As I sift through the hundreds of photos from our most recent trip, I can’t help but remember how often I mentally constructed a shot only to realize a white van sat inside the frame. Occasionally it’s grey, or less often, black, but a van is a van when it’s taking up space in front of the perfect architectural contrast of old and new that I find so striking. It’s what disrupts the vanishing point of a village lane, or an interesting streetscape. It’s the marshmallow like box of a vehicle often emblazoned with neon logos, dot coms, and slogans–all necessary, of course, if one is in need of the services provided. Who am I to suggest they shouldn’t be where they’re supposed to be, attending to clients’ needs or headed from one job to the next?
continueCategory: Thoughtful Thursday
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The effect of a cat on motivation and routine
If deciding at the last minute to take on a reasonable facsimile of NaNoWriMo was to serve a purpose, it has only taken two days to realize it. Before I was out of bed this morning, mind habitually processing what the day would entail, I recognized the spark of emotion related to motivation. An excuse to ignore everything and with coffee in hand, park myself in front of my Mac. This had to be a good thing.
But something happened on the way to the kitchen. My cat happened. This is not unusual. In fact, it’s routine. Her morning greeting is urgent and gains volume as I approach the front door. She wants out, and it never seems to matter that my husband has been up and about, and has already let her out. She always returns for the ceremonial exercise that only she and I engage in.
I open the door and she grumbles as she passes over the threshold, stopping just before she’s completely outside. I wait, she looks at me, grumbles once more before leaning her posterior against the door. I decide I’ll wait until the third or fourth time we’ve completed the round to go out onto the porch and scratch the furry belly wantonly displayed for just that purpose. Priorities. I need to make coffee.
Once the Bialetti is on, I fill the dishwasher, rinse the sinks, prepare a large bowl of cold, sudsy water for quick wash ups during the day, and assess the rest of the kitchen. It’s good enough to give the impression it’s clean, but more importantly, won’t distract me from the day’s mission: writing.
Before the coffee begins to well up in the moka pot, I can hear the cat scratching at the front door. She’ll want in, I’ll have a cat food can in hand, ask her if she’d like to eat and pop the lid to get her attention.
It works every time. She stands as close to the threshold as possible without actually touching it, licking her lips, yelling simultaneously. I know I’ll have to go out onto the porch, and nudge her inside before the game is over. She will be satisfied for a time knowing her food is where it should be, in her bowl. All will be well in her world.
Coffee now burnt, I tell myself more milk will help, though I know it won’t. That spark of motivation felt earlier has now turned to an annoyance. I recall how long I worked on the piece I wrote yesterday, fiddling with photos, making attempts to write something meaningful when what I set out to do was just write.
Something occurrs to me. If I was going to spend the better part of a day fussing over a blog post, why wouldn’t I spend that time organizing manuscript revisions? Why, indeed.
November stretches ahead in my mind, its interruptions now in full focus. Thanksgiving aside, I have a trip booked immediately following and will be gone for a week. And then there is the “staycation” we thought we were so smart to decide upon which officially begins tomorrow.
I tell myself I’ll have so much to write about. Stay calm and carry on! And I will. But it has only taken two days to remind myself of a lesson I seem never to learn. I don’t have to commit to an event to engage in an activity, or to change a behavior. To take on a new interest, or rekindle motivation in those once beloved. There isn’t a magic date on a calendar, a finish line, a set of guidelines or rules.
There is just me, and whatever it is I set out to do. I have to decide whether that matters or not. The problems is, far too many things matter.
My coffee is now cold, and the cat is sitting just at my office door, yelling. When I get up to reheat my coffee, she will scurry down the stairs ahead of me, grumbling all the way out the back door where I will be expected to give her a morning brushing, and then find tender shoots of grass for her to chew on.
Routine is what we make of it — or what it makes of us.
Day 3, check.
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On Birthdays and Learning
Yesterday was my 58th birthday.
I have never been someone who could not wait until her birthday arrived, thinking its timing coinciding with Back to School made it convenient to ignore. The worry of wearing scratchy, too warm clothes the first day of school coupled with concerns about whether I’d like my teacher(s), and outright paranoia about the moment that teacher called out my name in class during attendance always seemed to take precedence over celebrating the day I was born. When I think back over the years, unsurprisingly, not many of my birthdays stand out. Other than the good memories that remain of a few adolescent slumber parties, I remember my 20th because it seemed a milestone to no longer have teen attached to my age. My 40th stands out because in defiance of the impending school year, I told my husband I wanted to go to Las Vegas. The significance of this is probably lost on anyone who hasn’t taught school and can’t imagine the potential terror of going away for three days just before school begins, minus lesson plan books and teaching resources, to relax and have fun. It remains one of my best memories because it was a spontaneous decision. My 50th will always be remembered because my husband and very best friend organized a lovely dinner party for me at her home. Family and friends attended, waiters passed with trays of tasty tidbits, and dinner was enjoyed outside under a late August evening sky.
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What was I thinking? Round Two.
Last year as response to a request from a friend, I committed myself to 30 days of writing my first novel during National November Writing Month, lovingly referred to as NaNoWriMo. Fifty-thousand words written in 30 days qualifies anyone as a winner and outside of being diligent enough to actually write those words, the resulting manuscript file must also be uploaded to qualify your effort.
Check to all of the above and I was a certified winner last year. I wrote my 50,000+ words with only a few hitches in my giddy up: we visited our son in San Francisco for Thanksgiving and were stuck there for two additional nights due to heavy fog up and down the coast. We love San Francisco and visit frequently, but this was not one of our best travel memories. Nevertheless, I did write during our delay, then after arriving home, pounded out the rest of the required word count.
Of course I wasn’t finished.
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Getting Organized for NaNoWriMo
In the last few days that I’ve been adjusting to participating in NaNoWriMo, I’ve been planning. Thinking and planning. Thinking, and reading, listening, remembering, and planning. What I’ve not been doing is planning a plot for my novel. Wait.
My. Novel.
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Avoidance, my old friend
I keep a pretty close eye on myself.
At this point in my life, there is little reason for one day to be much different from the next unless I want it to be, and I like it like that. I like that each day has promise and possibility and that I can wallow in all of it. I look forward to every day, anticipating what each will bring with a sort of giddiness. Yes, I’m fortunate, and I’m grateful for the life I enjoy knowing others do not have the same simple joy.
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Diminishing Me.
I’ve gone through my closet a couple of times in the past month or so, weeding it of pieces I’ve had for years. The soft loosely fit pants I bought in both a steel grey and khaki because the trousers I normally wore to work were getting too snug around my waist and were too warm for summer. The newer navy pinstriped trousers I found on sale, with a more comfortable waistband that kept me from thinking about my expanding midsection. Three pair of my favorite Bermuda shorts I think I lived in last summer. A couple pair of ancient light-weight cargo shorts that made shrugging out of pajama bottoms so easy from one day to the next.
And then there were the jeans.
Stretchy jeans. Favorite faded jeans that had gotten too small, then happily fit again, now too big even after a good hot water washing and spin in the dryer. Big jeans purchased in desperation, only briefly worn when things were seriously getting out of hand. Dark colored trouser jeans I bought for our trip to England a year and a half ago and then outgrew. It took a year, but I managed to do it.
As I removed each piece of clothing from its hangar, I tried it on — something I detest doing. The better part of a day was spent standing in front of our mirror clad closet doors while I examined my reflection noticing sagging in the rear, or a gaping waistband. Pants easily removed with a simple tug — no unzipping necessary. As much as you might expect I’d cheer each time it happened, I didn’t. I was busy trying to ignore my practical self voice– the one that thinks about how much was paid for something worn only a few times. Or the seemingly helpful self who cautioned that a waistband wasn’t all that loose and that I may need to hang on to some things.
Just. In. Case.
Four large plastic garbage bags were filled by the time I was done and as much as I can say it felt good to realize losing 20 pounds makes a such difference, I noticed my preoccupation with other things. Things like the sizes on the clothes — many of which were 14s. Size 14s that all fit so differently from huge to still just right. Fourteens with waistbands too high and tight, and others low cut and baggy. A couple of size 12s were also too big, others too small. One size ten I could squeeze into if I thought I wanted to look like an enormous trussed chicken ready for the oven.
That was nearly five pounds ago — and counting. Every other day or so weigh-ins to document my progress have become something that can easily upset me depending on what that progress actually is. Sometimes, there seems to be no logic to it: a one and eight-tenths gain, then a two and four-tenths loss the very next morning regardless of the strict consistency I strive for with this routine. It’s maddening, catching me wanting the gratification of a particular number instead of the understanding that the big picture provides.
So I review.
Eat breakfast before 9am. Check. Alternate between eggs and veggies, whole grain cereal with a bit of fruit, or a carefully orchestrated smoothie. Check. Eat enough calories in one day. Struggle to check. Get your cardio and strength exercises done each week. Sort of check but always working on it.
All my life, I’ve thought of food, but thinking about it in this capacity at times has become exhausting. I’ve begun to notice that instead of wanting to be constructive about planning meals with creativity, I simply want to get it over with. How challenging can it be to grill a small piece of fish or lean meat and roast a vegetable? Grab a healthy snack between meals. Fire up the blender for a smoothie?
I’ve reached the halfway point — or to be more accurate — see it right in front of me, taunting me. Telling me I need to step it up. Get myself moving. But today, I’m tired and cranky. And I’ll allow myself that because staying on good course for 18 weeks, I’ve done what I set out to do. But I’ve been waking earlier than I normally do and staying up later. When I’m not careful about what I eat, I end up with too few calories in my body and feeling like I’m out of fuel, because that’s exactly what I am.
No patience, easy to rile, and seriously lacking in motivation. Flat.
But I don’t “cheat.” I use that term loosely because most understand that being on a diet implies there are rules that must be followed just so — and if they’re broken, it’s cheating. I never set out to be on a diet. I set out to change the way I live my life and feed my body.
At first, I was almost religious about eating five times a day. Three fairly even meals with a morning and afternoon snack. But as I’ve progressed, things have changed. The snacks have sort of disappeared and not by intention. I get busy and don’t think about it. Saved calories, right? That doesn’t work for me. I’ve figured that if I don’t keep the fuel steadily coming, then the whole thing breaks down. I’ve also shifted away from eating even sprouted wheat bread once in a while — toasted with a measured mound of egg or chicken curry on it. Again, this hasn’t been by design.
It’s been days that I’ve been writing this and struggling over how to say it all. When I read it over, there’s no justice served to what I’ve learned.
Perhaps it’s a lesson about my life in general. What I’ve learned must be summed up in a particular way, and because I’m not done, well then, it’s not easy to put down.
Words escape me, but I’ve taken photos just to document. Yes, photos. Each month on a given day, I subject myself to photos taken in three positions. I make a collage of sorts and date it, and each month, I compare the extent to which I’ve grown smaller. Clearly, I have. The clothes show it, the photos show it, and I can see it. I share the photos only with my husband who says he could never do it himself.
But it holds me accountable far more than loose clothing or a number on a scale. A glance in the mirror.
Yet, I’m wondering. Am I just giving in to something I’ve always said I’ve deplored?
Thin to be thin?
It’s disturbing.
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I’ve been duped.
I’m looking at the calendar and thinking that since it’s June 18th, that ten days since I last wrote isn’t all that bad. And since I can’t remember the last time I was this angry, I suppose it’s quite convenient that I have a place to get a few things off my chest, just like I used to.
Unfortunately, I vaguely remember having fun relieving myself of the small but annoying aspects of my simple life. That would not be the case at this point, however, and while I’ve worked my way through my semi-private temper tantrum this evening, a few things have dawned on me.
The entire time I was working at my not so illustrious career, the fact that I had this load on my plate most likely contributed to my professional demise. Not that I need an excuse to understand it, mind you. I’m just floored thinking about it. I’m floored thinking again about something I’ve realized for years and years: that women just have to suck it up. They have to deal. They have to be the glue and the duct tape and the plaster or whatever it takes to hold the structure everyone depends upon in place.
I knew this.
But somehow, I managed to eek out whatever I found solace in to manage. And in that effort, I managed to find that solace in things that needed to be taken care of: my home and family. I enjoyed my gardening. I loved to cook. I even found comfort in cleaning my house. The big joke was that Martha Stewart actually lived in our house.
And then I gave it up for my job until I gave my job up for myself — or what was left of me.
So now that I’ve joined the portion of society that gets credit for being functional by getting dressed and going to work again, I’ve decided that it’s no longer comforting or pleasant to engage in the domestic tasks mentioned above. I don’t want to pick up. I don’t feel like doing the laundry or dusting. I don’t crave time thinking about which print would look best against that wall in my bathroom that is in desperate need of something hanging on it.
And do you know why?
Because nobody else cares. No. Body. It’s all been just a giant placebo to allow me a diversion so I could keep an even keel. Stay the course. Avoid flipping out.
I’m disgusted.
But I think I like my new job.
I just need a couple of posters so I can make some signs to protest the on-going crap women have to put up with when they work. I’d love to squeeze between their accusing content and walk the streets until a desperate reporter from a failing paper decided to write my story even though there’s nothing spectacular about it. Just because.
I’m completely convinced I’m getting in line to be a man in my next life — but only if I can guarantee that I can have a wife like me.
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Reluctant Empathy and Old Ideas
I’ll go to my corner now that I’ve had my little tantrum after writing something that was more catalyst than conviction.
Later in the day when I was on my way to collect the resident teen from his spot at the curb after school, I heard the man I’d been watching earlier on television ask for privacy for the executives who’d received bonuses. If the company was subpoenaed for the list of names, then it could be public information and the man expressed concern, reading from notes they’d already received from hate mongers about what should be done to the executives and their families if given the opportunity.
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My Particular Brand of Menopause.
I’m a bit under the weather today with what seems to be a fairly nasty head cold compounded by a lack of sleep caused by the cold. It’s a two-fold cold: that of being sick, and that which is caused by our window which has to be open lest one of us sweat to death in the night. Being under said weather puts me in a less than joyful mood and left to consider all the more pleasant aspects of my life — like menopause.
Just seeing the word on the page can cause a number of reactions depending on one’s particular set of circumstances:
- You’re female and under 30 so menopause can’t possibly have anything to do with you. In fact, the concept of one grey hair or chin whisker may have recently sent you to near hysteria;
- You’re male, and anything having to do with the female body that isn’t about cleavage, thighs, or hot sex may as well be written in a language unknown to man. That would be a male, and not mankind in general;
- You’re a menopausal woman and because you’re on a first name basis with menopause, reading about it most likely isn’t the first item of the day with your usual Venti Soy Decaf Latte, thank you very much; or
- You’re married to a menopausal woman and unlike awaiting the bouncing bundle of joy which is the result of a healthy pregnancy, you suspect absolutely nothing that cute could possibly come of this.
From time to time, I Google menopause just to see what comes up and it’s dismal. I suppose this behavior makes me Glutton for Punishment’s poster child, but it seems to be part of my two-year and counting adjustment to aging. Most of the initial hits are for sites selling or promoting HRT drugs. The others are large medical sites like the Mayo Clinic and WebMD and although basic information can be found on all of these sites, they essentially say the same thing: hot flashes are normal; we’re at greater risk for joint pain and osteoporosis; our skin will become more dry and less elastic; our midsections will increase in size; our muscles begin to disappear, our hair will thin in some places and grow in others less desirable; we will have difficulty with our teeth and gums; and most importantly — we will be at far greater risk for heart disease.
The good news is that regular exercise, improved diet, and reduced stress can lessen the effects of all of the above. By all means, let the happy dancing begin.
