on Jen’s list for today.

(Public school would do well to teach kids how to cleanse.  I feel a rant coming on.)

I’m not talking about pore strips or burning sage, although I do like both.  I’m talking about cleansing or purging stuff to clear up energy.

I read just enough in astrology to be both intrigued and confused about what happens when planets are retrograding or going direct or lining up or whatever it is that they do that explains the weird energies flowing through our little house.  It turns out that tonight is a dark (new) moon and the perfect time to purge/cleanse/get rid of whatever needs to be gone.

The gurus say we can purge in whatever fashion we choose – bedrooms, kitchen drawers, garage shelves, digital media, books, photos, letters and *gasp* relationships.

If you know us, you also know we tend to move a lot.  With each move I purge.  It’s a great way to leave behind any energy that we don’t want to take with us.  (I do not recommend moving as a way to get rid of bad energy, but sometimes it is necessary.)  We purged a lot in the last move, but there’s still a lingering trace of something that does not feel right.  I can’t define it.  It isn’t a note with a certain handwriting, or a gift that should have gone to Goodwill.

At this point in the day, it isn’t practical to start a full-scale purge.  For the record, I’m not ready to give up my cookbooks even though I rarely open them and tend to grab the iPad to find a favorite recipe.

For tonight’s new moon, my purge will look like this:

pitch the yogurt with the October 2017 date;

clean the cat box – thanks, Jen;

sweep the floors and spritz some cypress oil throughout;

put the donation stuff in the back of the car;

clean out my work inbox;

purge my default setting of focusing on what could/might go wrong;

and put some of the thoughts swirling in my brain into this post.

If you’re wondering, Jen doesn’t need to purge anything.  She is my inspiration for cleaning and purging.  Her bedroom looks like a minimalist board from Pinterest.  It’s serene, inviting, cozy and hip – all the things I aspire to be, but won’t be, because apparently I need to have my kids’ artwork and mementos covering every square inch of this house.  I put it on her school list because she’s fun to do things with.

I know what they say about clutter and feng shui and energy, but for me, the bigger issue has to do with my default setting – my inner curmudgeon.  For all the times I shout about our charmed lives, my inner cranky girl needs to remind me that things could still get messed up or go wrong.

Tonight I’m purging her voice, and I’m keeping the cookbooks, and the drawings from when my kids were three.

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Commitment Issues

I’ve got a 25% More! bottle of conditioner in the shower.  I am tired of the smell of that conditioner.  I’m ready to move on.  I want a new scent.

That doesn’t mean I have commitment issues, does it?

I’m not being silly, here.  I mean it.

Can commitment issues be detected back in junior high when I couldn’t decide between Flex or Prell, or Levi 501s or flares?

Wouldn’t it make sense that if you hesitate to commit to a deodorant, then you probably won’t commit to a relationship, either?

 

(I’ll have you know that I am a frugal person.  I’ll continue to use up that annoying bottle of conditioner, even if I use too much each time, and it makes my bangs greasy.  Maybe I could bribe Jen to finish it, or use it for shaving my legs.)

 

I’ve noticed that usually men are said to have commitment issues.  Why do women want to commit more readily than men?  (When I first typed that sentence, I wrote, ‘Why do women want to be committed more …’  Freudian?)  After all, don’t we do most of the work of relating in a relationship?  It occurs to me that if I am commitment-phobic, it’s probably because I’m tired of doing all the relating.

 

In my defense, I have a cutting board that I’ve owned since 1987.  I’ve lived with that cutting board longer than anyone I’ve had a relationship with, including my parents – even if I count the times I moved back in with my mom.

That makes me laugh.

Should that make me sad?

That cutting board has survived many moves.  It is the perfect kitchen tool – the right shape, reliable, dependable, and the right size.  If only I could find a ….

 

I once received a gift of a glass cutting board.  (Ironically, it may have been a wedding gift.)  I hated that thing.  No one can convince me that cutting boards should be made of glass.  I’d swear the chef’s knife would wince each time I’d attempt to slice an onion on it.  I’d rather drag my nails across a chalk board than cut on glass.

That “board” was a well-intentioned gift.  Should I have stayed committed to it?  I think, NOT!

 

For that matter, why must I defend myself for being hesitant to commit?  Why do we applaud the capacity to commit without evaluating what it is that one commits to? Whether it’s an office or a cutting board or conditioner or a relationship, if it isn’t a good fit, isn’t it best to forgo commitment and make a change?

Would a sense of frugality dictate that one ought to stay because of the investment already made?  That’s a sunk cost!  Move on, already.  (Except for conditioners which, one could argue, aren’t really necessary, anyway.  Besides, one is no better than another, but most of us seem to think we need conditioner.)

 

How about we commit to life?  I say we commit to experience.  Commit to change and process and the journey.  (Even if the word journey is used too often.)   So what!  I commit to getting as much out of this journey as possible.

I commit to me!

And apparently this annoying bottle of conditioner.  And flares and 501s, and my beautiful cutting board, but not deodorant.  You can’t make me.

 

 

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“I’ve Missed Talking to You”

Normally, she’d have gone through the self-check line, but they were busy.  Her four items made their way down the conveyor belt in time for the clerk to say, “That’s all for you?  Looks like Italian tonight?  I’ve the best recipe for lasagna, of course it calls for spinach and my family would shoot me if I dared put anything green in a meal.  Do you know what I mean?  Like they think I’m trying to kill ’em or something.  Little do they know, spinach is one of the best things for ’em.  Do you like spinach?”

She smiled as she inserted her credit card in the chip reader.  She started to give an answer about spinach, but the clerk went on.  Luckily the boy bagging her groceries had already finished.  She said thanks, without having to jump into the spinach-in-lasagna debate.

 

She had two more files to close and then she’d be done for the day.  She opened a file just as a co-worker approached.  She wondered about keeping her head down and not making eye contact so as to avoid conversation.  If she acknowledged her co-worker, she’d be enveloped in drama and details from the previous weekend that had nothing to do with her.  But even keeping her head down wouldn’t protect her.  “Wow.  You must have a lot going on.  What’s that file about?”  What could have taken 20 minutes turned into 40.

 

Between the teller at the bank and the clerk at the post office, she learned about the lives of people that she would never meet.

She knew secrets about people who didn’t know her name.

She knows things about folks that they only learn during the process of talking to her.  She’s heard people say, “I guess I needed to tell someone that.”  “It feels good to unload.”  “I haven’t thought of that in years, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

If she had a dollar for every time someone said, “I’ve never told anyone that before,” she could afford to move to a deserted island.

 

A long time ago she realized that she was some sort of conduit for processing other people’s stuff.   It was not her job to fix anything.

She just listened.  She listened and let it pass through her.

Sometimes they felt a little better having been heard.  Often times, they felt embarrassed for having divulged so much that ought to be personal.  They’d laugh at themselves and apologize, and do the same thing the next time she saw them.

It was as if they couldn’t help themselves.

 

One evening found her at a social engagement that she hadn’t wanted to attend.  She’d tried coming up with an excuse.  She wanted to stay home, but The Voice said, “Come on.  You never go out.  It’ll be good for you.”

She went.  He talked.  A lot.  At the end of the night he said, “I’ve missed talking to you.”

She smiled.

What could she say?  “Thank you?”  “I missed listening to you?”  “I’m glad you like to talk to me?”

He drove away as she turned the key in her door.

She put her purse on the table and saw the cat waiting for her in their favorite chair – the one where they sat together in silence.

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The Time-Out Chair

I attended elementary school in an old brick building that, many years later, turned into a church –  I think.  The church was named Saint Some-One-Or-Other, but I can’t remember which saint.  I think it’s now empty, but I’m not sure on that, either.  There was one class for each grade and it seems as though there were only about 20 kids in each grade.

Even though there were only 20 sixth-graders out on the playground, those opinionated kids could get in a ruckus in a real hurry.

That’s what social media is reminding me of – sixth graders blowing off stink, on a playground.

Everyone is yelling.

He yells over them.  She yells over him.  They yell over each other.

No one is listening.

Everyone conveniently forgot the tenet about not speaking if you don’t have anything nice to say.

They’ve forgotten tolerance, and more importantly, they’ve forgotten kindness.

 

I never put my kids in a time-out.  I don’t know why I never liked that form of discipline.  Is the idea that the kid is supposed to sit in a chair, face the corner, and think about how to behave better?  I guess because I’m a natural born over-thinker, I never thought the time-out chair was a good idea.

If – when I was a sixth grader – I’d ever been ordered to a time-out chair, I’m afraid of what I’d have over-thought about.  Back then the subjects could have run the gamut from:  Why do some sixth grade girls have big chests while others haven’t even started their periods?  Why do almost all girls have crushes on sixth grade boys who are so clueless?  Is world domination out of the question or a distinct possibility?  Do I want to even mess with dominating a world inhabited by sixth grade boys?

(I’ve a vague recollection of being sent to my room, which is pretty much the same thing, but for an introvert, that’s like a snow day off from school!)

I knew, when my two were very young, that they had acquired my high-level over-thinking skills.  I wasn’t going to give them an opportunity to over/out think me, so the only time-out chair we ever had was a cute little wooden thing we painted for a school fundraiser.  We ended up buying it to put in the garden.  (Imagine crickets, potato beetles and earthworms assigned to that chair for their time-outs.)

 

Now, however, a time-out chair would be heavenly.  I’m not sure I’d even want the internet in my corner.  I’d have a delicious chunk of time to happily ruminate on the usual subjects – cabernet vs. pinot vs. merlot; techniques for texturing the ceiling after popcorn removal; how to reclaim a neglected garden spot; do I really need AWD when front wheel is less expensive; why is it taking me so long to read the Harry Potter series when I’m enjoying it so much (see aforementioned time-sucking subjects); and what will I do with myself when kids are grown and gone?

I’m not pretending that any of these subjects are even remotely interesting to anyone else, but they aren’t unkind or intolerant or likely to raise my blood pressure.  (That said, the popcorn ceiling removal was a pretty good workout.)

 

Anyhow, the ruckus on both social media and the airwaves has me fantasizing that if I were Queen for a Day, I’d assign everyone to their own time-out chair – especially the sixth graders.

 

 

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You Look Familiar

“Jesse!  Where’ve you been?”  Hank walked to my side of the bar for a hug.  “I see you stopped writing about narcissism.  Does that mean you survived?”  Hank grinned and walked to his side of the bar.

“Funny, Hank.  I’ve missed you, too.”  I draped my jacket over my knees as I sat on a bar stool.

“But, seriously.  Did you run out of things to say on that subject?”  Hank grabbed for a glass and, before pouring the usual, looked to see if I might ask for something else.  I smiled and he let the amber flow into the glass.

“Ha!  Like that’s even possible.  You, of all people, would know the answer to that question.”

 

Hank walked to the end of the bar to take an order.  Just then a woman walked over to stand next to me.  As she waited to place her order, she looked up at the television screen.  She winced, turned to me and said, “Can you believe ….   Hey, you look familiar.  Do I know you?”

I smiled.  “I’m not sure.  Maybe.  I have that kind of face – that ‘everyone’ and ‘no one’ face.  People tend to think they recognize me from somewhere.”

Hank returned.  “Yeah, she gets that a lot.”

He greeted the new customer and said, “This is Jesse.  She has this thing about her.  Lots of folks think they know her from somewhere.”

She reached out to shake hands.  “Do you work at the bank?”

“Nope.”  I smiled and took a drink.

She ordered a chardonnay.  “I know… it’s that coffee shop on the corner of 9th and Main.”

I looked and Hank and laughed.  “Nope.”

She took her wine and turned to walk over to a table where girlfriends waited.  She looked at me and said, “I’ll think of it.  Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”  I looked at Hank and shrugged my shoulders.

 

“So, Hank, why do I get that a lot?  What is it about my face that people I’ve never met seem to think they know me from somewhere?”

It’s not your face, Jesse, it’s the way folks feel when they are with you.  You see them.  That feeling is familiar.  They may not have felt that way in a real long time, but they know it.  They crave that feeling.  They remember how it feels to be seen, and they think that must mean they know you from somewhere.  It’s not your face, Jesse, it’s who you are.”

 

 

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Oh! The Problems

I’m not well-read.  I’m not one of those intellectual sorts – those cool people – who can quote verse or lines from a classic.  Could be that my memory sucks.

I tell my kids that I’m fun to watch movies with because I could have watched it last weekend, but by this weekend, I won’t remember how it ends.  So, yes, if you want to watch The Secret Life of Walter Mitty for the 47th time, I’d love to.  (But, seriously, that movie is a favorite.)

I’ve never gotten into poetry, which is weird because I love art.  I occasionally read a poem that clicks with me, and then I think, “See? I could get into poetry,” but I never pursue poets or collect favorite poems. What am I supposed to do with a poem?  What does it fix?  Does it make me better?

You probably love poetry, and at this moment, you are typing a response about how poetry leads to escape, and transformation, and understanding and beauty.

And one day, when I’m not the mom and the dad and the realtor and the teacher, I’ll find time to read poetry.

Maybe.

 

I start a lot of books, and read until my mood changes.  I have several different books laying around the house – non-fiction, self-help, fiction and more self-help.  Depending on my mood, I’ll pick up one, read a bit, run out of tea, make a cup, and come back.  By the time, the tea has brewed, my mood has changed, and I pick up a different book.

Maybe I have commitment issues.  (That made me laugh.)

A few years ago, I declared that I was done with self-help books.  I checked out two at the library last Tuesday.  I never will be done with self-help.  It’s an addiction, like coffee and complaining.  All three feel good, even if they aren’t always good for me.

So it’s no surprise that when I was driving to the office with the muffled sounds of public radio filling the car, thinking about phone calls to make, and documents to download, Garrison Keillor read a line from a novel that I wasn’t familiar with.  (Garrison Keillor could very likely make me enjoy poetry, but I digress.)

 

“Never sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own,” from Nelson Algren’s novel, A Walk on the Wild Side.

 

I was pulling into a parking spot as he read the words.  Luckily I didn’t scrape the car next to mine.

My mind raced with, “How come I’ve never heard that before?”  “Sure wish someone had told me that 45 years ago as I was about to venture out into the dangerous world of relationships!”  “Now you tell me?”

(To be clear, I changed the gender to make it more applicable to my experience.  Never sleep with a man …..)

As I set up my laptop to get some work done, I thought through the list – it’s not a long list – of “relationships” and their problems.  Okay, the list of problems was long.

Yep.  He had more issues than me.  Whoa, he had way more problems than me.  Uh huh, he had problems that I shouldn’t have touched with a 10-foot pole.

And then I thought about all my problems.  Who’d want to touch those with a 10-foot pole?

WE ALL HAVE PROBLEMS.

Gawd!  Why do we bother sleeping with anyone?  Show me one who doesn’t have problems!

The worst part is, the problems aren’t revealed until the vulnerability sets in, and that’s usually after we’ve jumped in bed.  Could we really discover those issues beforehand?  On a first date:  “So, here’s my list of issues.  See that one there?  I’m working on it.  That one there, well, honestly, that’ll never be resolved, no matter how much I throw at it.  Show me your list.”  He reaches into his jacket pocket.  “Here’s mine.”  Some are highlighted.  One, in particular, has been crossed out so much she can’t read the letters underneath.  “What’s that one?”  He winces, “Oh, that’s too embarrassing.”

They shake hands, split the bill and decide they would be better off not sleeping together.

Right.  Like that is part of any relevant reality.

 

I’m still chewing on the line from Algren’s novel, as the last stack of documents come off the printer, warmed by the process of tumbling through the machine.  I decide, “Yep.  Never getting into another relationship again.  Never.  Never.  Never.”  Too scary.  Too many problems.  Too much isn’t revealed until it’s too late.  On my side, and his.

I could take up poetry, learn to paint as well as 14, listen to more of Keillor’s soothing voice, become well-read, or learn to love fishing like 18, and keep my list of problems to myself.