Tag: the journey

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Where’d She Go?

As he turned the key in the lock he said, “Anyone want to go across the street for a drink?”

One said, “What a day!  I’m game.”

Another said, “I’ve got time for one.”

Two more said, “I’ll meet you,” and “I’ve gotta text my husband first.”

She said, “Sure.  Why not?”

 

After the drinks were sorted between them, they started in about the clients they had, and any progress they were making with those clients.

He took a sip of his beer, looked across the table at a male coworker, laughed and said, “If she didn’t have such great legs, I’d have passed this client off to you.”

She saw the two women at the table look down, cringe, and sip their drinks.

She thought of saying something snarky about clients and legs, but she wasn’t quick enough.

The male coworker said, “I’ll be happy to trade.  The gal I’m working with isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.  I’m having to explain everything to her.”

She exchanged glances with the women at the table and considered introducing the concept of mansplaining, but she didn’t get the chance.

 

One of the female coworkers was able to get a word in and said, “I got a call from a potential client who asked me to refer him to one of the guys in the office.  When I told him I’d be happy to help him, he said, ‘I appreciate your gumption, honey, but I need to talk to someone with experience.'”

She said, “So what did you do?”

“I passed him off.  I’m too busy to scale that mountain.  Who needs that kind of crap?”

One of the guys said, “So who did you pass him off to?” because he clearly didn’t get the point.

 

She threaded her hand through the glasses to grab a handful of peanuts and noticed one of the male coworkers staring at the waitress’s ass.  She kept her eyes on him long enough for him to realize he’d been caught staring.  She said, “So how does that compare to what you have at home?”  He threw up his hands in that way guys do when they’ve been caught in the act, “What?  I’m a guy.”  He grinned, “I can’t help it.”  Then he looked at the other guys at the table, “Right, guys?  We’re wired to look.  It’s what we do.”  Then the three males laughed the kind of laugh that comes with confidence, security and place – a laugh that the three females at the table had only rarely expressed.  A laugh had with your best girlfriend, while driving away from a party you didn’t want to go to, to begin with.

 

She said she had to use the restroom, excusing herself from the table, and leaving a full beer and a pile of peanuts in her wake.

She laughed in the privacy of her car, as she pulled out of the parking lot, saying to no one and everyone, “I don’t have time to scale that mountain.”

 

 

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Hold On Loosely

“Jesse!  Where’ve you been?  I hope you’ve been having some summer fun.”

“How are ya, Hank?  It’s been awhile.  I’ve missed you guys.”

“What’s new?  How are the kids?  How’s life been treating you?”

“I’m gonna need a beer first, Hank.  So far, this summer has been all about closing chapters.”

Hank reached for a glass, “Closing the right chapters, I hope.”

She sat on a stool and took a sip before the foam could run down the side of the glass.

 

Hank said, “I’m sorry about your aunt’s passing.  I’m sure that’s a difficult chapter to close.”

“Thanks, Hank.”  She took another sip.  “We’ve had some deaths this summer.  Too many funerals.”

Hank stood directly across from her, on the other side of the bar, “I’m sorry, Jesse.”  He wiped the bar while trying to think of what to say.  “And the other chapters?”

“Will moved out a couple weeks ago.  It’s time.  I’m excited for him.  He’s ready and wanting to be independent.  This chapter really sucks, tho, Hank.”

“Whew!  I got nothing for ya on that.  I could spout off all the cliches about a son leaving, cutting apron strings and the like, but that doesn’t make it any easier.  So, how are you holding up?”

“Honestly, my aunt’s passing hit me hard, and that was closely followed by Will moving.  For the first time, I seriously considered finding a therapist.  A year ago, my doctor had recommended someone for stress and anxiety.”  She laughs, “Last year was a cake walk compared to this summer.  But, anyway, I kept thinking I’d go through some papers and find the name he’d given me, but then life was coming at me real fast.  Another passing, some more family stuff…”  She reached for her glass, “I’d come home from the office, have a meal with Jen, and retreat to the garden.”

Hank nodded, “The calm spot in the storm?”

“Exactly.  I couldn’t write.  I could barely read.  I managed to cook a couple meals and go to the office and that’s about it.  Now, here we are, the end of July, and I’ve yet to make an appointment with a therapist, but my yard and garden look the best they’ve looked in the 12 years we’ve lived there.  I feel this compulsion to be working in the yard every day.  I keep apologizing to Jen, for spending so much time out there.”

 

Hank asked, “How’s Jen doing with all these closing chapters?”

“Art is her garden.  She is consumed with her drawing and painting.  I’m so thankful that art is her refuge.”

 

“When you are working in the yard, what goes through your mind?”

She laughs, “Everything and nothing.  I started out with a lot of questions.  ‘Why now?  Why this person?’ And then, ‘Is he prepared to be on his own?’  I wallowed in the pissed-off phase.  ‘Why me?  Just how much am I supposed to handle?’  Slowly, the thoughts morphed into, ‘Hello, Jesse!  This isn’t about you.’  I thought a lot about reinvention and what that means.  I got pissed off, again, at the Universe because it seems like all I do is reinvent, and then I realized that’s what this journey is about – reinvention.”

Hank smiled, “I recognize some of those thoughts.”

“I reminded myself of the stuff about young men and how it’s supposed to be difficult right before they leave.”

“Right!  Or they’d never leave!”  Hank washed bar glasses as he listened.

“I reminded myself that my aunt was far better off now than she’d been the last couple years.”

“And did that help?”

“I suppose those thoughts are part of the process, but they didn’t help as much as planting, pulling weeds, moving soil, cutting grass, trimming trees and sweating.  Those things finally got me out of my head and moving.”  She laughed, “Now I’m starting to worry about what I’ll do for therapy come winter.”

He said, “Maybe you won’t need any therapy come winter.”

They both laughed.

 

“You know,” she said, “this morning that song by 38 Special was stuck in my head – Hold On Loosely.”

Hank grinned, “That’s always been a favorite.”

Jesse said, “I haven’t heard that one in a while.  Then, this afternoon, Jen and I were on our way to the store and it came on the radio.”

Hank reached for her empty glass, “That song fits except for the part about, ‘Don’t let go.'”

Jesse got up from her stool, “No kidding.”

 

 

 

 

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The Hovering Ex

You’ll know them by their charm.  The hovering ex oozes an excessively sweet charm reminiscent of the tooth ache you’d get from the bottle of Coke and theTwinkie that passed for lunch in high school.

He’ll feign interest in the “new” couch you purchased six months ago; the one that he sat on the last three times he came to see the kids.

He’ll gush over your daughter’s art, while not-so-subtly taking credit for her talent.

He’ll be too excited about mundane stuff – the end of the school year, the amount of rain in the last spring storm, or the tread on the tires he bought two seasons ago.  This is done to keep the conversation going.  This is about trying to stay in your house as long as possible.

He’ll buy you petunias for the window boxes even though the boxes are on the shaded side of the house.  You’ll be confused by this, but you won’t want to be in his presence long enough to ask why he brought you flowers.  He’s not even sure why he brought you flowers.  Call it instinct or desperation.  Call it a Hail Mary.  He’s grasping at straws and you’re the last straw on his horizon.

 

You are not impressed.  It’s been a long time since you were impressed.  At this point in your life, you can’t even remember why you were ever impressed.

Not only are you not impressed, you are repulsed.  All the petunias in the world won’t be enough to make you interested again.  A bigger house with window boxes on the sunny side would not be enough to make you interested.

And still he hovers …

 

Not all exes hover.

Many of the divorced are too busy running in the other direction to stop and look back at who they are running from.  Those who do glimpse in the rear view mirror run faster than the wind blows from the eastern slope of the Rockies.

But the older, unattached, male ex is going to hover.

He can’t help it.  His clock is ticking, much like the clock of a 38 year old childless female.

He’s getting on in years – way on.  He’s run out of time to attract a new source.  He needs someone to remind him to take his prescriptions, do his cooking and cleaning, and warm his bed.  He wants someone to listen to the 437th telling of the same worn out story.  His clock ticks to remind him that he may soon be in need of a caretaker, a listener and a maid.

 

As his car pulls away from the curb in front of your house, you laugh when remembering how he hated the way you cooked his eggs, and go back to planting impatiens in the shaded window boxes.

 

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I Used to Hate Cleaning the Bathroom

The list for the weekend included baking, writing, bill-paying, getting out to work in the yard if the rain quits, and cleaning the bathroom.

I used to hate cleaning the bathroom, but my mom would tell you no one does that job better than I do.  (Freud would probably have something to say about that.)

This morning it occurred to me that I don’t hate it anymore.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not like I jumped out of bed excited about the prospect of grabbing the white vinegar, paper towels and scrubby, but there are worse chores.

It takes me about 25 minutes to do it right.  That’s 25 minutes without interruption or phone or email.  I play music loud or enjoy the silence, depending on my mood.  Once the tools are gathered, I start scrubbing.

Those 25 minutes lead to a quick sense of accomplishment.  How many chores result in that kind of success rate?

 

I have a system for getting it done.  With years of practice, my mind is free to wander as I clean.  I can sing along to the music, or solve a nagging problem.

By the time I’m done, I’m breathing a little harder.  (The excessive scrubbing is clearly an attempt at scrubbing other “stuff” out of my life.)

Niggling thoughts of situations people, compel me to grab an old toothbrush and attack the lime deposits at the base of the faucet.  The situation hasn’t changed in that 25 minutes, but I have managed to make a little corner of the world nicer.

While working through the plot line of a novel, I’ve virtually written a page and a half, and look down to see that the tub is free of soap scum.

The end result shines, smells better and looks pretty.  It makes me feel like I can have a positive impact, even if it only lasts until next week.

 

Added bonus:  No one is going to tell me how to do it better, or that I’m doing it wrong.

 

Many moons ago, my grandmother had gone to the doctor to try to figure out why she’d been so blue.  (This was back before the word depression was applied to every conceivable ailment.)   I picture the doctor tapping her knee with that little rubber-headed hammer to check her reflexes.  Next he would listen to her heart and then check her pulse.  He probably looked down her throat and peeked into her ears.  After confirming that her physical self was fine, he prescribed something for her mental health.

His prescription:  Go home and scrub your kitchen floor.

 

 

*This post is dedicated to my aunt.

She was a well-read, articulate, quietly funny, compassionate INTJ.  We used to get together on priceless afternoons when chores were done, kids were occupied, and our lists allowed for a couple hours of coffee and conversation.

I would simply send her a text, and she could sense whether this would be a “Let’s catch up” chat, or an “Oh, No! I messed up!” chat.

We talked of crochet patterns, raising kids, teaching (she was a teacher and a principal), family dynamics, marriage and relationships, writing, genealogy, and most recently, the marvel of purchasing books “for only 99 cents on BookBub!”

I remember one particular afternoon when we talked about the years she and my uncle had been married.  She spoke of magic mixed with frustration.  She honestly shared difficulties, but she would be quick to say that difficulties were always framed by the sweetness of knowing someone for so many years.  She understood yin and yang before it was cool.  She told me that until she met my uncle, she’d never known what it was like to have a cheerleader.  He supported her, stood by her, encouraged her and believed in her.  Together they encouraged and believed in their family and friends.  He was her cheerleader until the very end.

Many years ago, she introduced me to the heavenly combination of peanut butter and honey.  (Did you know that peanut butter and honey sandwiches are even better when followed by butterscotch pudding?)  Sporting pigtails, shorts and Popsicle-stained cheeks, summers felt safe and endless with their three daughters, in their backyard.

She also taught me that a family could never be too big, and that there was always enough love to go around.

Thank you, Aunt Pat, for being my cheerleader.

 

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Dear 19 Year Old

Dear 19 Year Old:

We regret to inform you that the function of your frontal lobe will be provided by that of a 55 year old woman, until such time that yours will be fully operational.

This could take as long as six years.

We realize that this is not an ideal situation for you.

 

You will be told to “slow the hell down!”  You will be cautioned to look both ways for oncoming traffic.  You will be warned to chew all your food before swallowing, and to be careful of what you post on social media.

You will be reminded to be vigilant when selecting friends, and told horror stories about peer pressure.

You will be interrogated, harassed and micro-managed in ways that only a loving mom would consider.

These episodes will be interspersed with hugs, encouragements and proclamations of undying love.  DO NOT, for one second, relax and start to think that she’s given up on her attempts to keep you safe.

You are entitled to roll your eyes, exhale loudly, and stomp out of the room.  Remember, it’s because of her efforts that you are even alive to do any of those things.

She is not being a pain in the ass when she texts to ask where you are.  She wants to know you are alive.  Text her back to lessen the repercussions.  Don’t wait until she’s beyond worried, to send that text.

 

Be patient, 19 year old.

You will have more fun than you can imagine.  You will go on amazing adventures, make lasting friendships and create an exciting future while enjoying your own journey.  However, none of these fine things will happen if you die before you get the chance.

 

We remind you that it is her job to keep you alive.

 

 

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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.