Tuesday: It's very very hot today and unusually, I am not happy about the tropical heat because the pool is closed.
Yes, let that sink in for a moment. The pool is closed. THE POOL IS CLOSED.
It's the day after Memorial Day and I came home from work and folded laundry and put away groceries and put on a bathing suit and walked to the pool, only to learn that a pump malfunction had necessitated an early closure. I'm a little devastated.
Honestly, I wasn't even really looking forward to getting in the water, because overnight rain that persisted through the morning likely meant that the already-cold water would be even colder. But I was looking forward to BEING in the water. Getting in and being in? Two entirely different things.
So, here I am. Instead of swimming laps, I'm writing about not swimming laps.
*****
It's Wednesday now, and I'm still not swimming laps because the pool remains closed. It's supposed to re-open tomorrow. Hope springs eternal.
Pool status notwithstanding, it's swim team season--season of early Saturday mornings and Friday night pasta parties and weekly emails. And officiating, of course. I was born to wear a whistle and carry a clipboard. My authori-tay will not be questioned.
*****
Thursday, and the first world problems continue to pile up. Yes, the pool is open finally, but it's a terrible swimming day, and so I went walking instead. And then I yelled at my kids because they are both infected with an end-of-the-school-year laziness virus that I had to nip in the bud. I don't yell at my kids very often. I don't even really raise my voice to them. So on the rare occasions when I do need to read the proverbial riot act, it makes an impression. They're tiptoeing around me right now as though I might bite. And you never know. I might.
*****
Friday afternoon, and I'm finished with work and trying to decide if I should grocery shop or do swim team work or just hang around.
Do you see this? I can't even just hang around without stopping to write about it.
My husband and kids are better than I am at just hanging around. During the lovely few days when we had no FiOS, they started on a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle, which is about 80% finished. As a person with absolutely no spatial relations ability, I find jigsaw puzzles to be among the least fun things that a person can do. I'd no sooner choose to do a jigsaw puzzle than dig ditches or mine coal.
OK, I guess that's an exaggeration. But I'm really terrible at puzzles. The very sight of all of those tiny pieces, all of which look alike to me; and the very idea of trying to distinguish one from another and then trying to fit them together, just stresses me out. So as much as I'd like to have this mess off my dining room table, I'm not going to actually try to put the rest of it together.
Actually, it's not a mess at all. It looks rather nice. Nonetheless, I am ruling out puzzle-doing as an option for the rest of the afternoon. The house is clean, but it could always be cleaner. And I really should go grocery shopping. But the sun is out and the pool is open. I think I'll go swimming instead.
Friday, May 31, 2019
Monday, May 27, 2019
Freedom
It’s Friday afternoon, and Memorial Day weekend is here, and I have few problems that summer can’t solve. Few problems but not no problems. No problems is too much to ask for in a fallen world, especially a fallen world in which Verizon exists.
I worked from home today, and fortunately, I started quite early, because my FiOS went down at 2:45 PM and Verizon can’t fix it until Sunday. I finished almost a whole day, so I don’t have to take any PTO, but I started early for a reason, that reason being that I have a ton of work to do and I wanted to work a bit longer today so I’d have things under control on Tuesday; and so that I wouldn’t have to work during the holiday weekend.
When it became quite apparent that the WiFi was really and truly down for the count, I forced myself to do the thing that I hate to do almost more than any other task in life. I called Verizon, and the moment the chatbot come on the line to try to helpfully help me route my call to the helpfulest agent, I wished I hadn’t. For “security reasons” (“security” meaning “we want to make dealing with us as miserable as possible”) they insisted that they could not and would not speak to me until they could verify my identity with the owner of the account, that owner being my husband, who was of course at work. As was I, but I couldn’t do my work, because thanks Verizon. After they sent my husband a text message, and he forwarded it to me and I read them the number that established my identity, I asked the super helpful agent to add my number to the account so that we wouldn’t have to go through this process again. And he said “Of course—I’ll be happy to. I’ll just replace his number with yours.”
And I said “No, please don’t replace his number. Just add mine.”
I will spare you the rest of this conversation. But the upshot is that Verizon’s customer management system has room for only one phone number. Just one. It seems not to have occurred to this giant tech company that it might be possible to add a form field that would allow a service agent to store an additional phone number; nor that many of the households that their company serves might include more than one person. They’re sending a technician out on Sunday.
****
Saturday: I’m not good at being free. I know no better way to explain this, but I’ll try. No matter what I am doing, I always feel that I should be doing something else. No matter how I might like to sleep a little later or relax on the couch or take an afternoon off to just be a person, I can’t seem to do it. This is partly circumstance-related, because I’m a person with a demanding job and a family and responsibilities. But it’s much more a function of my nature. I’m wound pretty tightly. I know this about myself.
Every so often, though, the door opens a bit, and I let myself walk outside it and I look at my computer and walk right past it, and I walk right through the kitchen and don’t stop to prep dinner or wash a dish, and I walk right through the laundry room, ignoring the pile of folded laundry that needs to be put away, and then I walk right out the door to freedom. It’s Saturday, and it’s Memorial Day weekend, and I just finished swimming my first outdoor laps of 2019. The water was freezing, and it wasn’t fine once you got used to it, and an hour later, I’m still a little numb around the toes. It’s pretty glorious.
*****
So it’s Sunday, the day that Verizon is supposed to come, and of course they’re going to stretch their two-hour arrival window to its limit because they wouldn’t be Verizon if they didn’t suck. They’re supposed to arrive between 12 and 2, and it’s 12:59 now, and I’m guessing that my doorbell will ring at 1:57. Then I’ll wait around while the extremely polite technician analyzes the problem. And then he will either very politely explain why he can’t fix it today under any circumstances; or, he will tell me that he CAN fix it but the problem is our fault and not theirs and fixing it will cost us even more money than the ridiculous sum that we already hand over every month.
Truthfully, I don’t even care that much. Other than not being able to work at home until the FiOS is restored (well, that is kind of a pain), I don’t miss it. My son and I played Scrabble yesterday. Last night, we watched an old Star Wars movie on DVD. I can write without distractions. No one can play Fortnite. NO ONE CAN PLAY FORTNITE! And hockey season, at least as far as I care about it, is over. So I don’t need FiOS. I just want to get out of the house.
*****
It’s Monday now, Memorial Day. Verizon finally showed up at 2:05 and they were finished by 2:30 and I was out the door at 2:45. And it was a lovely rest of the day of sorting t-shirts for our annual 5K and swimming laps and reading books and celebrating a six-year-old’s birthday and going to sleep early and waking up even earlier. It’s 3 PM, and it’s time to go swimming again. Happy Memorial Day, and happy summer.
I worked from home today, and fortunately, I started quite early, because my FiOS went down at 2:45 PM and Verizon can’t fix it until Sunday. I finished almost a whole day, so I don’t have to take any PTO, but I started early for a reason, that reason being that I have a ton of work to do and I wanted to work a bit longer today so I’d have things under control on Tuesday; and so that I wouldn’t have to work during the holiday weekend.
When it became quite apparent that the WiFi was really and truly down for the count, I forced myself to do the thing that I hate to do almost more than any other task in life. I called Verizon, and the moment the chatbot come on the line to try to helpfully help me route my call to the helpfulest agent, I wished I hadn’t. For “security reasons” (“security” meaning “we want to make dealing with us as miserable as possible”) they insisted that they could not and would not speak to me until they could verify my identity with the owner of the account, that owner being my husband, who was of course at work. As was I, but I couldn’t do my work, because thanks Verizon. After they sent my husband a text message, and he forwarded it to me and I read them the number that established my identity, I asked the super helpful agent to add my number to the account so that we wouldn’t have to go through this process again. And he said “Of course—I’ll be happy to. I’ll just replace his number with yours.”
And I said “No, please don’t replace his number. Just add mine.”
I will spare you the rest of this conversation. But the upshot is that Verizon’s customer management system has room for only one phone number. Just one. It seems not to have occurred to this giant tech company that it might be possible to add a form field that would allow a service agent to store an additional phone number; nor that many of the households that their company serves might include more than one person. They’re sending a technician out on Sunday.
****
Saturday: I’m not good at being free. I know no better way to explain this, but I’ll try. No matter what I am doing, I always feel that I should be doing something else. No matter how I might like to sleep a little later or relax on the couch or take an afternoon off to just be a person, I can’t seem to do it. This is partly circumstance-related, because I’m a person with a demanding job and a family and responsibilities. But it’s much more a function of my nature. I’m wound pretty tightly. I know this about myself.
Every so often, though, the door opens a bit, and I let myself walk outside it and I look at my computer and walk right past it, and I walk right through the kitchen and don’t stop to prep dinner or wash a dish, and I walk right through the laundry room, ignoring the pile of folded laundry that needs to be put away, and then I walk right out the door to freedom. It’s Saturday, and it’s Memorial Day weekend, and I just finished swimming my first outdoor laps of 2019. The water was freezing, and it wasn’t fine once you got used to it, and an hour later, I’m still a little numb around the toes. It’s pretty glorious.
*****
So it’s Sunday, the day that Verizon is supposed to come, and of course they’re going to stretch their two-hour arrival window to its limit because they wouldn’t be Verizon if they didn’t suck. They’re supposed to arrive between 12 and 2, and it’s 12:59 now, and I’m guessing that my doorbell will ring at 1:57. Then I’ll wait around while the extremely polite technician analyzes the problem. And then he will either very politely explain why he can’t fix it today under any circumstances; or, he will tell me that he CAN fix it but the problem is our fault and not theirs and fixing it will cost us even more money than the ridiculous sum that we already hand over every month.
Truthfully, I don’t even care that much. Other than not being able to work at home until the FiOS is restored (well, that is kind of a pain), I don’t miss it. My son and I played Scrabble yesterday. Last night, we watched an old Star Wars movie on DVD. I can write without distractions. No one can play Fortnite. NO ONE CAN PLAY FORTNITE! And hockey season, at least as far as I care about it, is over. So I don’t need FiOS. I just want to get out of the house.
*****
It’s Monday now, Memorial Day. Verizon finally showed up at 2:05 and they were finished by 2:30 and I was out the door at 2:45. And it was a lovely rest of the day of sorting t-shirts for our annual 5K and swimming laps and reading books and celebrating a six-year-old’s birthday and going to sleep early and waking up even earlier. It’s 3 PM, and it’s time to go swimming again. Happy Memorial Day, and happy summer.
Saturday, May 18, 2019
On Wednesday, I might wear pink. I might just wear pink
Thursday: I woke up this morning and I just couldn't. I know that could (and by association couldn't) is an auxiliary verb, usually accompanied by another verb. But I just couldn't. Anything, at all. Full stop.
Of course I did anyway. I did the things I had to do starting with the hardest, which was to get out of bed. It's 9 PM now and so I can stop. Until tomorrow.
*****
Friday: You know those little separator things that they have at the grocery store checkout line? And you get in line and the person ahead of you takes one and places it behind their order, and you always say thank you to that person? I used to wonder why people said thank you, because it seemed that that person was only making sure that they didn't inadvertently pay for your groceries. But saying thank you is what you do in that situation. So much is this ingrained in my code of etiquette that I would be slightly offended if the person behind me in the checkout line failed to say thank you when I placed the divider between our orders.
This morning, I felt so despairingly wretchedly awful. I wrote all about it. And then I erased it, sparing you my dark night of the soul. You don't have to thank me.
*****
Saturday: That was fun, wasn't it?
My son's senior prom was last night. He had a good time. Prom isn't what it was when I was young, and in many ways, that's a good thing. I grew up in the city, and only a handful of my classmates could drive. Most of us didn't learn to drive until college or even after. In the suburbs, though, kids drive at age 16 (age 16 and six months in Maryland). When I first moved here, it seemed that every May and June would bring terrible news of late-night car crashes that would kill high school seniors days before or after their high school graduations. And this still happens but maybe not as much as it did 20 years ago thanks in part to school-sponsored after-prom parties.
At Rockville High School, kids aren't even allowed to drive to the prom. They meet at the local rec center, where buses take them to the prom. It's a great equalizer. After the prom, the buses drop them off at the same rec center for the after-prom party.
I'll spare you all the details surrounding security and calls to parents when kids leave the party early. Just know that it's a huge volunteer effort, with over a hundred parents arriving at 6:30 or so to decorate and get the food set up, then work at the party itself from 11:30 to 3, and then clean up the rec center beginning at 3 AM. Senior parents are not supposed to be at the party, and I didn't feel like being part of the cheerful set-up crowd, so I volunteered for graveyard duty, and arrived at the rec center at 3 AM.
I'm not part of the in crowd at my son's high school. That's not a complaint or anything. They're all very lovely people, and I have made friends with a few band and swim team parents. But most of them have known each other since their children were in kindergarten. For safety reasons associated with my husband's police work, we had to move our children from our neighborhood high school to another nearby high school, so he started as a freshman surrounded by kids who had already been in school together for nine years. It's hard for introverted people to break into a new crowd, and we are introverted people.
Another senior parent was leading the clean-up crew. I know her to speak to. She's lived in this neighborhood for her whole life, and is always at the center of every crowd and every conversation. She's pretty and outgoing and stylish and has beautiful hair. And when she greeted me by name last night, and started the usual "can you believe our babies are graduating" conversation with me, I felt like the walliest of wallflowers, welcomed into the royal court by the reigning prom queen.
via GIPHY
It's all high school, isn't it?
Anyway, we were finished cleaning up by 4:30; and by 5:00, I was back in bed, where I stayed until 9:30. And everything seems almost fine again. Grool.
Of course I did anyway. I did the things I had to do starting with the hardest, which was to get out of bed. It's 9 PM now and so I can stop. Until tomorrow.
*****
Friday: You know those little separator things that they have at the grocery store checkout line? And you get in line and the person ahead of you takes one and places it behind their order, and you always say thank you to that person? I used to wonder why people said thank you, because it seemed that that person was only making sure that they didn't inadvertently pay for your groceries. But saying thank you is what you do in that situation. So much is this ingrained in my code of etiquette that I would be slightly offended if the person behind me in the checkout line failed to say thank you when I placed the divider between our orders.
This morning, I felt so despairingly wretchedly awful. I wrote all about it. And then I erased it, sparing you my dark night of the soul. You don't have to thank me.
*****
Saturday: That was fun, wasn't it?
My son's senior prom was last night. He had a good time. Prom isn't what it was when I was young, and in many ways, that's a good thing. I grew up in the city, and only a handful of my classmates could drive. Most of us didn't learn to drive until college or even after. In the suburbs, though, kids drive at age 16 (age 16 and six months in Maryland). When I first moved here, it seemed that every May and June would bring terrible news of late-night car crashes that would kill high school seniors days before or after their high school graduations. And this still happens but maybe not as much as it did 20 years ago thanks in part to school-sponsored after-prom parties.
At Rockville High School, kids aren't even allowed to drive to the prom. They meet at the local rec center, where buses take them to the prom. It's a great equalizer. After the prom, the buses drop them off at the same rec center for the after-prom party.
I'll spare you all the details surrounding security and calls to parents when kids leave the party early. Just know that it's a huge volunteer effort, with over a hundred parents arriving at 6:30 or so to decorate and get the food set up, then work at the party itself from 11:30 to 3, and then clean up the rec center beginning at 3 AM. Senior parents are not supposed to be at the party, and I didn't feel like being part of the cheerful set-up crowd, so I volunteered for graveyard duty, and arrived at the rec center at 3 AM.
I'm not part of the in crowd at my son's high school. That's not a complaint or anything. They're all very lovely people, and I have made friends with a few band and swim team parents. But most of them have known each other since their children were in kindergarten. For safety reasons associated with my husband's police work, we had to move our children from our neighborhood high school to another nearby high school, so he started as a freshman surrounded by kids who had already been in school together for nine years. It's hard for introverted people to break into a new crowd, and we are introverted people.
Another senior parent was leading the clean-up crew. I know her to speak to. She's lived in this neighborhood for her whole life, and is always at the center of every crowd and every conversation. She's pretty and outgoing and stylish and has beautiful hair. And when she greeted me by name last night, and started the usual "can you believe our babies are graduating" conversation with me, I felt like the walliest of wallflowers, welcomed into the royal court by the reigning prom queen.
via GIPHY
It's all high school, isn't it?
Anyway, we were finished cleaning up by 4:30; and by 5:00, I was back in bed, where I stayed until 9:30. And everything seems almost fine again. Grool.
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
Rainy season
There are few things better than a pair of dry socks, especially after you've had wet socks on your feet for several hours.
*****
On Monday afternoon, I visited the headquarters of the Federal government agency that I work for. I normally work in a satellite office ten minutes from my house, but we had a meeting at headquarters, so I worked at my normal office in the morning, and then took Metro from Twinbrook to Union Station, exactly one mile from the building where the meeting was to take place.
A coworker, who has been on the contract with me for just a few months, also had to attend the meeting, so we traveled together. My coworker shares my Metro-riding philosophy: If it's not on the Red Line, it's dead to me. We agreed that we'd much prefer to walk the mile from Union Station than transfer to the Blue or Green Line to Federal Center. And we both knew that it was going to rain, and that it was in fact, raining. But we decided to proceed as planned.
It had nearly stopped raining when we got on the train in Rockville. But then it started again, and a steady, though not driving, rain was falling when we exited Union Station. For some inexplicable reason, my coworker had worn high-heeled sandals, and she seemed considerably dismayed by the rain. I offered to take a taxi with her, but she wanted to stick with our original plan, so we walked through Columbus Circle and then around the Capitol building to Independence and our destination.
It was colder than it should be in May, but not freezing, and there was no wind, so the rain fell vertically, the way it's supposed to. I took some nice pictures of the Capitol building, which disappears behind overgrown spring foliage as you approach it, and then appears again through breaks in the trees. We had rain jackets and umbrellas; and despite wet socks and slightly wet pants from the knees down, a good time was had by me.
My coworker, unfortunately, did not like the brisk one-mile walk through the rain nearly as much as I did. But she was actually quite nice about the whole thing, and I felt a little guilty about how much I enjoyed what was obviously just a step up from the Bataan Death March for her.
****
So dry socks and hot soup--those are the two things that can fix everything. I arrived to our meeting with wet socks (the dry socks had to wait until I got home), but thanks to the cafeteria in the building (how I love office building cafeterias), we had the soup. In a few minutes we were both--wait for it--right as rain.
*****
It's Wednesday now. After days of rain and March-cold temperatures, it's finally sunny and dry and almost warm. I'm hoping that it will be a long time before I need dry socks and hot soup and a sturdy umbrella, all on the same day. Still, it's nice that they were all there when I needed them.
*****
On Monday afternoon, I visited the headquarters of the Federal government agency that I work for. I normally work in a satellite office ten minutes from my house, but we had a meeting at headquarters, so I worked at my normal office in the morning, and then took Metro from Twinbrook to Union Station, exactly one mile from the building where the meeting was to take place.
A coworker, who has been on the contract with me for just a few months, also had to attend the meeting, so we traveled together. My coworker shares my Metro-riding philosophy: If it's not on the Red Line, it's dead to me. We agreed that we'd much prefer to walk the mile from Union Station than transfer to the Blue or Green Line to Federal Center. And we both knew that it was going to rain, and that it was in fact, raining. But we decided to proceed as planned.
It had nearly stopped raining when we got on the train in Rockville. But then it started again, and a steady, though not driving, rain was falling when we exited Union Station. For some inexplicable reason, my coworker had worn high-heeled sandals, and she seemed considerably dismayed by the rain. I offered to take a taxi with her, but she wanted to stick with our original plan, so we walked through Columbus Circle and then around the Capitol building to Independence and our destination.
It was colder than it should be in May, but not freezing, and there was no wind, so the rain fell vertically, the way it's supposed to. I took some nice pictures of the Capitol building, which disappears behind overgrown spring foliage as you approach it, and then appears again through breaks in the trees. We had rain jackets and umbrellas; and despite wet socks and slightly wet pants from the knees down, a good time was had by me.
 |
| There it is! |
My coworker, unfortunately, did not like the brisk one-mile walk through the rain nearly as much as I did. But she was actually quite nice about the whole thing, and I felt a little guilty about how much I enjoyed what was obviously just a step up from the Bataan Death March for her.
****
So dry socks and hot soup--those are the two things that can fix everything. I arrived to our meeting with wet socks (the dry socks had to wait until I got home), but thanks to the cafeteria in the building (how I love office building cafeterias), we had the soup. In a few minutes we were both--wait for it--right as rain.
*****
It's Wednesday now. After days of rain and March-cold temperatures, it's finally sunny and dry and almost warm. I'm hoping that it will be a long time before I need dry socks and hot soup and a sturdy umbrella, all on the same day. Still, it's nice that they were all there when I needed them.
Friday, May 10, 2019
Rhetoric
It's 10:15 on Saturday night and I worked all day today. And I mean all day. ALLL day.
It's Saturday, for crying out loud, but it was actually a good day for me to work. I've been out of sorts, and having to work gave me a good excuse to not go out and enjoy the beautiful May weather. But still, it's Saturday, and now I'm completely exhausted, and my eyes are shot for the day. So I'm going to go and take out my contact lenses, and make some tea, and watch TV for a little while, and go to bed. I'm watching "Broadchurch" on Netflix. I'm obsessed with Olivia Colman's character.
*****
Now it's Sunday. I'm working again and I'm a little salty, wondering just who writes "work to ensure that risks are identified and mitigated," rather than "identify and mitigate risks." And that's not the worst of it. Oh, not even close.
*****
It's Wednesday evening and I'm sitting outside watching my son's baseball game, and freezing. It's May. Did I mention that? Why am I freezing in the middle of May?
Rhetorical question. That's what it was. A rhetorical question, not a hypothetical question. And there is always an upside because my son has grown in wisdom enough that he knew better than to correct me.
It's Saturday, for crying out loud, but it was actually a good day for me to work. I've been out of sorts, and having to work gave me a good excuse to not go out and enjoy the beautiful May weather. But still, it's Saturday, and now I'm completely exhausted, and my eyes are shot for the day. So I'm going to go and take out my contact lenses, and make some tea, and watch TV for a little while, and go to bed. I'm watching "Broadchurch" on Netflix. I'm obsessed with Olivia Colman's character.
*****
Now it's Sunday. I'm working again and I'm a little salty, wondering just who writes "work to ensure that risks are identified and mitigated," rather than "identify and mitigate risks." And that's not the worst of it. Oh, not even close.
*****
It's Wednesday evening and I'm sitting outside watching my son's baseball game, and freezing. It's May. Did I mention that? Why am I freezing in the middle of May?
I didn't wear my beloved sweater tonight because I don't want to wear it out. So the sweater is warm and comfortable at home while I sit shivering in an entirely inadequate nylon pullover. Poor planning on my part. Poor decision making.
I used to say that Maryland's climate was changing but now I think that it has already changed. This is probably the fourth consecutive year that we've had chilly gray March-like conditions in May, almost right up to Memorial Day weekend, when summer miraculously returns. I suppose I can live with the once-unseasonable chill, as long as we get the miracle. But I still wish that I had worn my sweater.
*****
It's Thursday now. I took a rare weekday day off and spent it shopping, another rare event. And strangely enough, it was lovely. And successful, too. I bought some things.
I'm sitting in church as I write this. My younger son's Confirmation is in 30 minutes or so, so we're just waiting for the procession to begin. I suppose I should be praying.
In fact, maybe I should pray for my few remaining brain cells. When my sons were getting dressed, I asked my older son if it was strictly necessary to drop his shorts and t-shirt on the floor or if it might have been possible for him to drop them in the laundry hamper five feet away. "That's a hypothetical question," I said. "Don't answer it."
I used to say that Maryland's climate was changing but now I think that it has already changed. This is probably the fourth consecutive year that we've had chilly gray March-like conditions in May, almost right up to Memorial Day weekend, when summer miraculously returns. I suppose I can live with the once-unseasonable chill, as long as we get the miracle. But I still wish that I had worn my sweater.
*****
It's Thursday now. I took a rare weekday day off and spent it shopping, another rare event. And strangely enough, it was lovely. And successful, too. I bought some things.
I'm sitting in church as I write this. My younger son's Confirmation is in 30 minutes or so, so we're just waiting for the procession to begin. I suppose I should be praying.
In fact, maybe I should pray for my few remaining brain cells. When my sons were getting dressed, I asked my older son if it was strictly necessary to drop his shorts and t-shirt on the floor or if it might have been possible for him to drop them in the laundry hamper five feet away. "That's a hypothetical question," I said. "Don't answer it."
Even as I said this, I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't remember the right word. And I always remember the right words. Remembering the right words is all I know how to do. Fast typing, compulsive housecleaning, and words. Take away any one of the three and I'm all but unemployable.
Rhetorical question. That's what it was. A rhetorical question, not a hypothetical question. And there is always an upside because my son has grown in wisdom enough that he knew better than to correct me.
*****
It's Friday night now, 9:30 PM. Today I wrote a really good nomination for an award that my company would like to win, so I think that my mental acuity has recovered a bit from yesterday's aphasia episode. Thanks, Holy Spirit. I'll stop blogging in church now. It's the least I can do.
It's Friday night now, 9:30 PM. Today I wrote a really good nomination for an award that my company would like to win, so I think that my mental acuity has recovered a bit from yesterday's aphasia episode. Thanks, Holy Spirit. I'll stop blogging in church now. It's the least I can do.
Monday, May 6, 2019
Almost perfect
I was at work one day last week, and I happened to look over at the side of my cubicle where my handbag was hanging, and I spent a minute just looking at that handbag, thinking about how much I like it and how perfectly it suits my purposes.
It's a bag that I normally carry on the weekend or while traveling, and so I guess I associate it with freedom and leisure. But it also has a near-perfect combination of beauty and practicality that make carrying my daily necessities both easy and pleasing.
*****
When I was in Ireland in March, I bought an Aran sweater. It's not a traditional fisherman-style pullover sweater; it's a hooded cardigan with a zipper, cable-knit merino wool in a beautiful dark wine color. It is not only my favorite sweater, it's my favorite article of clothing of any type. When I put it on, I feel like a turtle, safe and comfortable in its neat and perfectly fitting shell. I wish I could wear that sweater every day; but soon it will be too warm, and I'll have to put it away until next fall.
*****
Here's how much I love this sweater. I'm actually happy that today is about 15 degrees colder than the weather forecast predicted, because I can wear it again. I'm wearing it right now. My son had a baseball game and I multi-tasked my way through it, writing several newsletter articles in record time. I thought for a moment that the game and the surrounding activity had helped me to concentrate, in some counter-intuitive distraction-as-a-tool-of-focus way. Then I realized that it was probably the sweater.
*****
Whenever I find a piece of clothing or an accessory that I really love, I try to find another--or more than another--just like it. I think how nice it would be to feel safely shelled like a turtle, every day; or to carry my things every day in a never-leave-home-without-it go bag that makes me feel like Queen Elizabeth II on casual Friday. I looked at some more Aran sweaters online, but I don't want another one--I just one a dozen more of the very one that I have, so that I always have the perfect sweater. My bag is also still available online, in six other colors, but I only really love the one I have. So why do I keep thinking about another sweater, or another bag?
*****
I always tell my sons that, contrary to what the world might tell them, that we're not necessarily meant to feel good and healthy and confident and capable every minute of every day. We're not meant to feel our best all the time. That's the point--you still have to do whatever it is you do. You still have to get up out of bed and do your job or go to school or take care of your family or maybe all of the above and more, no matter how good or bad or indifferent you might feel.
Most of the world doesn't feel so great most of the time. Most of the people in the world, I would guess, are wearing clothes that aren't quite right. Or they're having a bad hair day. Or they feel too fat or too skinny or too old or too not-right in whatever way. But they still put one foot in front of the other, they do what they have to do, and they get up and do it again the next day.
And what exactly is the point of all of that? What does that have to do with a sweater or a handbag or the price of tea in China?
I guess it's that a quest for the perfect sweater, the perfect thing to wear every day in every circumstance, or the bag that will carry everything you could ever possibly need, is really just a hedge against feeling bad. It's a way to avoid the truth, that it's a fallen world and that sometimes, we're supposed to feel bad.
But sometimes, we're supposed to feel good. Sometimes, everything is supposed to come together. Sometimes, after days of rain and gloom and too much work and too little sleep and zero fun, you sleep through the night and the sun comes out and you finish your work for the day and you walk in the sunshine and everything seems right. Like a turtle in its shell. Like the Queen and her handbag, with everything she needs, just when she needs it. Like exactly the right sweater.
*****
When I was in Ireland in March, I bought an Aran sweater. It's not a traditional fisherman-style pullover sweater; it's a hooded cardigan with a zipper, cable-knit merino wool in a beautiful dark wine color. It is not only my favorite sweater, it's my favorite article of clothing of any type. When I put it on, I feel like a turtle, safe and comfortable in its neat and perfectly fitting shell. I wish I could wear that sweater every day; but soon it will be too warm, and I'll have to put it away until next fall.
*****
Here's how much I love this sweater. I'm actually happy that today is about 15 degrees colder than the weather forecast predicted, because I can wear it again. I'm wearing it right now. My son had a baseball game and I multi-tasked my way through it, writing several newsletter articles in record time. I thought for a moment that the game and the surrounding activity had helped me to concentrate, in some counter-intuitive distraction-as-a-tool-of-focus way. Then I realized that it was probably the sweater.
*****
Whenever I find a piece of clothing or an accessory that I really love, I try to find another--or more than another--just like it. I think how nice it would be to feel safely shelled like a turtle, every day; or to carry my things every day in a never-leave-home-without-it go bag that makes me feel like Queen Elizabeth II on casual Friday. I looked at some more Aran sweaters online, but I don't want another one--I just one a dozen more of the very one that I have, so that I always have the perfect sweater. My bag is also still available online, in six other colors, but I only really love the one I have. So why do I keep thinking about another sweater, or another bag?
*****
I always tell my sons that, contrary to what the world might tell them, that we're not necessarily meant to feel good and healthy and confident and capable every minute of every day. We're not meant to feel our best all the time. That's the point--you still have to do whatever it is you do. You still have to get up out of bed and do your job or go to school or take care of your family or maybe all of the above and more, no matter how good or bad or indifferent you might feel.
Most of the world doesn't feel so great most of the time. Most of the people in the world, I would guess, are wearing clothes that aren't quite right. Or they're having a bad hair day. Or they feel too fat or too skinny or too old or too not-right in whatever way. But they still put one foot in front of the other, they do what they have to do, and they get up and do it again the next day.
And what exactly is the point of all of that? What does that have to do with a sweater or a handbag or the price of tea in China?
I guess it's that a quest for the perfect sweater, the perfect thing to wear every day in every circumstance, or the bag that will carry everything you could ever possibly need, is really just a hedge against feeling bad. It's a way to avoid the truth, that it's a fallen world and that sometimes, we're supposed to feel bad.
But sometimes, we're supposed to feel good. Sometimes, everything is supposed to come together. Sometimes, after days of rain and gloom and too much work and too little sleep and zero fun, you sleep through the night and the sun comes out and you finish your work for the day and you walk in the sunshine and everything seems right. Like a turtle in its shell. Like the Queen and her handbag, with everything she needs, just when she needs it. Like exactly the right sweater.
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