life according to me
I think it was this weekend five years ago my husband orchestrated my 50th birthday party with the help of my best friend who graciously held the party at her home. It seems longer ago than five years, and considering all that has happened in that time, it qualifies as yet another of my lifetimes.
It’s amazing how quickly time passes. Although I’d like to say that’s a good thing in some cases, for the most part, I’d rather it didn’t. There has to be a balance between wanting a phase in one’s life to come to a conclusion and simply embracing it.
In the last many months, I think perhaps that I’ve managed to do that. I’ve found things to do that matter to me, have forgiven myself for others I don’t spend quite as much time on, and have given myself time each day to look around and appreciate a few things. If you twisted my arm, I’d say that I’ve appreciated more than just a few things.
It does get more and more challenging, however, to recognize whether my life has taken yet another direction, or that I’m caught up in all the things one does when one’s trying to avoid doing what is supposed to be done. It’s convoluted, but it makes sense to me, and that’s enough for now.
Someone today said to embrace the here and now. It’s not new information, and I’ve cringed when I’ve heard others say it before. But today, the message was being delivered to those much younger than myself by someone not much older than they. Ironically, I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to do for nearly a year now. It’s hard if you’re like me and life is about planning.
I know I’m supposed to have learned something in this experience, and I’m sure I have, but it’s late and my alarm wakes me earlier than I’d like so I won’t wander down the path of that explanation right now.
What I miss most about this detour is my barely new found self: the one that laughed and had seemingly endless energy and curiousity. I’d like to find her again because I was just getting to know her. She was a bit odd, but I think I liked her.
If you see her, will you let me know?
I may have seen her this evening when it was pouring outside and she grabbed a huge umbrella and camera to run out in the rain and take a photo.
She’s still in there somewhere.
I’m disgusted.
Well, at least right now I am. I’m supposed to be doing my work and I’m doing this instead. It’s because I don’t want to do my work. I figure I did work at home for 20 years and that was enough. I want to enjoy my life, my home and my family. I don’t want anything else to interfere with those things after working hours. And yes, I deserve that.
At what point in life is one satisfied? At what point do we accept who and what we are? That we’ve done what we’re supposed to have done and be over it.
I’d love to say I’m satisfied. But life is like being in a candy store. There’s always a brightly colored new sweet dangling in front of me and it’s distracting. Isn’t that the point? Are we really supposed to waste time convincing ourselves that THIS is all there is? Of course I know everything’s relative, but my satisfaction has nothing to do with having more in a tangible sense. It’s more about having an opportunity to (insert a dissertation here).
I don’t know which end is up. I don’t know who I am any more, nor what I’m supposed to do.
I’m sure someone out there can tell me this is really all randomness. That all this energy put into trying to figure things out is just a waste of time. In fact, I’m sure there are hundreds who have written books about it. They end up on Oprah and are famous for a minute or two. And then they end up like the rest of us.
It’s pathetic.
It’s really not pathetic. I just feel like I’m supposed to think that because I want to beat others to the punch.
Nothing makes sense.
Actually, everything always makes sense, and I’m tired of it.
It’s that odd time of year when the heaviness of gloomy June skies have given up the fight and succumbed to summer. In a few short weeks, all the weather you might attribute to the most southern corner of California has graced us with its seemingly relieved presence: blue skies clear enough for skywriters to appear, warm dry Santa Ana winds, damp nights when the sea air only begrudgingly wafts through open windows, and this morning, fog.
The RTR is on summer break and for the first time in his life since beginning school at the age of three, he’s home alone for nearly the entire 10 weeks. No camp, no classes, no arranged visits with relatives, and absolutely no agenda. Since I’ve been back to work for a couple of months now, he’s here each day most likely lost in a world that is unique to him — one more and more filled with what it appears to be his choice of direction in life. He draws and paints, develops fierce mechanical robot images and plays interactive video games at his computer. He wants to study game design.
I’d like to say that the past few years that I’ve been at home, I’ve had a positive influence on his quiet life, and at this point hope that whatever did come from our time together — more than we’ve spent together in his life — is far more lasting than what I’d originally intended: to keep an eye and ear out for him with respect to school and responsibility in general.
Yes, I actually said that. But I’ve learned quite a bit with this youngest of mine, and although we’re quite a long way from finding out whether he’s truly the strongest of us all, or whether he’s the absent-minded gentle boy I’ve always thought him to be, I suspect he’s a little of both, and we’ve barely a year left to send him on his way to find out for himself.
We’ve had little time or money for an elaborate vacation this year, and so we seized the opportunity to fly to San Francisco to tour the school he wants to attend. The plan was to spend a day in the city, take the tour the next morning, and then rent a car and drive up to Mendocino, a town I’ve wanted to visit forever.
Outside of my coming down with the strangest flu of sorts and being completely out for the count for two solid days, we made it to San Francisco just fine. I wouldn’t have missed the tour of this school for anything because I honestly have many hopes attached to it like I suppose most parents are inclined to, even if the circumstances surrounding that desire aren’t the best.
When the RTR was a freshman or sophomore, a visitor came to speak at his art class and the person made such an impression that the RTR made an effort to tell me about it without my routine inquiry about his day. I’ll never forget listening to him tell me about it because the focus of his interest was that he only needed a high school diploma to get in. No SAT scores. No AP credit. Just. Graduate.
It has been quite the journey since that day, and we’ve watched him do quite well in all of his classes each Fall semester, and then fall completely apart in the Spring. We’ve planned with him, discussed options for Plan B or C when Plan A clearly wasn’t working, we’ve tried to motivate and outright bribed him. We’ve threatened with images of our version of the real world although we weren’t completely convinced we wanted to be the part of that option we might have to be.
Deciding to save my breath and his ears this year has been a definite giving in. Yet again, I’ve caved to the strength of the passive genes my boys all clearly have. It’s amazing. But the school was amazing, and while on that tour, I found myself envious, pushing away the what ifs and if onlys that kept rising up in me. It’s an urban campus with buildings spread out all over the city with a timed shuttle that carries students to and from their classes and dorms. I watched as a student here and there walked by, laptop bags slung over shoulders, ears wired to iPods, Starbucks in hand. I imagined my son there and saw him fitting in at least from an external appearance — minus the coffee.
The million dollar question — no, make that almost $30,000 since that’s what will come out of our pockets to pay for this each year — is whether being in that environment where he won’t have to deal with calculus, or arcane subjects that aren’t directly related to his focus of study, where he’ll be able to take studio classes right away instead of having to wait until general ed requirements are satisfied will help him understand that life requires us all to complete basic tasks we don’t necessarily want to, nor enjoy. That sometimes, they are painfully challenging, but we have to do them anyway. That in spite of our angst, we often grow the most and admit to learning the best from those lessons that seem only to be hurdles in our path. Like parenthood at times. Like being the parent of children who quietly meander in a direction only they seem to understand at a pace that I swear is intended to make me crazy.
I’m convinced now that I’m down to my last year and facing empty nest syndrome square in the face, that I’m the one who has learned the most. I’ve learned that if I had it to do all over again, very few things would change. But I would wonder about the strangeness of life’s plan and our response to it. To whom it carries along and to those it mystifies.
I will also hold my breath this last year and continue to wonder why, why, why, why if all he needed was a high school diploma to get into that art school, he would seemingly intentionally fail a semester of English. He told me he just didn’t do the work. That he waited, and then it was too late.
Yes, life’s like that. It’s like that all the time.
As is often read, time heals all, and I’m slowly becoming accustomed to being out in the working world again. The adjustments I’ve had to make are minor compared to what others may have to experience under similar circumstances because I haven’t had to worry about finding childcare, or trouble anyone about taking over the few responsibilities I’ve accumulated in the past two years such as car pool. My pets are relatively trouble free now, and there’s no long commute to plan for. Surprisingly, most of my work clothes still fit, which is a sort of accomplishment, I guess.
No, that hasn’t been all that difficult. What has been troubling is the loneliness I’ve been feeling. It’s severe at times — so much so that I’ve been reduced to tears, surprised, and a bit unsettled about my unexpected emotions. Although I’m thankfully past the worst of it, I sense a void that reminds me of a similar feeling I’ve experienced before — that of leaving something behind unwillingly, of loss.
It’s fairly painful.
For days, I struggled to think of pleasant things, and to busy myself with activities I enjoy, but wasn’t as successful as I’d liked. I fell easily into my old habit of thinking of others less fortunate than myself. Of so many who now find themselves without work and struggling to keep their homes. And I tried to understand the uncomfortable pressure on my chest that all but screamed I was making an enormous mistake.
To help focus on the positive, I sat down with the MoH and we made a list of all that I’d like to do with my income over the next year: repair the lighting and drip system on the patio; replace the fencing; install an energy-efficient hot water system, put organizers in the closets, repair a few old dining room chairs, have two other chairs reupholstered….Not quite as glamorous as others may think, but concrete enough to allow me to see that a year of my time at this point in my life counted for something.
I’m a strong believer in the idea that things happen for a reason. That opportunities are placed before us all the time, and the extent to which we allow ourselves to see them determines whether our lives are rich and fulfilling, or mundane and guarded. The ironic aspect of it all is that when I take the steps I do in new directions, I rarely realize whether it’s the best decision for me and those I care about. Instead, it’s more an unknown, a tentative decision at best, and I attempt to keep my mind open to whatever may lie ahead truly believing that a unique experience is just over the hill.
All the while, I’m chastising myself, shaking my head over maudlin thoughts and pathetic self-absorbtion. It’s grossly embarrassing, yet I can’t prevent it. So I heave with countless cleansing breaths, and try to relax. I give in to the sadness and then try to snap out of it. I count what I should feel fortunate about, and move ahead. I look for beauty in small things, and count stars at night. I wonder how on Earth something so good could feel so wrong.
Only those with common experiences seem to understand how closely lives can be linked, how much one can grow to depend on community, on friendship and camraderie gained while sitting in front of a computer. Over the past two years, lovely people who live a state, a country, or even an ocean away have truly and unexpectedly become part of my small world and enriched it more than I can describe.
Sadly, I’m missing all of them right now, and no amount of organizing my garage, digging in my small garden, or cooking the next recipe on my endless list will make that feeling go away.
There may be an interesting change on my horizon, and as I mulled over the possibility of it while sipping my coffee this morning, I felt the urge to sift back through my writing here — all two years of it. I’ve laughed aloud, winced, and cried all in the span of an hour, wallowing in the memories.
At another point in my life, I’d have needed to sift through old photos kept in boxes, or read entries in dusty notebooks to gain what I’ve enjoyed today just sitting here. Although I’ve been tempted to print the text of my accumulated posts more than once, I know it wouldn’t be the same as being able to read through them here, and to remember what mattered on a given day in February last year, or feel again the angst a particular teacher caused our family the year before. No, the pages would end up in a box somewhere like so many other aspects of our lives we believe matter.
Instead, I’ve decided to make private most of what I’ve written here. I can’t give it up completely, so it seemed the best compromise.
Change is good, isn’t it?
We learn and grow from the decisions we make about our lives and experiences. And you know what is said of rolling stones and moss, right?
It’s dark when the alarm goes off and my husband hits the snooze button to squeeze a few more precious minutes of sleep from his restless night. I lay there not quite wanting to open my eyes and tentatively move my sore limbs, regretting my decision to tear down a fence in the back only a little, thinking, not bad for an old chick, as I become familiar with each ache.
The sound of the shower motivates me to swing my feet to the chilly floor and shuffle downstairs to turn on the kettle for tea. One English Breakfast tea bag goes into the stainless travel mug for my husband and I fill the coffee pot to the six line for myself, dumping two mounded scoops of coffee into the basket before remembering to actually turn it on.
The cat is looking at me from her perch on the arm chair and I’m wondering why she isn’t yeowling at me like she normally does at this point in my morning routine, hurrying me along so that she can have a fresh bowl of food. I glance at the dog’s dish to make sure my son has fed her before heading down to tend to the cat, proceding with caution on the stairs because I know she’ll come barreling down them right as I’m ready to take another step and I don’t want to be a feature story on the 5PM news. But she doesn’t today, and I look back to see her staring at me, seemingly as uninspired in this routine as I am. I tap the spoon on the rim of the cat food can and peer around the corner to see her headed down the stairs. She stretches each hind leg, then looks up at me and yeowls, as if to say, it’s about time.
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:
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.
Yesterday I tackled the garage, and although I’m far from being done, I’m satisfied with the progress I’ve made. It’s a jumble of items you’d expect to find in a garage: a fairly recent deposit of my kitchen overflow; remnants of our recent construction; boxes expelled of Christmas decorations waiting for their return; and my son’s truly unbelievable collection of crap.
Not exactly a glamorous way to spend the first day after the holidays home alone, but pleasant. I popped the garage door open to let in the light and brisk air realizing that if I had an attic or basement, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy either of those or my less than friendly neighbors as they passed by on their morning walk, furtively avoiding my gaze and the greeting perched on my tongue, just waiting for an opportunity to be human. Ever the optimist am I.
I think the reason I avoid organizing our garage or anything else in my house that collects pieces of our lives over time, is that I’m forced to think about the memories attached to every item I handle. It isn’t that I regret those memories — it’s more about having to accept the time it adds to the task, and the mood I’ll need to wallow in when I’m finished.
My thoughts wandered from annoyance with my son for keeping what resembles a rat’s nest wherever he goes, to flippant defiance: What if I printed our address in craigslist in the “free” section and just left the garage door open to the inevitable riot? Instead, what I’m left with this morning are what lies between, like thoughts about boys growing up who were never interested in playing sports, but did to indulge us.
Thoughts about school and career, and where all that knowledge and understanding goes when one is done with it. Of an old house and all its poignant memories. Of grandmothers and Martha, old friends I should call or write, and school kids I will never, ever forget.
Beauty lost to function and sentimentality to practicality on many counts during my purge. Copper pieces that have gleamed in the morning sun and cast sparks of light on my dining room wall for years are in the discard pile. Decorations for Valentines Day and Easter that used to liven up the house when the boys were little also ended up in the pile along with a huge bag of stuffed animals I haven’t opened in years. If I see them, I’ll have to think about who owned which and at what point in life. It’s sort of leaning against the discard pile, not quite a part of it, and not quite separate. Is there a child’s stuffed animal heaven somewhere I haven’t heard of?
But there are things I’ve not quite decided to let go of, and If they’re any indication of who I am or what I’ve been, then I’m as odd as I’ve always thought I’ve been. As odd as the stack of Martha Stewart Living magazines that seem to be about much more than the paper they’re printed on. What does one do with that many magazines sitting, collecting spiders and bugs with too many legs to count? Do I get one out each week, leaf through it, cut out what strikes my fancy and toss it to get on with the next? There’s something about a sharp pair of scissors cutting along a perfectly straight line and thinking through one’s life.
Ferd, a giant bunny, sits in a corner on a stack of coolers. It’s not a very dignified place for something that reminds me of how simple love can be if we allow it, and how easily life can be taken for granted, or lost if we’re not careful.
And these bottles? I dug them up in the washed out area of an old dump near one of the last places my grandmother lived. It was in the middle of nowhere — one of those places people used to go and then forgot about after the freeway was built. The bottles aren’t valuable, but I like their varying shapes and embossed surfaces, each a slightly different tint than the next. She was like that.
Or a bag I packed the day I left my job, nearly two years ago. It’s moved from one side of the garage to the other, but I haven’t unpacked it yet. But I might blow the dust off the silver bar that used to sit on my desk to remind me that others see us quite differently than we see ourselves.
I’ve done quite a bit of thinking since finishing my work yesterday, and realize that as much as I got some exercise and fresh air, I’ve only moved everything from one side of the garage to the other. It’s more organized than it was, but it’s all still sitting there.
It’s only been sifted.
I’ve spent some time going back through what I’d written at this time last year. In much the same way that I can go through photos, which always tell a different story than words, it helped me understand more than ever, two things.
Some things never change.
The sun will always rise in the morning and when it does, I will always be distracted by the light cast and shadows created by its brilliance. I will struggle with wanting and needing to go outside, but probably won’t even though I truly want to. The neighbors I’ve tried to be friendly with will have yet another car in their driveway, flaunting their strange obsessive compulsiveness to my complete fascination.
Remember Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun? Each day from her balcony, she observed an old man in black placing flowers in a vase in the wall, and each day he ignored her smile as she watched him. That kind of fascination. Except mine isn’t as fascinating, and the last time I looked, I wasn’t Diane Lane.
Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about the sunrise, and I work at changing my determination to exercise my body consistently, but when the sun does rise, I’m mesmerized, then spend countless minutes wondering why that black SUV is centered perfectly in the neighbor’s driveway instead of one, or both of the silver sedans normally parked there. I wonder why they don’t greet me when I’m outside, or worse, hesitate to respond to my greeting without making eye contact. Nothing to lose sleep over, but it keeps me occupied so I don’t have to exercise or write about something constructive — like the body that has changed so much in the past two years, sometimes I feel as if I’m wearing someone else’s. It would be nice to be Diane Lane.
It hurts, and it doesn’t matter whether I’ve exercised or not, whether I’ve had a busy day around the house, or a long day of sitting at my Mac. It hurts. I don’t understand the abdomen that was once so taut, and now is anything but. It’s soft and pudgy, and feels like it did after I gave birth to each of my sons — empty, a bit lumpy, and sore. My shoulders hurt, my back aches, my arms sting, and my hip bones throb nearly all day long, every day. Some day more than others.
I’d say this is quite a bit of change, but to some extent, it’s normal. All I have to do is trawl through the message boards and forums on women’s health websites full of complaints like mine. Words like “debilatating,” “excruciating,” and “chronic” permeate the comments. Most come from women my age — some have had hysterectomies, and some haven’t.
Like I said. Normal. I can obsess over trying to fix it or deal with it.
I’m dealing with it. Sort of.
Everything changes.
I’ve noticed the neighbors spend quite a bit of time moving their cars around. Their garage is meticulously organized, but there’s only room for one of their cars, so often, the second is parked in the driveway. Other days, they’re both in the driveway, side by side. Perfectly. Although they recently bought a new car — no, make that two — they’ve kept one of the older cars. Three cars for two people. Some days, I’m not sure where the old car is, and other days, after they’ve opened the garage, I notice it’s parked inside the garage, with each of the others parked in the driveway behind it. Should one of them want to drive the old car, both of the others have to be moved in order to back the old one out of the garage. Sometimes, all the cars are gone and I wonder where three cars have gone with only two people. I wonder why the lady backs her car out of the driveway, pulls forward to circle around the cul-de-sac, and then swings widely before pulling back into the driveway. Musical cars.
Some things never change.
The sun is exceptionally bright today, this first day of the new year that I’ve been alone in the house. The RTR is back to school, the MoH at work. House guests back to their homes and lives. The old doggo is on her bed downstairs, and the Yack Star curled on a pillow near me.
My coffee cup is empty.
There’s work to be done.