Sunday, January 5, 2014

Molecular Family, Part I: Immediate

I've spent the past few weeks in a master class in tribe-building.  It coincided with the Holidays, and as much as I love the Norman Rockwell fantasy Holidays that glow softly through the frost-covered windows of my equally fantasy home, in reality the Holidays always entail hyperventilating, and cursing, and credit cards. This year was particularly bad.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Vibram KMD LS Shoe Review: Fucking OW.

I finally caved and bought a pair of Vibram "Five Fingers" shoes.  Specifically, these ones.  I blame my friend Sam.  It was her constant goading about how they are the most comfortable shoes she's ever owned that got me tempted.  I am a big fan of comfortable shoes, but even I wasn't sure I could clear the ugly hurdle on these ones.


Monday, December 9, 2013

Escaping the Virginity Cult

OK, that’s sort of misleading.  I have two kids.  I’ve been married twice.  Obviously, I escaped long ago.

But as a mother of adolescent daughters and an unofficial counselor (however undeserving of the honor) to a handful of young people misguided enough to listen to me, I have to come clean:

I reject the Virginity Cult.

Sunday, December 8, 2013

A Short Stack

I have big, strong hands.  So does my brother. We get them from Dad, who was always a smallish guy, but had these powerful bear hands.  When I had a pre-employment physical done a year ago.  It included a hand-strength test.  The nurse made me repeat it twice before accepting the results.  “Your hand strength is over twice the average for a woman your age,” he said.  “I’ve never seen anything like this.”  I suppose I should be self-conscious (“Women with big hands make for insecure men,” an ex-lover once told me), but I’m not.  I knit; I garden; I write; I cook.  I cradle my loved ones in my broad palms, twine the world through my long fingers, and squeeze the juice out of life with my freakishly powerful grip.  Above all, I cling.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Human-asana

I walk into the yoga class.  My head is a whirlwind, full of tumbleweeds and dust-devils: Shopping lists, to-do lists, a vague sense of anxiety about the approaching holidays and my lack of preparedness for same.  A brief but potently self-critical look back at my life.  A moment of self-pity, in which I feel old and spent.  The requisite ensuing moment of guilt, in which I think of all the people who have it worse than I do.  In short: I am a mess.

It probably does not help that I went to yoga via the sauna first.  The sauna is my own personal mini distress tolerance room.  I sit.  I ignore the hypochondriac voice in my head who likes to tell me I'm dying.  I try to forget the episode of The Six Million Dollar Man I saw when I was little in which The Bad Guys try to kill some towel-clad woman by locking her in a sauna. But mostly, I listen to my breathing and try to sweat out the day's crazy.  Today the crazy consists mostly of my unbridled and frustrated libido.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Curbs and Other Treachery

I saw the old lady fall in slow motion, just a step too far away to do her any good.

She was just walking into the Payless, minding her own business, clutching her wallet. I saw her toe catch the edge of the curb, the rest unfolded in quarter time.  The jolt traveled through her body, rolling up from her feet, throwing her torso forward, sending her wallet flying, ending with a look of shock and fear on her face.

She hit the concrete silently save for the whoosh of air from her lungs.  She landed like a flung pillow, in a quiet thud and puff.  I got to her just as time sped back up to normal.

"Oh, ma'am! Are you OK?"

Her eyes took a second to find my face, and then she nodded, insisting, "I'm fine; I'm fine," but I think she was talking more to herself than to me.

"Let me help you up," I said.  She had hit hard on her right hip, and I was more than a little worried she might have fractured it.

"No, go on now, I'm fine, I just...I don't know what on earth happened.  I just tripped over nothing!  How stupid."  She was struggling to right herself from her side, find her wallet, and get up.  I squatted in front of her.

"Do you need me to get help?  Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," she insisted again, and I started to suspect what hurt most was being stranded like an upturned turtle in the middle of the shopping center.

"Here," I said, offering her my right hand to hers, arm-wrestling style.  "Take my hand." She protested for a second, but then relented.  I grasped her hand firmly.  Then I saw she was scrabbling around with her left hand on the sidewalk, trying to push herself up.  I crossed my left hand over and said, "Here, take my other hand, too."  She obeyed.  I braced myself for her weight and said, "Now you can pull on me as hard as you need to, and I'll help you stand up."

I felt the bones shift beneath the tissue paper skin on her hands and her grip tightened.  For a split second, I worried if I'd be able to hold her weight without losing my balance, but she was light as a child. I imagined I was picking up a bird, hollow-boned and fluttering.

"I'm so sorry," she kept saying once she was on her feet again.  "I feel so stupid.  Wasting your time."

I tried to protest--I mean really, what's so important that I can't spare three minutes to help someone up?--but she cut me off abruptly.  She pointed at the curb.  "I mean look at that!  How did I not see that?" and then, with a venom that surprised me, she said, "I'm an idiot!"

"Hey!" I said, as good bit more sharply than I'm used to talking to grandmotherly women I don't even know. "Don't talk that way about yourself."

Her eyes met mine.  I watched the tears well up as she tried to blink them away.

"We've all tripped over curbs," I said.

Then she was a flurry of apologies, shrugging off my hand and shuffling into the Payless as quickly as possible.  I kept a hand under her elbow just in case, and opened the door for her.

I think I know how she felt.  I wasn't lying--I've tripped over plenty of curbs.  Most of mine had Y-chromosomes.  And I know what it feels like to be lying there on the hard ground, disoriented, hips hurting, ego bruised.  I know what it feels like to look back at that curb you didn't see and realize from this new dirt-high vantage point just how obvious it really was.

I know what it feels like to think I am an idiot!

I turned to resume my jog.  I put my earbuds back in, and this song started:


I also know what it feels like to have friends see you going down in slow motion, stretching their hands out to you, helping you gather up your belongings and pull you back to your feet.  Friends who say Heydon't talk to yourself like that! and We've all been there.

Friday, October 11, 2013

This Is What a Godless Liberal Looks Like

Hi.  Since we cross paths a lot, I thought I’d let you in on a little secret.  

You know how today you were saying, “And then you have those liberals who keep whining ‘Oh, no, we can’t cut programs for children!’?”  Or last week, when you were lamenting the “brainwashed Obama-zombies” who are “ruining this country”?  (You made it clear, of course, that they are aided in that by the “illegals,” “socialists,” and “elite liberal media.”)  Or when you tried to comfort me in the wake of yet another dating fracas by assuring me that “Jesus had saved me from fornicating”?

Well…It’s probably time I came clean.  When you sing along to Rush Limbaugh as he bashes godless liberal feminazis, you’re singing about me, sister.