Exit the Dragon

I write these silly things all the time, and sometimes writing a title takes longer than writing the whole essay. But sometimes, a perfect title comes along and just writes itself. 

*****

Not only is this a perfect title, it's also not a metaphorically perfect title. This post really is about a dragon. See? It’s huge, isn’t it? 

What? You have an even better title?
No, you don't. Come on. 

This dragon is notable for several reasons. First of all, it’s notable that a neighbor has a huge inflatable dragon on their front lawn. Secondly, the dragon has been there for months. Maybe years. I don’t know. I walk past it all the time, and only in the last few days has it occurred to me, just barely, to wonder about it. It can’t be a birthday thing, and it can’t be there to commemorate some dragon-focused holiday because it’s been there forever. Though some people do keep their Christmas decorations up until March, so who knows. 

When I say that the dragon is on a neighbor’s front lawn, I mean a distant neighbor, six or seven streets away. I see the dragon only when I pass their house during my neighborhood walks. I don’t know how the actual neighbors, who have to look at the dragon all the time, feel about it. On the one hand, I think that people should be able to do what they want to do on their own property. On the other hand, it’s a huge red dragon, and what the hell? What in the actual hell? 

*****

My husband and I went for a walk the day after I wrote this. When we turned onto the street where the dragon lives, I didn’t see it right away and I thought well, isn’t that ironic that the dragon disappeared the very day after I realized that he had been there for months. We don’t know what we have until it is gone, I suppose. But then we walked a few more steps, and found that he was right there where he belonged; he just isn’t visible from the intersection. 

“How long has that dragon been there?” I asked my husband. “When did you first notice him?” 

“A while ago,” my husband said helpfully. A while. I could have come up with that timetable myself. “Maybe it’s a corona thing,” he said. 

I hadn’t considered this, but perhaps he’s right. Perhaps the bright red dragon is meant to represent the ever-present threat of the plague. I thought backward to try to pinpoint the time when I first noticed the dragon, and I realized that I don’t really remember anything pre-corona. If it happened any time before March 13, 2020, then it’s ancient history, from a time when dragons maybe actually did roam the earth. 

*****

In 2019, I read Maeve Brennan’s The Long-Winded Lady. Maeve Brennan was an Irish writer who lived in New York City in the 1950s and 1960s (and possibly before and after). She wrote a column, also called "The Long-Winded Lady," for the New Yorker. The book is a best-of compilation of those columns. 

Maeve Brennan might have been long-winded in person. I guess that’s the stereotype of Irish people: talkative, even garrulous. But her columns weren’t long-winded at all. They were very spare and succinct. She wrote mostly about New York City, and how every time she felt settled somewhere, that somewhere would change. She moved around all the time, from one temporary furnished apartment or hotel suite to another. Sometimes, she had to move because a building she lived in would soon be razed to make way for a bigger, more modern building. She didn’t complain about change itself, but she lamented the pace. It was as if she was trying to maintain a record, a point-in-time snapshot of how a neighborhood or block looked during the time that she occupied it, but change came so rapidly and so unexpectedly that sometimes a whole building would disappear before she could describe it to herself, and then its memory was gone too.

*****

So I wrote the dragon part of this essay months ago, and promptly forgot about it, because what was the point? A post about a giant inflatable dragon seemed apropos of exactly nothing in life. And then I started walking around the neighborhood again, because the pool was closed, and it was walking weather again. And I walked past the dragon house, and the dragon was gone. 

I couldn't remember for sure if it was the right house, but I knew the street, and that street was entirely free of dragons, real or imagined. There was a SOLD sign on the front lawn of the house that I thought was the dragon house, and when I looked back at the picture, I saw that it was the same house. I don't know if the old owner banished the dragon for fear that it would scare off potential buyers, or if the new owner managed to look past the dragon to see the house behind it, but then got rid of him as the first order of new home ownership business. No matter, one way or the other. The dragon is gone. People live and work on Maeve Brennan's New York streets, and have no idea what they looked like fifty years ago. And a few months from now, the new home will host friends and family who will never know that the street they're visiting was once a dragon's home. He was once a part of the neighborhood landscape, but things change. Things move on. 

Friends old and new

It always happens, doesn’t it? You think you want something and then when you get it, you don’t want it anymore. Not that I am ever happy to see the end of summer, but one thing that I thought I was looking forward to was not wearing shorts and a t-shirt every darn day. And then I woke up this morning, a sunny Saturday with temperatures in the 40s (in SEPTEMBER!) and I put on jeans and a top and a sweater, and I felt like I’d been stuffed into a straitjacket, bound up like a mummy in clothes that restricted my freedom of movement in a way that I am no longer accustomed to. 

It’s later in the day now, and a little warmer than this morning. It’s not t-shirt and shorts warmer but with leggings, a short-sleeved t-shirt, and a ¼ zip pullover thing, I am quite comfortable. I’m going to walk with my friend. More writing later. 

*****

It’s Sunday morning now, November cold but brilliantly sunny, almost blinding. I walked with my friend and her dog yesterday. My friend is younger and more energetic than I am, and her dog is more energetic than either of us. I like walking with them, because they make me walk faster and farther than I would on my own. We walk together pretty often, and we usually resume our ongoing conversation from whatever point we left off at the end of the last walk. We talk about work, or books and movies and politics, or family. Yesterday, my friend told me that she’d spoken to her mother a few days earlier. “We had lunch at Panera today,” her mother told her. “It was a treat, but quite a bit more food than we expected, so we’re just going to have a snack for dinner.” 

“There it is,” my friend said. “My parents are an insurance commercial.” 

*****

I don’t think much about what I wear when I’m with my close friends. They’re my friends. They know me. They know what I look like. But when I see newer friends, I take more trouble with my clothes and overall appearance. Earlier in the day on Saturday, I had an appointment with a church acquaintance. We work together in a volunteer group that helps new mothers in need, and we were to meet a new client together. So I wanted to look nice, to make a good first impression. This woman is stylish, in an affluent outdoorsy suburban woman way, and she always looks well-dressed and put-together, and I wanted to look well-dressed and put-together too. Or rather, I wanted her to think of me as well-dressed and well put-together. 

*****

Back in late July and early August, I started searching for a barn jacket. Something or someone put me in mind of a barn jacket, like the J. Crew ones that were so popular in the early ‘90s. I have no idea if they’re making a comeback or not, or if this was just one of my short-lived style whims. I looked high and low for exactly the right barn jacket. I couldn’t decide between vintage or new, between red or a dark tan, between canvas with a leather or corduroy collar or lightweight quilted nylon. Eventually, I lost interest because after all, it was still summer and I don’t like thinking about fall clothes in the summer; and because really, I’m not a barn jacket person. I don’t have a barn. I like going outside, but I’m not outdoorsy. I have never been on a horse in my entire life and God willing, I never will be. Nothing against horses, of course. They’re beautiful creatures. I just don’t want to go anywhere near one. I finally got a nice insulated canvas utility jacket with patch pockets and a hood; and I hung it in my closet thinking that I’d get to wear it sometime late in October. And then it was 45 degrees on a Saturday morning in the middle of September and I was glad that I had that jacket. 

*****

Back to my church friend. I’ve known her to say hello to, as my mother always said, for a few years, but we have never really interacted other than to greet one another at church or at kids’ sports practices (our sons ran cross-country together a long time ago). She called me a little while before we were to meet, to let me know that she was running late, and as I listened to her voice, I realized that I didn’t know her at all. I didn’t recognize her telephone voice right away, and her speech patterns and conversational style were not familiar to me. As we spoke, I wondered if we’ll remain friendly acquaintances, or if we’ll eventually become friends.

****

While we’re on the topic of jackets, is there really that much of a difference between a barn jacket and a utility jacket? In terms of function, not so much. Both are generally boxy or relaxed fit canvas jackets, with plenty of spacious pockets to warm your hands or hold your things. Both generally come in rather muted, drab colors. They might be insulated or not. Appearances aside, though, there’s a philosophical difference between a utility jacket and a barn jacket. They say different things about the wearer. The utility jacket is city mouse, and the barn jacket is its country cousin. The utility jacket goes to the museum or to Starbucks, and the barn jacket goes to the stables or to a fall festival. They might have different taste in movies. They might be on opposite political sides. 

*****

My church friend and I finished our task, and we spent a few minutes chatting before continuing on with our day.  We ended up talking about politics (more and more my least favorite subject) and I learned that she is a reluctant but unwavering Trump supporter, because she believes that he is the better option for pro-life voters. I disagree vehemently, but I understand her position. She’s not enthusiastic about Trump, and I’m not enthusiastic about Biden, but on November 3, we’re going to cancel out one another’s votes. 

I’m reading back over this now, and I think that I intended the jackets to serve as a metaphor. One jacket is an acquaintance, and the other is a friend. They don’t look that different until you really start to examine them closely. And it’s not a bad metaphor, is it?  A person might need a barn jacket AND a utility jacket. It depends on the occasion. And a person needs friends and acquaintances. I still don’t know if my church friend and I are going to be real friends or not, but I have not ruled it out and I don’t think she has either. That’s a good sign, I think. Some of us are still willing to reach across the ever-widening political divide to make a friend on the other side. It's not a bad idea to try on a different jacket now and then. 

The reading (and writing) life

Sometimes I write about reading, and sometimes I read about writing, and sometimes I write about writing. And I just finished reading C.S. Lewis’s The Reading Life, so now it seems that I also  read about reading. This book was a fitting selection, since I have been reading a lot lately, even more than usual. I’m in the middle of writing several different book essays right now. I hesitate to call them reviews; first of all, because I seldom read anything brand-new; and secondly, because I am not very good at figuring out why I do or don’t like a book, and “it was great; you should totally read it” is not compelling criticism. 

*****

One thing I don’t write very much about is work, because I like work and I want to keep doing it, and writing about your job on the Internet is a good way to lose it. All I will say is that when I click on the “share” button in a presentation that’s saved on SharePoint, and I see no fewer than three people trying to edit it at the same time as I’m trying to edit it, then we might have a case of too many cooks, know what I mean? And that is all I have to say about that. 

*****

But back to my book-reading. I also just finished Hyperbole and a Half, ten years after everyone else finished it; and This is My Life, almost 30 years after Nora Ephron directed the movie adaptation. I loved both of these books, for entirely different reasons, and I’ll tell you why at another time, as soon as I finish writing my half-baked essays about them. 

*****

In The Reading Life, C.S. Lewis lists four characteristics of true readers. They are: 

1. Loves to re-read books
2. Highly values reading as an activity (vs. as a last resort)
3. Lists the reading of particular books as a life-changing experience
4. Continuously reflects and recalls what one has read

Check, check, check, and check. 

*****

You know what? It’s September, ¾ of the way through the reading year, and I haven’t re-read a single book this year. But I did read all of Helene Hanff’s books, and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy and I expect to read all of them again. Right now, I’m reading Giving Up the Ghost, Hilary Mantel’s memoir. It reminds me very much of Curriculum Vitae, Muriel Spark’s autobiography. This is very high praise. Sadly, there won’t be any new Helene Hanff or Muriel Spark books; but Hilary Mantel is still living, and even though she’s finished with Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII, that doesn’t mean that she’s finished writing. At least I hope not. 

*****

Thanks to the never-ending pandemic (2022? Really, Dr. Fauci? REALLY?), I still don't get out much. But I’m living the reading life and the writing-about-almost-everything (except work) life. It’s a pretty good life. God willing, I’ll get to keep writing more words and reading more books. And maybe I'll have a party in two years, give or take. 

 

Subject line

I have my Gmail account set up with tabs for Promotions, Social, Updates, etc. When I opened this account 10 years or so ago, I vowed that I’d use it only for private email, and give my old Yahoo address to all of the businesses that demand my email address every time I buy something. But with one thing and another, my system got corrupted and everyone in the world has my Gmail address. The tabs help me to control the spam, to the extent that a person can control spam. 

Every so often I check the spammy emails, just to make sure that I’m not missing something important. Yesterday, I saw an email with no subject line, from a brand-new sender: Coronavirus. Yes, now it’s sending me emails. Maybe the novel coronavirus has merged with a computer virus and it’s trying to infect me and my computer at the same time. But I’m too smart to fall for that, aren’t I? Coronavirus will have to get up earlier in the morning if it wants to get me via email. 

*****

Yesterday it was an email from the coronavirus and today it's a text message from the dentist’s office. I'm sitting in the "virtual waiting room," also known as my car, parked in the parking lot, and the office just texted me that my dentist is running late. Well, someone who works in the office texted me but it feels disembodied and impersonal as if the desk or the building is tapping away on an iPhone, keeping me abreast of waiting times. I had to take time away from a busy work day to come here, and I arrived ten minutes early as instructed. I live very close by, and it occurs to me that they probably knew that the dentist was running late and they could have let me know this before I left the house. I guess I can't blame a disembodied text message. So I'm multitasking. 

This isn't a routine check up. I have an old filling that's broken and I'm here to get it fixed. I can't stand novocain, but I'm glad that people can still take care of minor health problems even amid the pandemic. Coronavirus isn't the only game in town. Maybe that's why it's out there sending email messages. Maybe it doesn't want us to forget about it. It probably shouldn't worry. 

Another day

Today is my birthday. I’m older; but as they say, no one is getting younger, and this is simply true. For the first time ever, I might have been able to swim outdoors on my birthday, which always falls after Labor Day; but it’s supposed to rain this afternoon, with possible thunder and lightning. Rain alone wouldn’t stop me from swimming, because how much wetter can you get, but thunder and lightning closes the pool and it’ll be out of my hands. We’ll see what happens. 

For my entire childhood and most of my early adult life, I was very lucky when it came to birthday weather. My birthday would dawn clear and sunny, and would remain so all day. My memory is not what it was so maybe I’m completely wrong about this, but I honestly think that I was in my late thirties the first time it rained on my birthday. Since then, the birthday weather has been hit or miss. But that’s OK because when you are my age, it’s mostly just another day. 

Maybe I’ll get to swim. I hope so. But I won’t have to cook dinner, and I plan to eat ice cream for lunch. The weather might be sketchy but ice cream and chicken souvlaki and french fries from my favorite Greek restaurant taste good no matter what it’s like outside. Happy Birthday, if it’s your birthday, too. 

Pointless

So I did swim, and it was cold, just as I feared it would be; but it was fine, just as I knew it would be. I swam almost every day this summer. I have as many adjectives to describe pool swimming conditions as Greenlanders have to describe snow. Which is to say not that many because apparently, the whole idea of native Alaskans and Greenlanders having a separate vocabulary just to describe snow was debunked years ago. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, Tuesday’s pool conditions might best be described as “dank.” A slightly cool, slightly damp, pearly day; and chilly pool water that looked darker blue than usual, without the sparkling reflected sunlight. A few laps, and I was almost not freezing cold. But it was great, and I’d do it again. I will do it again. 

The point of swimming (for me, that is) is that there’s really no point, other than the fun of doing it. No matter how often I swim (as often as possible during the summer), my technique never really improves, and I never get faster, though I do build endurance as the summer goes on. Endurance and flexibility are my only athletic advantages. I’m slow, I’m not that strong, and I’m terribly uncoordinated. 

When I’m in the water, I do try to think about improving my technique. I realize sometimes that I’m swimming with my fingers spread apart, and I remind myself to keep my hands closed, like paddles. I prompt myself to kick, so that my upper body isn’t doing all the work. I try to engage my core. I don’t even know what that means, but I try to do it. But I’m not not a kinesthetic learner. The best way I can think of to describe this is that I can watch someone performing an activity correctly, and I try to imitate their form, and I feel like my body is doing exactly what I’m seeing in my mind, but observers tell me that I’m not even close. 

For example, what I think of as “breaststroke” would never pass a judge’s scrutiny, at least from the waist down. I try to kick outward, so that I’m gaining propulsion from the soles of my feet rather than the tops, but even as I’m thinking about what it should look like and consciously trying to do it, I know that my feet are kicking downward. And I can’t keep the kick simultaneous either. I’m going to DQ on a downward butterfly kick (or a scissors kick or an alternating kick) every single time. 

And that takes me back to the point, which is that there is no point, except that I really love to swim. I don’t have to pass a judge’s scrutiny. I don’t have to beat anyone. I don’t have to improve my time; this is why I don’t even bother to know what my time is. I just like the feeling of moving through water. 

*****

It’s Friday now, the Friday of Labor Day weekend. I hate Labor Day weekend. Normally, I hate it because it marks the end of summer, at least what I consider summer. And of course, the pool usually closes on Labor Day. This year, because so many of the kids who work as lifeguards (mine included) are attending school from home, the management company decided to keep the pool open for a few extra weeks. (The ‘rona mostly taketh, but it also giveth a little). This year, I hate Labor Day for entirely different reasons. I am actually happy to see the end of this summer, and that makes me sad, because it’s sad to wish summer away.

It rained on Wednesday and Thursday night; heavy, drenching rain that broke up the warmth and humidity that had begun to build again. The fall lovers are planning for the first taste of PSL weather this weekend, hoping that it will be cool enough to break out the sweaters and the backyard fire pits and the gaiter scarves that double as face masks. I’m not doing any of that nonsense. I’m going to swim.  

It's all your fault

It’s the virtual first day of school, or the first day of virtual school, or whatever you want to call it, here in Maryland. My older son started his second year of college with a 9 AM Zoom session, and my younger son started his second year of high school with another 9 AM Zoom session; and thankfully, our Wi-Fi is capable of supporting all of this simultaneous activity because I also had a call at 9 o’clock, but on Teams rather than Zoom. 

Because we’re back to starting before Labor Day (make up your mind, Maryland), the first day of school doesn’t make me feel like summer is over. The weather is doing that--it’s raining and cool today, more like the end of September than the last day of August. So far, only two of my Instagram friends have posted first-day-of-school pictures. I suppose there’s no point, but I do like first-day-of-school pictures. Is there nothing that the damn ‘rona won’t take away? Now I don’t even get to scroll through a feed full of smiling faces and first-day outfits and new backpacks? You’re a bitch, 2020. I said what I said. 

*****

Now it’s the second day of school. Just like that, the routine that I have become accustomed to during the last few months is over, and I have to adjust to a new one. Another test of my well-honed change management skills. 

I blame 2020 for a lot of shit, but I can’t blame it for my time-wasting indecisiveness, because that long out-dates this terrible year. I’m almost finished working for the day, and I’m just about paralyzed with indecision about what to do for the rest of the day. Or more accurately, when and how to do what I’m going to do, because I know exactly what I need to do for the rest of the day; it’s just that I can’t decide when to do what, and I’m going to fritter away at least 30 minutes while I weigh pros and cons and compare approaches and consider possible outcomes. Maddening, I tell you. 

I want to exercise outside. I’d always rather swim, but I know that the water will be much colder than I like. But time is running out for outdoor swimming, and it might be better to suffer a few minutes of cold than to lose one of the few remaining pool days. But I also have to shop for my old lady today, and swimming will take longer than walking because I’ll have to take a shower afterward. And dinner--what am I supposed to do about dinner? People expect to eat every day, several times a day; and they all look to me to make that happen. And they’re not wrong, because someone has to be responsible and it might as well be me. Why not me? 

The cold water will be invigorating. It will clear my mind. It might be a new season but I will still cling to the vestiges of the old one while I can. Suck it, 2020. 

*****

Yes, I know that I said that I wasn’t blaming 2020, but a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. There’s nothing bad that 2020 can’t make worse, including my decision-making skills.