Lost Year

I don’t want to sleep at night.
I lay down and play on my phone- one more round of a senseless game.
One more peek at Facebook.
I’ll nod off and wake with a startle, then push down with my thumb to wake the phone and start all over again.
I don’t want to go to sleep.

I don’t want to wake in the morning.
Quickly press snooze and drift off on some mornings, grabbing seven more suddenly asleep minutes before the clanging buzzer starts again.
On other mornings I quickly open my eyes, pull the covers up, but just stay there.
I don’t want to get out of bed.
If I can just stay there then the day doesn’t start.
Then nothing has happened yet, everything is still a possibility.
No errors.
No issues.
Nothing starts until I get out of bed.

It’s just- that’s not the right way to go about it, is it?

I’m an adult with adult obligations.
There are… things.
Places.
Duties.
Stuff.
The weight of it pulls me under.

I haven’t been able to talk about it.
To write about it.
Can hardly bear to think about it.
But the pull of it all MUST be broken because I can’t stay here anymore.
No more than I can stay in bed forever and pretend everything will wait, will stay the same.

I am not the same person now as I was 12 months ago.
12 months ago I was working for a company that was struggling but seemed as if it would be victorious and turn things around.
It didn’t.
During the height of the initial COVID-19 panic it closed.
Closed in a horrible, terrible, messy, and frightening way.
Angry and frightened people screaming angry and frightening things.
Tears, confusion, panic, pandemic, unemployment.

Two months later I took a leap with a start-up.
Its mission was one in which I believed.
I chose it over the possibility of working with a non-profit in which I still fiercely believe.
I chose it because I believed in the jobs it would bring.
In the way it would operate.
In the promised truth and transparency.
In the way I could use all of my experience and skills to ‘put my fingerprints’ on this new company.
So that it would provide a place for people to work and support their families long after I retired.
I chose it to make a difference.

I, as did many people, worked harder on this than in any other job.
Seven days a week, week after week- up at 5:00 AM and asleep at 1:00 AM.
For days, weeks, months.

While the world was huddling and cocooning.
While people made posts about how BORED they were in quarantine,
While folks moaned about needing to ‘stimulate their mind’- I worked.
Zoomed.
Called.
We used our own computers and phones.
(I STILL use my own phone. Who runs a business with out phones?)
We cleaned buildings ourselves.
Took trash home because there was no garbage service.
Taught ourselves how to conduct virtual learning courses.
Did virtual interviews.
Hired.
Trained.
Documented.
Met impossible deadlines.
Exhausted but buoyed with purpose.

I lost the year.
The year that barely was.
And eight months from the start we are in Chapter 11 and seeking a way to reorganize and reinvent.
And eight months later I force myself to stand up each morning and MOVE through the grief and clamor that almost deafens me.
(I can hardly believe you don’t hear it.
The words and cries ring through my head- a claxon that thrums through my blood.
It screams at me and demands I justify my decisions)
I willingly traded those days with my husband for this.
I willingly and deliberately walked away from a cause in which I still believe.
I believe.
I believed.
I don’t know what to believe.

Because once again there are people in pain.
Once again without a job,
and some of them walking out of the very same building in which they worked before,
and again not knowing what will happen next.
I feel them, even if I don’t hear them, even if I try not to read the posts they make.
These people that worked so hard to create something new,
to master new ways,
to plow through the challenges.
Angry.
Assuming…. I don’t know what they assume… that everything in that lost time was a crafty trick?
Designed to fail?
I told you so- I told you-so- I told you so?

I don’t know what to believe.
My husband does, though.
This man that welcomed me home from long days,
that kept silent during conference calls,
that watched me grab the phone at all hours,
that tucked me in after a call that didn’t end until 1 AM.

This man that says he is proud of me.
That says he knows I am talented.
That smiles and holds me when I cry.
That reminds me that I have learned so many new things in this past year that I will never be the same.
That tells me the year was not lost.
That tells me I have nothing for which to apologize.
That tells me nothing can really be wrong when he has me in his life.
The man that still- dear Lord bless him- asks me everyday ‘how was your day dear?’
And listens while I tell him.

Years ago- I did not know this man.
Years ago- I was the wife of another man.
Years ago- there was a reorganization and I came home and told this once-husband what had happened.
Years ago-that man responded with ‘You didn’t really believe it was going to work, did you?’

It would be very easy to fall back on that memory of years ago.
Especially in the mornings when the weight of what was worked for, prayed for, sweated for, and even bled for drags me down down down.

Many things are different now.
The price paid for where we are now is too dear, too great, too stunning.
The lessons learned
(If I EVER am told to ‘Stay in my own lane’ when I question a decision… well; that will tell me I am in the wrong place and with the wrong people.)
are not lessons I am keen to learn again.

I don’t know what will happen next.
I am both older, and while bruised, also wiser.
I know to trust my instincts.
I know that I have value.
I know that some time soon I will feel the pull of the new day and greet it with gladness.

Until then- it is enough that he believes that the days we spend together are never lost.
Until then- I choose to believe he knows best.

It Takes A Village

Summer holidays meant a 90-minute trip to Gramma and Grandpap’s house.
There WAS an ‘over the river’ aspect to it,
since we lived in Pittsburgh,
where distance is seldom calculated by miles
and more often described as the number of bridges you would cross.
Getting to their home was a four-bridger for us.

My grandparents once lived in my Gramma’s childhood home,
which was in turn sold to my parents.
Who eventually sold it out of the family during my father’s search-for-meaning phase.
Gramma and Grandpap first lived close by, just a few miles away.
Eventually they moved closer to her sister, my Great Aunt,
and they bought a trailer in a spacious park that had lots only for senior citizens.
Grandpap, I’m sure, chose their lot;
it backed onto a field that was never planted in all the years they lived there.

Plenty of run around space for all of the ‘kiddos’,
and there was a regular parade of visiting children.
Trailer it may be, but Gramma had first her pump organ and then her piano in the living room;
the choir members would practice at their place,
and the family would sing after holiday dinners.
It wasn’t all hymns- the first time I heard Sound of Silence was when Gramma played it in her living room.

There was a two-seater porch swing behind the trailer, it sat three small children or two adults.
Grandpap had the small charcoal grill back there, too.
He had it there to keep it away from the little ones, because they seldom made it that far.
There was too much to see on the front porch.
First an awning, and eventually a fiberglass roof, covered the patio.
A collection of folding chairs and a glider were always there,
and when there was a big gathering we pulled out the dining chairs to accommodate the grown ups.
Kids usually got the front and side steps when the chairs were full.
Big brothers and sisters looked out for the smaller ones,
and a walk around the loop of the park was always a good distraction after dinner.

Moms and aunts did the dishes and filled the collection of containers,
there was always a paper shopping bag to take home with leftovers.
Usually there was someone that smoked, and smoking was always done outside.
I remember when Grandpap stopped smoking:
first his cigarettes, then his ‘stogies’ and last his pipe.
It wasn’t unusual to have at least one grown woman wash her hair after dinner and have it set in pin curls.
Usually it was Gramma, but other female relatives took advantage of the skills of the aunts to have their hair done, too.
The littler girls had the job of unsnapping the curlers from their clips and handing them, with the solemnity of an OR nurse when asked.

I remember when my daughter broke a music box, china and in the shape of a dove.
It was just a little too low for her, and I was sure I had baby-proofed things out of her reach.
Gramma came over and her first thought was that her great granddaughter wasn’t hurt.
I said that I would try to fix it, maybe I could glue it- I knew that Gramma loved it.
She kissed me and said- ‘It’s just a thing, it’s not important.’
And then she kissed Jenn, and smiled.

Goodbyes were said first in the dining room,
then just inside the front door,
then on the top step,
then on the porch.
When I was a child and we left for home,
five kids in the backseat with the bigger holding the smaller,
and two parents in the front seat of the sedan, 
we’d beep the horn as we turned the bend in the road- sure that they were waiting to hear it.
Later, when I was the mom and a trip home meant car seats/blankies/pacifiers,
pack the umbrella stroller,
did you grab the diaper bag,
and WAIT! WHAT ABOUT MONKEY? Who had MONKEY?!-
Gramma and Grandpap would wait patiently at the edge of the walkway until we were all tucked into the car.
I can still see in my minds eye Gramma waving then blowing a kiss.
We would wave back, then beep the horn as we went around the bend in the road.

We had our own village.
Each person knew their role,
knew who would wash, who would dry.
Knew who would bring the barbequed lima bean casserole (sounds horrible, but Aunt Ruth made it magic),
who would bring out and take down the chairs,
who would bring out the TV trays when the number of grandkids,
then the great grandkids, boomed.
We knew why we were there.
We knew everyone there.
Most importantly, we all knew we were loved.

(This post is part of the #31DaysOfWritingChallege2019. The photo shows my stepmother, my Gramma, and my cousin.)

 

 

 

Brain in a Box

Bob was a legend.
He had worn so many hats with the company: Operations, seasonal businesses, auditor.
He knew what happened,
why it happened.
how it happened,
why it broke,
how to fix it.

He relocated when the company moved the corporate offices.
He took his turn ‘on call’ during the holidays.
And retail holiday time is no picnic for the support teams.
He hid when it was Take Your Child to Work Day,
and managed not to lose his temper
when he learned I’d labeled his closed door ‘Harry Potter Lived Here!’

He enthusiastically took part in Frosty Fridays, when we would splurge for the frozen treats for everyone.
He went to the regional DM and Store meetings,
and would be both the first and the last person on the dance floor after dinner.

He’d come and remind me that it was time to take a break when everyone got together for lunch.
For one of his work anniversaries we made dozens of copies of his headshot from an old corporate directory and hid them EVERYWHERE.
We’d find them for weeks and weeks; open a drawer for a pen and there was Bob.
Need the whiteboard?
Open the cover and there was Bob.

Bob was honored with a Core Values award.
During the ceremony, the department head reads the reasons why the person is being recognized.
The name comes last- the suspense was always fun as we tried to guess who it is.
The Operations honoree was described in many ways,
but once we heard
‘He’s a Brain in a Box’, we knew it was Bob.

He was the go-to.
He’d help answer the questions.
He was invaluable.
He was legendary.
Within two years his job was eliminated.
The company was floundering,
Jobs were ‘consolidated’.
Overhead was cut.
It wasn’t personal.
It felt personal.
Not just its Brain left the building that day; part of our heart walked out with him.

I thought about Bob last month,
during a manager meeting at the company where I now work.
My boss referred to me several time over those couple of days.
He said I ‘knew everything’.
(Want to wake up my imposter syndrome? Say that I know everything.)

I know a bunch of things.
What I don’t know I can usually either figure out or get help from the correct person.
I don’t mind telling the truth when I don’t know something.
I like learning new things.
(We used to have Learn New Thing Day back when I worked with Bob…)
I’m glad to help when I can.
Part of my goal each day is to answer questions before the people I support ever think of them.
One of my more share-able nicknames is The Oracle, but I’m looking to pass that one along.
(Another is the Store Whisperer.. I kinda like that one.)

But, I’m no Bob.
I’m no Brain in a Box.
And even if I was,
even if I had the knowledge and heart that he had,
it only goes so far.

I crave security.
After the last rocket ship days of Borders, I crave stability.
But there is no real sure-thing.
As that great sage,
that speaker of wisdom Heidi Klum says
‘One day you’re in, and one day you’re out.’
I know this.
Let’s just say I’ve been working a long time and I’ve seen things.

So I do my best.
And then I try to get better.
Try to bring other along, too.
I learn, and question, and keep on keeping on.

And I’ll keep smiling if you say I know everything.
We both know I have a lot to learn… and I have every intention of doing just that.

(This post is part of the #31DaysofWritingChallenge2019… and dedicated to Bob Childs.)

 

 

Housework

Working from home is a weekend thing around here.
Although Ken has taken seriously my desire,
voiced last year,
to ‘have more fun’,
there is no question about it: this house won’t clean itself.
I know this for a fact, as I have given it ample opportunity to do so.

There’s nothing for it- we must help it along.
And that must, it seems, happen on the weekends.

It amuses and confounds the cats-that-we-don’t own.
(There are, at times, two or three cats, a mother and her children, living at our house.
They are loosely described as ‘outdoor cats’.
loosely, that is, because they have a cat door to allow them entry to the breezeway.
A winterproofed cat hotel complete with insulation and cushions.
A heated water bowl.
And an elevated eating platform complete with seasonal favorite meals and treats.
But we don’t own them.
I suspect that they own us.)

Sunday was spent on laundry,
changing bed linens,
cleaning the kitchen,
working in the storage shed/workshop,
and the beginnings of the Seasonal Clothing Swap.
Ken did the start of his swap, mine will be this weekend.
I am already exhausted thinking about it.

Right now my dressing/craft/study/dressing room is in that awkward teen stage.
You know; everything dragged about out from where it was comfortably parked.
All of the outgoing stuff is waiting to be packed away and the incoming stuff is cooling its heels:
will this be the year it makes it past the ironing basket, onto a hanger, and then worn in rotation?
Or will it be deemed too labor-intensive
and wait disconsolately over the back of The Chair until it is re-packed in late Spring?
(Interesting: why do the bright colors always need to be ironed?
Is this why I take after Johnny Cash in the winter?)

I have the crockpot and Instant Pot ready to assume their places in the kitchen,
released from their basement banishment.
Freezer bags are ready for the start of hunting season and the anticipated venison heading our way.

I sat in the patio chair, putting my feet up on the table Sunday afternoon.
No longer panicked at the thought of a mosquito due to the cold weather creeping in.
Lifting my face to the sun I wondered why I don’t do this more often.
Why is it that knowing I need to pack this up, too, makes me want to use it?
Why does knowing that it will soon be gone spur me to enjoy it more?

I’ll gather up the seashells and stone we scavenged for on the beach this year,
and place the candles in the living room.
I’ll check the remote for the electric fireplace, perfect to take the chill off a Fall morning while Ken drinks his coffee.
Time to launder the ‘cozy blankets’ we last used when camping and now will drape over our recliners.
Time to plan and feather our nest; our small and cozy home.

(This post is part of the #31DayWritingChallenge2019)

The Rest of Us

Fifteen years in Michigan, yet I am still a Pittsburgher.
Mentally exhausted from the emotions of the weekend
I went to work today and found myself being comforted by others,
concerned about what happened in my hometown.

I had been vocal on social media after the horrible murders and racial terrorism in Squirrel Hill on Saturday.
11 people murdered because they were Jewish.
Murdered during their prayers.
Murdered because the killer walked in through doors purposefully left open so everyone would find a welcome,
so that no one that sought fellowship would be excluded.

You can read the news,
see the names,
see the faces of those that were shot and killed.
You can read of their families,
their loved ones,
the lives they lead and the ways they were part of the community.
You can watch the memorial services,
read the blogs,
click from TV channel to online journalism.
You can immerse yourself in the sorrow of senseless tragedy,
or grow angry and curse,
lashing out at “what brings us to this?!’

But don’t let yourself get lost in the anger.
I woke up this morning with a sentence running through my mind:

The worst of us cannot defeat the rest of us.

Did you know: a member of the Tree of Life congregation,
the same congregation that lost 11 members,
is the president of the hospital where the murderer was brought on Saturday?
Did you know that this man met with
and made sure the man that killed his neighbors
was well-cared for,
that he got the best medical care?
I don’t know if I could have done that.

Did you know that Pittsburgh is coming together to mourn,
Muslim, Catholic, Protestant, atheists: all moving together to let this community know we hurt for them.
Demonstrating love,giving blood…
rivers of it in lines of people standing patiently,
waiting to DO something to help.
demonstrating that love is found in action.

Did you know that there is a group that has asked the President NOT to come to Pittsburgh?
Upset at the rhetoric the President has used to fan the flames of anger at rallies,
upset at the comment the day of the killings
that things would have gone differently if the synagogue had armed guards.
(There were police there in minutes, and those police were armed and trained… and yet 4 of them were wounded by the man before he was taken.)

I yelled at the screen when I watched that interview.
YELLED and burst into tears.
How DARE you make it their fault?
How DARE you,
you who are SURROUNDED by guards day and night,
Is it so normal for you?
Does it make SENSE TO YOU that people should pray under cover of a loaded gun?
Is THIS the country , the legacy of your Presidency?
SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!

Did you know that the rabbi at Tree of Life disagreed?
He said

“The president of the United States is always welcome,”
“I’m a citizen.
He’s my president.
He is certainly welcome.”

I do NOT believe that the President of the United States has caused the evil and hatred we see in the world.
I don’t believe that he caused the evils of last week.
He didn’t create and send the bomb-packages to those that disagree with his politics.
He didn’t shoot two people at a Kroger in Kentucky;
shoot them for being black,
shoot them minutes after he was unable to enter a Baptist church.
He didn’t load the 4 guns that the murderer loaded and brought to the synagogue Saturday.
He didn’t murder them methodically and deliberately due to their faith.
Our President just isn’t that powerful.
He doesn’t have the scope to do these things.

But he is a danger to us, none-the-less.
He makes such rage and hate and vilification of people we see as ‘others’ seem almost commonplace.
He rages and spits and spews.
He pronounces whole groups as evil, enemies, dangers… and they are our fellow citizens.
He calls and visits and panders to tyrants that have committed murder in their own country.
He mocks and belittles in order to make himself appear taller.
He still plays to the camera, mistakenly believing that he needs to build the ratings for this reality show to which he became elected,
so that he can make money when it goes into syndication.
No one does ANYTHING better than he does.
No one ever has.
No one ever will.
(Just ask him.)
He demonstrates, daily, the mistaken belief that tearing others down can lift others up.

But he is wrong.

My hometown knows that when we help another to stand  we are lifted ourselves.
That we stand straighter,
stand taller,
when we stand as one.
My hometown will doubtlessly,
vocally,
disagree about the President’s visit.
I view it with weary skepticism, wondering just what he will toss out this time?
Terrible Towels instead of paper towels?
When he shakes the Rabbi’s hand, will he say something scripted or flubbing-ly wing it?
What will he bungle?
How long will it take him to thank the large crowd that will doubtlessly be there?
How soon before he takes credit for the people banding together?
He won’t get it.
He won’t understand that he isn’t needed there to focus the people on their commonalities.
They already know.
They are there for each other.
It’s an American thing.
It’s a United we Stand thing.
It’s a ‘Burgh thing.

Maybe he’ll learn something about brotherhood,
about charity,
about forgiveness,
about healing,
about solidarity,
about mourning together with clasped hands,
about the integrity it takes to repair the wounds of the man that murdered your neighbors.

Philadelphia is the Pennsylvania City of Brotherly Love,
but Pittsburgh will always have my heart.

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge… but it doesn’t count, because I would have written it anyways.
#AreYouGoingToVote?)

 

Sit a While With Me?

It seems that I’ve spent  a long time angry.
Not that I’m so quick to admit it,
maybe I’d just call it emotional.
“nervy”,
“strung too tight”.
Amazingly enough most people call me calm.
And I’m glad, because I do WANT to be calm.
In a crisis, I manage to pull off clear thinking and purposeful actions.
Crisis?
I’m your person.
I can handle it.

It’s the small things that happen to me  that undo me.
And the large things that happen to others that devastate me.
My emotions are in overdrive lately.
So much pain.
So much fear.
So much hatred.

Bombs being mailed to perceived political adversaries.
People shot in their own homes.
Women being beaten and murdered along with their children.
Fires roaring out of control.
Hurricanes decimating whole blocks… and the families that lived there.
Children missing.
And now a shooting in Pittsburgh, PA.
In a synagogue I walked by countless time for years.
11 people killed, others wounded, at a place that they came to in order to worship.
Killed because the shooter hated them for being Jewish.
Police officers responding were shot by the murderer.
(I will not call him ‘the gunman’, that’s too clean of a word)
Police officers were shot by the murderer,
and our President said that things might have gone differently if the people in the synagogue had been armed.
It’s a terrible thing, he says.

And I say: It’s murder.
It’s hate.
It’s the fear of ‘others’ that is preached and poured into minds searching for an outlet for their anger,
and an excuse for their powerlessness.
It’s the continuous ‘us and them’ screamed from the oily mouths that are slick with the fat of the country.

And I watched the coverage and shook with anger.
Hands trembling,
heart pounding.
Mind racing and telling me not to be angry.
Not to hate.
When I hate, love loses.

And then my husband came home and I told him>
I told him I hated those words.
Hated those actions.
And then I cried.
And realized it was grief.
Sorrow for all that has happened and all that is lost.
Grief for families still unknown,
and fear that there may be some that died today that I do know.
Hurt and sorrow and deep palpable grief.

No answers.
Only questions.
Only waiting for the change that must surely be just ahead.
Relieved to learn my anger’s true name; I’ll sit here a while and breathe.
Determine the actions I can take to put love into the world.
Enough love is possible, I must believe this; is possible to crowd the hate away.

*This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)

 

See Me

When my girls were school-age I was the mama-taxi.
Long trips seemed to be my specialty.
Not just because driving was novel to me
(I learned when I was 30… long story),
but because they needed to go to places that were some distance away
and I was the only parent willing to do the trip (longer story).

Trips with preteens generally lead to long silences
punctuated by squabbling.
These circumstances lead to one of the Three Rules of Mom:

1. No ‘she said/she said’
2. No wet noises (later diagnosed as Mom’s misophonia)
3. Do what you have to do before you do what you want to do

To protect us all from the END of PEACE as we KNOW IT I would provide diversions.
One long winter drive to my parents that meant listening to
Christopher Plummer read the Nutcracker.
Delightedly scared cries were heard whenever he drew out the ‘SQEEEEEEEEEAAAKKKK’ of the Mouse King.
Other times it was singing songs.
And still other times they asked for stories.
(Later I came to realize this was self-protection for them.
If I wasn’t telling them stories I might ask them questions.
Which could lead to sharing.
Or discussion about puberty.
So stories it would be.)

In general the stories were well-known to us all,
as family stories tend to be.
They would ask me to ‘tell us the one about….’
and off we would go.

This scenario would later be repeated by the folks at work.
It seemed that either crazy stuff just naturally happens to me,
or I have a crazy way at looking at normal stuff.
Perhaps that’s same-same.
I didn’t… and still don’t
mind sharing stories.
If I chuckle at myself, well it makes it easier to accept and move on.
(True story: today I managed to put my suede boots on the wrong feet.
I am a grown woman and didn’t notice it when the first boot went on.
Only noticed when I stood.
And I was stone cold sober.
Both. Boots. Wrong. Feet.)
If you ask, it’s likely I’ll share most things if you really want to listen.
If it’s my story to tell.

I am also good at keeping secrets.
(You should know all of things that I won’t tell you)
I don’t believe that it’s my destiny to pass along the news that belong to others.
A person may only have so many amazing stories in their life, they should be able to choose how and when they share them.
So there are some stories I just won’t tell.
And there are some I never thought I would tell.
This post is something I have asked and received permission to tell.
But I’m nervous… so I’m stalling.

You see, not a lot of people know this story.
But due to recent events I will share, because it is true no matter what some people may want to say about it.

I was divorced after 24 years of marriage.
I had no idea how to date, or laugh, or trust again.
And I was fortunate to meet a kind, funny, attentive man.
He made me laugh.
Told me I was smart, kind, beautiful, talented.
Not overstating that we made each other very happy,
and neither of us had been happy for a while.
Me because my marriage was falling apart because my husband didn’t want to be married to me.
His was falling apart, because his wife couldn’t accept that he had gender dysphoria.
I had no idea what that meant… except it sounded like he didn’t like being a guy.
I wasn’t always stoked about being a woman… especially every 23 days or so.
I didn’t think much about it; life was kind of crazy.
My friends called him Bounceback Guy.
They told me no one stays with Bounceback Guy.
Well, neither did I, but not for the reasons they thought.

We each moved to different states but talked to each other every day and saw each other as often as we could.
Our relationship grew solidly on friendship, and laughter, and love.
Bounceback or not.
I trusted someone again.
As we grew more secure and comfortable with each other,
more information was shared.
Gender dysphoria discussions lead to deeper talks.
lead to him sharing that he was not really,
not truly,
not deep down inside
‘he’.
She was Aimee.
And my world rocked out of kilter.
Okay.
OK.
What did that mean for us?
What have I done?
What will I do?
(And dear heavens why do I pick the wrong guy? AGAIN!)

So.
Tears, and are-you-sure?- and but-I-liked-Him, and
OK, YOU are the same personality, but you are going to kill my boyfriend
(I wince to write that, but truth is truth and that’s how it felt to me)>
There was no Caitlyn Jenner.
Heck, there was only the lady with the large hands that had shopped at the bookstore a few times.
I didn’t know from transgender.
I wanted easy and steady and uncomplicated.
Not 700+ miles away, and hormone treatments, and does this mean I’m a lesbian?
Why does YOU making a change mean I need to make a change?
I’m not looking for that.
It was too much.
Distance didn’t help.
The bounce,
which had been fading (being honest here) from loving partnership to loving friends anyways,
was not going to survive.
And, truth be told- I was the one still trying to figure out what to do….
and I got dumped.
Awkwardly,
and hurtfully,
and tears,
and no,
I’m not with her because she is younger and prettier than you are,
it’s-for-the-best-we-can-be-friends.
And it hurt.
And I didn’t believe I was hearing the truth..
(and I was right:
the next woman was young, prettier… and a flippin’ belly dancer.
How could I ever think I could compete with a red-haired belly dancer ten years my junior… even if I’d wanted to.
And I didn’t want to.
And I was spared the need to say that.
Instead I could focus on the lies and cry and nurse my pride.)

But I NEVER thought there was a lie about being Aimee.
And I never doubted that a difficult decision,
even if it was one I hoped wouldn’t be made,
couldn’t understand the need to be made,
was the right one for them to make.

So now,
now when the news is about a move to declare that Aimee,
and other transgendered,
or nonbinary,
or intersexed people don’t get to make the choice to present themselves in the way that is correct for them;
when there is a plan to state that they don’t exist:
now is the time for me to tell my story.

I’ve met her.
She’s funny,
likes Star Wars and (help me, HOW?) Monty Python.
Favorite color is purple.
She’s happily married now to a woman that loves her just as she is.
Aimee is dearly loved.

And isn’t that what we all want in our lives?
To be loved for who we are?
To have our truths validated?
To be our very best self, and contribute to the world around us?
To be seen.

I’m asking you, see; don’t look away.

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)

 

 

 

Beauty Is

Some posts I write to share my point of view.
Others I post to share lessons learned.
Still others are to explore a struggle.
I’m not totally sure which reason fits this post, probably a bit of all three.

Tonight unfolded like most Fridays.
I walk in the door and my husband has 80% of dinner finished.
We kiss, I put away my lunch bag, purse, jacket.
Off come the shoes, off comes the work clothes.
I put on something comfy cozy (tonight that ensemble included fluffy purple socks),
then back to the kitchen to see how I could help.

He said what he says most often to that question.
“Just sit down, relax, and look pretty.”
I said, as I usually do, something disparaging.
Tonight it was “If I knew that would be my assignment I’d have kept my work clothes on.”
Sometimes I tell him ‘two out of three isn’t bad.”
Other times I ask him for an easy assignment.
Rarely do I believe it is a possible task.
Bless the man; he keeps trying.

I am keenly aware of the approaching milestone birthday, even if it is a few years away.
Part of my mind has already embraced it and started thinking of living in a new decade.
No matter that I am not actually through with this one yet.
I know the change is coming.

As I get ready each day I inspect myself in the mirror.
(Careful to stand just close enough to see me,
and still far enough for my wobbly nearsighted-farsightedness to make up its mind and bring me into focus.)
I check for the lines around my eyes,
are they deeper?
My neck!
( My poor neck.
The only advantage I had by being overweight was that the skin on my chins was taut.
True, it was filled with fat.
But it WAS taut.
OK.
It was swollen and big.
OK?
But neck minus fat equals crepe-y skins and I carefully step too close to the mirror so it blurs just a little.
Less weight is worth it, I repeat to myself firmly.
And try one more day to believe it.)

My clothes fit, now.
Down three dress sizes from this time last year, I feel fashionable when dressed.
But do I feel my own beauty?
Am I confident of that?
On most days: no.

Some of that I suspect is the awareness of age.
Some of it might be the wearing away of emotional armor I’ve worn for years.
Some of it might be… might be what?
Maybe a reluctance to see that it could be as good as it ever is going to get?
Maybe I’m trying to get the spirit inside me to  match the observable outside of me.
Maybe I’m teetering into balance.
Maybe I’m a work in progress….
Maybe that’s, ultimately, what we all are?

So I’ll keep trying to help my husband, Fridays at dinner,
by sitting at the table and looking pretty.
I listen to him talk about his day,
about the weekend plans.
I let myself feel how blessed we are to be together.
(The dinner was a delicious blessing, too. This man can COOK!)
Sometimes I look up and see him just staring at me.
‘What? What is it?”
Nothing, he says, I just like looking at you.
And he smiles.

Sometimes,
Those times,
I feel beautiful.

(This post is part of the #Write31Days Challenge)

 

 

 

Are You Really as Wonderful As You Seem?

When I was a little girl I used to try and stretch my neck.
I’d tilt my head back and lift my chin.
I’d stand very straight
(my mom used to balance a book on my head to help me ‘glide!’ elegantly across the room)
And hold my head high and think ‘swan neck’.
Like Cinderella.
Like Lesley Ann Warren in the 1965 Roger’s and Hammerstein version.

I’d have my feet tucked into just the front of my mother’s heels.
A lace curtain
(or tablecloth; I don’t know the true provenance of the faux skirt any longer)
wound about me.
I’d tiptoe across the living room,
but in my mind I was descending a staircase at the Prince’s ball.
My not-at-all-swanlike-neck stretched to the limits.
I kept my eyes lifted,
and curved my mouth into what I imagined was a scullery maid turned princess smile,
positive the Prince saw me arrive.

I loved the part of the movie when the Prince and Cinderella were in the garden.
Were in awe of how they were drawn to each other.
In LOVE.
Willing to believe, but unsure if it could possibly be true.
I knew it was true.
Love.
Love was for certain.
Love could happen to anyone.
Girls could change into princesses.
A Prince could find you.
Love.

It’s still my favorite version of the story.
She is still my ideal Cinderella.
Strong.
Courageous.
Kind.
(And that NECK!)

The Prince, though?
Ah, Stuart Damon… that Prince.
That Prince has not aged as well.

He was perfect for a young girl.
Dashing.
Sensitive.
Determined to find his Princess.
And blind as a bat.
Dude.
Dude … she’s RIGHT THERE!

Not ten minutes ago
(in TV time, that is)
you saw her,
you murmured your ‘how do you do’s?’
you sang to her that you loved her.
That she was a vision from a dream!
She’s RIGHT THERE in FRONT of you!
Forget the shoe gimmick- it’s her.
Shoe… schmoo.
It’s Cinderella, it’s your Princess.
Doesn’t matter that her face is dirty.
Doesn’t matter that she is dressed in rags.
Look into her eyes.
See that smile.
Dude!

The Prince wasn’t worthy of her, if you ask me.
He wasn’t as wonderful as he seemed.
You see, he’d already met her before the ball.
But it wasn’t until he saw her in her finery.
Clean and glowing.
Then he sang to her:
“Do I want you because you’re wonderful? Or are you wonderful because I want you?”
Yes.
It was that.

Oh, I still believe in happy endings.
Cindy will always see the Prince when she looks at him.
I still believe that Prince
Christopher
Rupert
Windermere
Vladimir
Carl
Alexander
François
Reginald
Lancelot
Herman
Gregory
James
and Cinderella can live happily ever after.
But it’s going to take work.
There will be days when Cindy’s feet swell and those shoes don’t fit.
A time might come when an extra chin or so is added to that neck.
Certain times a month when she just wants to tie on a kerchief and sit by the fire.
On days like that the Prince will need to dig a little deeper,
work a little harder,
to see his Princess.

They can do it, I’m sure.
It just takes remembering that, against all odds; they found each other.
And that’s really as wonderful as it seems.

(This post is part of the #Write31Days challenge.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soul Mate

I must have been around eight years old when I learned my prince was never gonna arrive.

I was in the car, alone, with my father.
Five kids (eventually)  in our family,
and very few times that we had a reliable car,
I can’t imagine why this was true, but it was.

I remember asking him,
confident of his answer,
if it was true that everyone has one true love.
And,
if it was true,
what if my true love didn’t live near me?
How would I meet him?
What if I am supposed to live someplace else?

Likely this was sparked by a viewing of the Wonderful World of Disney.
Maybe it was Snow White.
(Back then she was the only dark-haired princess for Disney.
My grandson enjoys watching movies and assigning the characters to everyone.
He always chooses the fastest, the cleverest, the most heroic.
He usually assigns me a supporting role.
Maybe one of the villagers, or a shopkeeper.
When I was eight, were I like Nico is now, I would have claimed to be Snow White.
‘That’s me!’)

So now I wanted to know.
Is it true that we all have one chance?
Is it true that there is someone out there, getting ready to be my prince?

Now, you never really knew what you were going to get with my Dad.
He could croon a song while driving, casually flicking the ashes of his cigarette out of the vent window.
Or he could proclaim that we all needed to ‘shut up and sit still or I’ll tear off your arm and hit you over the head with the bloody stump.’
(This had never happened,
but it was as regular a thing to hear in our lives as a call to dinner.
Writing it out now startles me; what a terribly graphic thing to say.
Back then we just shut up… likely looking at our arms and wondering about the stump.)
So you never knew what would happen when in the car with my Dad.

He could have said yes.
He could have assured me that I was his little princess and my true love was doing well in school and wondering when we would meet…
sometime in our 30’s, which was when Dad said I could date boys.
He could have done that.
But he didn’t.

He told me that people don’t have one true love.
That people can love a lot of different people in their lives.
There isn’t just one person waiting for their match.
In fact, there might not be a match at all.
Sometimes people stayed alone their whole lives.
And he just kept driving as the pretty castle in my dreams fell apart.

Here’s the thing, though.
I remembered that conversation off and on all through my life.
I remembered it when Josh broke up with me just before school started.
I remembered it when my friends had boyfriends.
I remembered it when my husband told me he didn’t love me anymore.
I remembered it when I signed our divorce papers.
I remembered it when the person I thought I’d found a second chance with decided to go another way.
I remembered it when my first Match.com date asked me, within minutes of meeting me, both if my eyes are real and if I wanted to be cremated. (Yes, and not anytime soon.)

I also remember it,
off and on,
and I sit across the table from my husband.
Or as I snuggle against him in the night,
knowing he can siphon off the excess heat that wakes me.
Or when we crack each other up because we have the same appreciation for the absurd.
Or when he sends me a text during the day.
Or when he gives me a kiss and says ‘What’s up, Baby Duck?’

Things change.
I never gave up looking for my Prince; not really.
My user name on Match.com was ‘A2InnerPrincess’, so he knew I had expectations.
Didn’t scare him.
He may not have been my first mate, but he is my soul mate.
I wish my dad could have met this man.

(This post is part of the #31DaysofWriting challenge.)