Chair parkour

A temporary infirmity is an inconvenient but helpful reminder to take care of ourselves and to be mindful of our limitations. It’s not that I’m out there running marathons or anything but I’m careless sometimes. I do stupid things like stand on rickety chairs to reach high shelves. I try to carry everything from the car to the house in one trip. I stand up too quickly and abruptly. 60-year-old ladies can’t do crazy things like that. We have to be careful.


Yes, this is a comment about a specific thing that happened, and not just general fitness and wellness advice, which I don’t provide because I am not qualified. Do NOT follow me for more fitness and nutrition advice.


Anyway, do you remember when your grandparents used to talk about hurting themselves by sleeping the wrong way or getting up out of a chair too fast? Yeah, they were not exaggerating. It turns out that you actually CAN hurt yourself by standing up too quickly, which is what I did a few days ago, and I’m still recovering.


I don’t even know exactly what happened. I woke up on Wednesday morning feeling just fine, and then later in the morning, I sat down and then stood up and all of a sudden my lower back was just a spasming knot of pain. I went about the rest of my day pretty much as usual, except that I moved more carefully than normal and I took frequent stretch breaks. I went to bed early. I took ibuprofen. But it was worse the next morning, bad enough that I took my first sick day in a year. I felt very guilty about this, and I have no idea why. My boss is very cool, and I know that no one faulted me for taking a day to rest, but there it is - you don’t have to be a Protestant to have Protestant work ethic guilt.


*****


The very nature of this injury is embarrassing. It’s literally an insult added to an injury. It’s indignity piled on top of infirmity. I can’t claim to have hurt myself moving furniture or playing tennis or skiing. I have to look people in the face and tell them that I’m recovering from a chair-sitting injury. Jesus. Old age can fuck off.


*****

It’s Sunday now, and my back still hurts but I’m recovering. I’m about 70 percent better, and I expect to be in full working order in a few days. A little more stretching, a little more rest, a few ibuprofen here and there, and I’ll be as right as rain, if rain is right. Who makes up these sayings, anyway? Now I just have to adjust to the unfortunate reality that standing up out of a chair is now as dangerous as parkour.

The Adventures of Miss Barbara Pym

I’m reading so slowly lately. It wasn’t that long ago that I plowed through a book, sometimes two books, in a week. Now I’m lucky to finish a book in two weeks. And it’s not because I’m so busy that I’m reading slowly. I’m just distracted. I can’t concentrate. All of this (gesturing wildly at everything) is a lot. But I did finally finish the book that I’ve been reading for the last two weeks: Paula Byrne’s The Adventures of Miss Barbara Pym, a literary biography of one of my very favorite authors. 

*****

I’m not sure why England in the 1930s and 1940s and 1950s is such a calming alternative to the present. Things were a lot in pre-war and wartime and postwar Britain, too. Maybe it’s because I know now that everything turned out OK; whereas I have no idea if things will turn out OK here in the United States in 2025. It’s an evolving story. It’s a fluid situation, as they say on the news. 

Also, I’m on the fence about literary biographies. I’m not sure it’s fair to an author to dig through her personal diaries and papers and then try to connect events in her life to events in her books. Or rather, it’s absolutely 100 percent fair because everything that’s in writing is discoverable - especially if the writer published it. And it’s also a reasonably accurate way to examine an author’s life. Most of Pym’s characters were based on herself and her friends, to varying degrees. That’s true of most fictional characters. We can only imagine so much. 

Muriel Spark, another of my favorite 20th century British authors, wrote a memoir called Curriculum Vitae. I read Muriel Spark for the first time when I was young - I found old hardcover copies of Memento Mori and The Girls of Slender Means at Lame Duck Books, a used bookstore in Philadelphia, and then I made a point of reading everything she wrote. I bought Curriculum Vitae the moment it was published in 1992, and read it in a day, and was then astonished to learn that critical reviews were mixed because critics felt that Spark was vague and selective in recounting the events of her life. Duh! Of course she was vague. Of course she was selective. We all tell others what we want them to know. 

So my objection to literary biographies (not that it stops me reading them obvs) has nothing to do with fairness or accuracy - it’s just that I don’t always get the point of writing about writers, period. I’d rather let them speak for themselves. 

*****

But back to Barbara Pym and her adventures.  BLUF: Barbara Pym was an interesting person who lived a rather complicated life. Something I never knew about Miss Pym (and would have preferred not to know) is that as a young woman, she was briefly infatuated with early Nazi Germany. She wasn’t the only one, of course; and unlike Diana and Unity Mitford, she soon saw the truth about the Nazis. Still, this was a shocking lapse in moral clarity for a writer with so much understanding of history and human nature. 

Barbara Pym was also unlucky in love, falling for one unsuitable man after another. She allowed men to treat her badly, and she was  a bit of a stalker. But she was intensely curious about other people in general, not just men with whom she was obsessed. What sometimes crossed the line into stalking often just started as people-watching. 

*****

Characters in the Pym novels set in the immediate postwar years through the early 1950s were preoccupied with economy; and so was Barbara Pym herself. Everything was in short supply, especially food and clothing; and housing was very scarce in London and the other cities where so many buildings had been damaged or reduced to rubble in the bombing raids. Pym and her sister, Hilary, both Oxford-educated upper middle class women who worked full-time (Barbara Pym had a job with an academic institute in addition to her writing, which made very little money during her lifetime), still had to borrow furniture for their first flat in London, and also had to be careful with their everyday expenditures on everything from clothing and food to electricity and heat. Pym’s diaries often mention prices and economizing measures. 

*****

Barbara Pym’s work fell out of favor during the late 50s and 60s, and after publishing six novels, she went a long time without publishing anything. And then just when she thought her career was over, she was back in fashion almost instantly following the appearance of a now-famous Times Literary Supplement issue dedicated to the most overrated and most underrated 20th century British authors. Pym was the only author to be mentioned twice as underrated - by Lord David Cecil and by Philip Larkin. Almost overnight, Barbara Pym was in demand again, with reissues of her previously published books and new interest in publishing previously rejected manuscripts. She won awards and was inducted into prestigious literary societies and appeared on TV and radio programs and was generally the toast of the English-speaking literary world. 

*****

Barbara Pym died of cancer in 1978. Her diaries and literary papers are held in the Bodleian Library of Oxford University, where the young Barbara Pym read and wrote and studied and flirted and cried when she was a St. Hilda’s College undergraduate in the 1930s. She was one of the greatest English language novelists of the 20th century - because, and not in spite of her focus on the lives of ordinary women. Read Byrne’s biography of Pym, by all means - it’s very good writing about a really interesting person - but read her novels first. There are at least three Barbara Pym novels that I haven’t gotten to yet, and I intend to remedy this forthwith. 

60

I generally avoid video content on social media. I don’t bother with Instagram reels, and I don’t even have a TikTok account. I mute or unfollow people who post too many videos on Threads. But I make a few exceptions, and one of them is the We Do Not Care Club. 

If you’re a woman anywhere between the ages of 35 and 75 or so,  and you’re on the internet in any way at all, then you have probably heard of the WDNC Club. A Black woman in her 40s started posting videos of herself, just listing all of the things that she doesn’t care about anymore, and as other women shared their own IDNC stories and videos, the trend grew. The idea is simple - as mature women, we no longer have to care about what others think about our looks, our clothes, our families and homes, our dinner tables, our kids’ college plans, or anything else about our existence. I like these videos. They’re very funny. And these - middle-aged and older ladies who don’t care anymore - are my people. 

*****

On Tuesday morning, I woke up and realized: I’m 60 years old today! 60! An age that once seemed very old indeed and that now is just my age. 

*****

How does it feel to be 60? IDK, same as it feels to be 59, I guess - but definitely not the same as it feels to be 50. I’m much better at accepting people, including (especially) myself, as they are. 

*****

When I was young, I remember hearing from older women that attention from men, a thing that you take for granted if you’re a reasonably healthy average-looking young woman (as I was) is no longer a given once you’re older. “Invisible to men,” they would say. “Once you’re in your 40s, you’re invisible to men.” 

First of all, this is true. It happens in your 50s, really, not so much in your 40s - but it happens. By your late 50s, you’re pretty much invisible to most men except the men you know and live with and work with. The thing is, though, that this new invisibility, which young women are warned of as an impending disaster, is actually a blessing from the Lord Himself. Being invisible to strange men is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.  

*****

Ten years ago, I probably would have told you with a straight face that I didn’t care about what other people thought of me, but that would have been a lie and a pretty obese lie at that. I worried about everything when I was 50.  Now, I just worry about my kids and my husband and my mother and my work and my bills and the state of the world - but those are all important things. I only worry about important things. The things that I don’t worry about (that I flat-out don’t care about) far outnumber the things that I do worry about. It’s pretty nice. It’s good to be 60. 

911

It’s September 11. I'm working from home today, and even though it’s a really bad idea, I have news on in the background. 

Since it’s the 9/11 anniversary, the networks (alternating between MSNBC and CNN) covered the memorials at Ground Zero, the Pentagon, and Shanksville, PA. But the murder of Charlie Kirk is dominating every broadcast. 

It feels like we crossed (yet another) Rubicon yesterday. I don’t know why. Certainly, political violence is nothing new; and people die at the hands of gun-toting maniacs all the time. And as of this writing, I can’t even be sure if it was political violence. The shooter is still at large. Charlie Kirk was an outspoken MAGA activist, but he wasn’t a politician or an elected official. I think it’s likely - probable - that Mr. Kirk was targeted for his political beliefs, but I don’t know this for sure. No one other than the killer knows for sure, though the usual people are out here blaming “violent rhetoric on the left” as if there’s no such thing as violent rhetoric on the right and as if people don’t die by gunfire every day, for all kinds of reasons but mostly for no reason at all. 

Charlie Kirk’s beliefs were abhorrent to me, but murder is always evil, 100 percent of the time, no exception. Gun violence is always bad, 100 percent of the time. Charlie Kirk did not deserve to be murdered. I’m sorry for his wife and his young children and his parents and everyone else who loved him. I’m even more sad and sorry for my country. 

C-Suite

“Aiming for the C-suite, Claire?” This was the opening gambit of a LinkedIn DM from someone who - OBVIOUSLY - does not know me at all, even though he went right for the first name without so much as a hello. Anyway, no, I’m not aiming for the C-suite or any other suite that involves me directing anyone’s work other than my own. I’ve been a manager, and I’m not doing it again. Bro, absolutely not. 

*****

I didn’t respond, obviously. The person messaging me was recruiting students for an MBA program. I can think of a few things that I want to do less than return to school - for an MBA no less! - but only a few. And a five-minute review of my LinkedIn profile would have made this perfectly clear. He’s casting a very wide net, I guess, which is perfectly fair, but he needn’t expect a response from me. I’m a busy woman. If I engage in online correspondence with every joker who wants to recruit me for something, then I’ll never have time to sit around and write about absolutely gosh-darn nothing. 

*****

Well, not nothing. For example, yesterday (yesterday being Saturday making today Sunday) we set up a table at our annual community yard sale in the pool parking lot. I don’t recall ever having done this, even though we’ve lived here for just over 20 years, but my husband said that we did do it one other time, and I have no reason to doubt him. The yard sale was more fun than I expected. I set up a bin marked with a “Free Stuff” sign. I also had a little collection of those ceramic figurines that come free in boxes of Red Rose tea, and I invited little kids to pick one each. The kids were delighted to dig through the free stuff bin for treasures, and they were even more delighted to pick out a ceramic figurine. Three of the figurines were puppies - those were the first three to go. But there were also bears, Christmas trees, a bunny, a mermaid, and a sand castle. All of them have new homes now. I imagine that they’re displayed on children’s shelves or secreted away in treasure boxes. 

Oh, and we sold some stuff too - personal items and clothes, household items, books, a few gadgets, this and that. Some people bargained for lower prices - perfectly fair at a yard sale - but a surprising number of people just handed over the asking price for whatever they were buying. At the end, we gave some things away - including two flower prints to a fellow yard sale merchant who’d had a very slow morning, and who said that getting those prints made the whole morning worthwhile; and a couple of cute canvas tote bags and zipper pouches to my teenage girl neighbors, who were very pleased to have them. Then I tossed everything that remained in the free bin into the dumpster. I just can’t tell you how cathartic it is to launch things into a dumpster, one by one - especially when it’s a big dumpster, and you have to really fling stuff to get it high up enough to clear the top. That might have been the most fun I’ll have all week. Meanwhile, we had a very pleasant morning with neighbors, we cleared out some clutter, and we came home $128 richer. A resounding success. 

*****

We went to dinner on Saturday night with my husband’s mother and his sister and her family. It was a birthday celebration for my husband (September 4) and me (September 9). My niece made me a birthday picture - a white kitten in an ice cream cone with sprinkles. I love it so much that I put it in a frame. And then my sister-in-law and I each had exactly one more margarita than we should have. By the end of the evening, I was legitimately overserved, which is something I haven’t been for a very long time, and I don’t plan to be again anytime soon. 

I really should have suffered more on Sunday morning than I actually did. The FO was not nearly as bad as the FA warranted. Still, I slept a little later than I wanted to, and then woke up panicking about everything I needed to do. And then I just got up and did everything - no dilly-dallying, no shilly-shallying, no wasted time. By noon, I had blazed through a long list of chores, including prepping dinner and hanging up my now-framed ice cream kitten. 

What is better than getting everything done and then looking back with satisfaction remembering that feeling of overwhelm, knowing that it’s in the past? What is better than turning your to-do list into a done list? Nothing, that’s what. Gosh-darn nothing. Between the successful yard sale on Saturday and the burst of efficiency on Sunday morning, I felt like an absolute boss. You know what? I probably DO belong in the C-suite. 

Some days you wake...

 “Some days you wake and immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong, it's just the suspicion that forces are aligning quietly and there will be trouble.”

Jenny Holzer

*****

Glenstone is a museum smack dab in the middle of the DC suburbs; Potomac, to be exact. Potomac, if you’re not familiar with the DMV, is a very wealthy suburban community  - one of the wealthiest in the United States, in fact. Potomac is filled with magnificent houses set on beautifully landscaped multi-acre lots. Winding roads wend their way past golf courses and private swim clubs and private schools. Everything is nicer in Potomac - even the supermarkets and hardware stores and pharmacies are fancy and exclusive-looking. 

Before it became a museum, Glenstone was just one of Potomac’s many expansive private estates. And it still is - the owners, apparently, still live on the property. About 20 years ago, they turned acres of their land into a museum and nature preserve and outdoor sculpture gallery. They built galleries to display their enormous collection of modern and contemporary art, and they created trails and paths through the nature preserve. They added a few parking lots and a visitors’ center and bookstore, and indoor and outdoor cafes. Then they opened the whole thing to the public, absolutely free - free admission, free parking, free umbrellas to borrow for rainy days, free wheelchairs to borrow, free golf cart rides to and from the visitors’ center for those in need - the cafes and the bookstore are the only places that cost anything. I’m not a fan of billionaires and as a rule, I think they shouldn’t exist (as billionaires, that is - no objection to their existence as humans) but if you’re going to be a billionaire art collector, this is the way to do it. 

*****

We pulled into the parking lot at Glenstone just a few minutes ahead of our ticketed arrival time at 11 AM. Even the parking lot is pretty - shady and surrounded by trees, with interesting rocks as parking spot markers. From the parking lot, you walk to the Arrivals Hall, where a friendly staff person asks if you’ve been before. If not, they offer a helpful orientation and hand you a map and guide, and then you’re free to explore. 

From the Arrivals Hall, you walk a beautiful path through meadow-like landscaping. I’m not very good at recognizing plants and flowers, but there’s definitely a huge patch of heather. It feels like you’re walking through a heath or a moor in a 19th century English novel.  As you walk the path, you’ll see a big sycamore tree on your right, marked on the map as The Sycamore Tree. It’s an impressive tree, so maybe it merits that capitalized title. On the left, hills rise, and at the top of one hill, you can see Jeff Koons’ Split-Rocker, a giant sculpture of a creature’s head, which is covered with live vegetation that changes with the seasons. Split-Rocker is colorful in the summer, and green in the spring. Apparently, Glenstone has a guy whose main job is to oversee the replanting and irrigation necessary to keep Split-Rocker blooming in the spring and summer. He’s doing a good job. 

Glenstone has paths and trails. The paths are gentle, flat, winding little paved roads through the meadows. Paths take you to the Pavilions, where the temporary exhibits are displayed; and the Gallery, the more permanent collection; as well as the Cafe (indoors) and Patio (outdoor coffee shop). I visited with a friend who has health issues that make climbing and difficult walking all but impossible, so we kept to the paths. Next time, I’ll climb a few of the trails, including the one that takes you to the base of Split-Rocker, which is huge even from a distance.

*****

The Pavilions are a group of low, stark, gray buildings in the middle of the meadow. Well, it looks like a group of buildings from the outside but they’re all interconnected inside. I didn’t know most of the artists whose work is currently on view, except for Jenny Holzer (quoted above) and On Kawara and Cy Twombly. There’s a pretty large collection of Jenny Holzer’s word art and her huge enlargements of formerly classified documents about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, obtained via a FOIA request; and her electronic art. There are five Cy Twombly sculptures assembled from very old white-painted found objects. I’d have liked to see some of his paintings, too, but the sculptures were very cool. I can’t explain why. 

I was happy to discover some new-to-me artists, too; especially Jaune Quick-to-See Smith and Brice Marden and Robert Gober, whose single piece was a full-room installation with running sinks and walls covered with hand-painted forests with tiny prison-like windows at the top and stacks of newspapers here and there on the floor. It was strangely peaceful in that room. 

*****

When you’re at Glenstone, surrounded by wildflowers and verdant meadows and trees, it’s possible to forget where you really are - but not for long. Past the Sycamore Tree and the Pavilions, you can see the roofs of neighboring Potomac mansions. I’m sure that in the winter, even more of Potomac is visible from Glenstone’s grounds. Still, it’s a calm and beautiful place that feels set aside from the world. I plan to go back soon. I want to get a little closer to that giant flowering head. 

Nothing but blue skies

Our old lady is back. After a few months in rehab and assisted living, she’s back at home like she never left. I talked to her last night, and I’m grocery shopping for her today. 

I might have mentioned before that our old lady (she’s not just mine how; our whole family owns her) is a hoarder, and when she went to assisted living, she authorized her attorney to hire a cleaning service to clean out her house and a contractor to do some repairs. She’s happy with the repairs, but not happy with the clean-up, because, as she keeps telling me, “All my stuff is gone!” I think that this was the point, and I’m not sure what she expected when she hired the cleaning service. Maybe she thought they were going to pick up each old newspaper and magazine and knickknack and dust it off and then arrange all of the clutter so that it looked pretty. Anyway, I’m staying out of that mess. My job involves two things: offer a listening ear (this is the hard part) and deliver food and supplies. I will resist any and all attempts to expand my portfolio. 

*****

It was nice while it lasted, “it” being the few months break from the weekly shopping and grocery delivery service. I’d honestly forgotten how much of a pain it was. She buys too much stuff; rather, she makes me buy too much stuff. Still, I’m glad she’s OK. She sounds like her old self on the phone, like she’s regained her strength. I’ll have to regain mine so that I’m equal to the gallons of bleach and warehouse orders of canned goods. I think she’s a doomsday prepper. I think she’s stocking up the bunker. 

*****

I did her shopping last night, which was Friday, making today Saturday. It’s also Labor Day weekend, my very least favorite national holiday. We’re enjoying an unprecedented stretch of beautiful weather here in the DMV - just endless sunshine and blue skies. Our crape myrtle is almost finished blooming, and the leaves on the trees are beginning to turn. I haven’t been swimming for five days now  - overnight temperatures have been dropping into the 50s, and it’s just been too cold. So today, I spent the morning and early afternoon at the Glenstone Museum, a place I’ll be writing about in more detail. I don’t have much use for billionaires, but I’ll make an exception for Mr. and Mrs. Rales. That is how to be a billionaire.

*****

Another beautiful day. I don’t trust it. This now 7-day stretch of clear, spotless, sunshiny blue skies is just as bizarre as the long stretches of bad weather this spring and early summer. Something is up. The hammer is going to fall, I’m telling you. 

Oh, don’t listen to me. What do I know? Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing. I always get weird around Labor Day. Summer’s about to end and I’m never ready for summer to end. 

It’s Sunday now, and while I normally love the Sunday of a three-day weekend, I make an exception for LDW, which I hate. Hate is a strong word, but it’s the correct one. 

But I don’t hate everything about this weekend. I’m sitting on my patio at 10 in the morning, listening to birds and cicadas as a lovely breeze dries my hair. Someone is using some kind of power tool. I don’t know what it is - it’s not a lawnmower, It could be a chainsaw or maybe a leaf blower. I don’t mind it, really, but the noise is coming from at least a block away. Maybe I’d mind if it was next door. 

Well, that’s all I have for today. My head is in a really weird place. Time to move. 

*****

Do you know that feeling of getting out of a swimming pool and feeling cooled all over and how your body retains that coolness for hours afterward and you feel just completely clean and refreshed? I wanted that feeling yesterday, but I didn’t think I could stand the cold water. It turns out that I could and I did, but only for a few minutes. I went in up to my shoulders and I paddled around for a few minutes - I didn’t even put my head all the way in - and it was enough. The swimming part wasn’t the best, because I really like to swim - but the after-swimming part was perfect. 

I’m trying to turn that into a metaphor for something. But poetry is not my lane, so I’ll stick with prose. A few minutes in the water is better than no minutes in the water. Sometimes, good enough is good enough. 

It’s Labor Day, the only national holiday for which I have no use whatsoever. I’ll get my last few minutes in the pool a little later on, but now it’s time to get dressed and join the protesters on Georgia Avenue. Sticking it to the man will make me feel better. The weather, at least, is perfect.