On Confusion and Covid Tests

Photo credit:
https://www.webmd.com/lung/news/
20200323/new-test-will-give
-covid-19-results-in-45-minutes

Turns out "confusion" is on the ever-vague list of Covid-19 symptoms, down near the bottom, where no one sees it.  So if anyone asks, and my test turns out to be positive, I'll have a legitimate excuse for one of the most embarrassing mistakes I've made in a very long time.

The backstory is that several days ago, I started running a pretty high fever after a couple of days of what I thought was occasional allergic coughing.  It's been as high as 103 at a few points, but the fact that I was managing with Tylenol and home remedies wasn't good enough for the people who worry about me, and I was pressured to go get tested.  Not that I was morally opposed to the test; I just have a thing about doctors and doctors' offices and avoid them whenever I can.  Telehealth is my best friend.  Plus, I just didn't feel well enough to be hassled with it.  I was taking care of myself, I could breathe, I was coherent...but I caved.

My first attempt was Saturday morning.  I called early in the morning to try to schedule it, only to be told they were already out of the day's tests, and to "call back first thing in the morning."  So...I set my alarm on Sunday, and called at 8:01, only to be asked if I was in the parking lot.  I wasn't.  I was in my bed in my birthday suit trying to keep the fever down.  She then told me to "get here quickly."  I threw on leggings and a top, threw my contacts in my eyes, and raced out the door, breaking the speed limit on the way a few times, just knowing I'd get all the way there to be told they had run out.

I arrived to a mostly empty parking lot, patting myself on the back for beating the crowds.  The only other people I saw as I went through the telephone registration with a very nice lady were a guy on crutches and a meth-head with an ankle bracelet.  Reassuring.  After several minutes of waiting, she said, "Okay, they have a room for you ready.  Put your mask on and come to the door."  I masked up, locked up ('cause, you know...meth-heads and crutch-guy), and trotted myself to the door, wishing all the while I had taken time to put on underwear. My mom was right.  "Clean underwear every time you leave the house."

Nurse Nancy with the bad hair came to the door (and please...who am I to talk, with a three-day-old messy bun and unfettered boobies, probably scaring the-meth heads more than they scared me)...and looked at me quizzically.  I explained that I had just checked in...and she continued to look at me like I had four heads.  The long story short...I was in The Wrong Place.  (Hey, Trump can do it; that makes it okay, right?) Well, hell...I jumped back in the car (Note:  I use verbs like "jump," "trot," and "race," when I really only move at a one-speed hobble.) and tried to make it the 3.2 miles to The Right Place before they gave my spot away.

Only, Nurse Courtney got all impatient and called me back with a, "Where the hell are you," attitude, and I when apologetically explained that I had been in the wrong parking lot, she was taken aback!  Wrong parking lot, wrong street, wrong side of town, wrong SIGN on the building...all wrong.  But I made it, finally, and understood then how they ran out the day before.  Never mind that there's a Starbucks drive-thru in the same parking lot, so the traffic was exaggerated, but I nearly left in panic.  There were just too many damn people.  But I hung in there.  I masked up, went to the door to wait awkwardly with my arms crossed across my chest and hoping there were no seam holes in my leggings facing the full parking lot.  Someone soon called back and told me a provider would see me in my car.  (I TOLD you my hair was a mess!)

Several minutes...or chunks of an hour...I saw a PPE-clad provider start visiting cars, and I was relieved that it was finally going to happen.  Until, that is, she tested the tough guy next to me in his pickup truck, and he CRIED afterward.  Oooof!  Julie the PA eventually came to my car, and was very sweet.  I checked out well...oxygen level was strong, chest clear, just a mild temperature.  My heart rate was a little high...but after all the running, trotting, jumping, and racing, of course it would be.  Then, the dreaded test...which was a breeze!  A throat culture for strep is much, much worse.  I told her the guy cried...and we agreed that men just can't handle the things that we women can.

Long story short...I'm home isolating and waiting for up to seven days.  Of course, because I got tested, I feel a thousand times better than yesterday and the results will be negative, and I suppose that's what I should be hoping for.  In a weird way, a positive result would make the hassle worth it, and would also give me some peace of mind that maybe I CAN handle this virus.  Either way, here I sit, clearly not confused, but also questioning my reading ability.

Goodbye, Verona

I have a person very close to me who tells amazing stories about his childhood.  He has an uncanny knack for details about dates, times, and people that never ceases to amaze me, especially considering he has close to a couple of decades on me.  It often makes me wonder about events from my childhood and why I don't have the recall needed to tell a good story.  After all, I'm the "writer," not him.  But he's the talker, the storyteller, and I'm just the muller-over...or would that be the over-mullerer?  But I took a trip down Memory Lane when I visited my elementary alma mater over the weekend, and the stories came rushing back to me, albeit in bits and pieces.

My elementary school, Verona Elementary, is closing at the end of this school year.  (I'm at the :25 mark in that video, chatting with my kindergarten teacher.) I'm taking it a little hard, maybe a little harder than most people.  Let's face it, I take most things harder than most people, but I'm pretty sure that this one is with good reason.  No only did I attend school there, but my mother taught there for forty years.  Yes, forty.  Holy hell, that's a long time! So it's no wonder that Verona has been such a big part of my life.

My mom and I toured the soon-to-close building on Saturday, along with a small crowd attending the open house commemorating the closing.  I got a bumper sticker and a card-stock print of the school, which is pretty nice, but nothing compared to being able to walk the sidewalks and visit the classrooms one more time.  Mom made a production (or so I felt) out of introducing me to people I didn't know, and proudly telling them I was a teacher at "the middle school," and talking about how much time I spent in her classrooms through the years.  And I got choked up.  You see, not only do I have the typical elementary school memories that all kids have, but I have another whole set of memories connected to that school just from being a teacher's kid, and those are just as powerful. Maybe more so.

I met my best friend Angie in kindergarten.  I don't remember how we met, just that we did, and that our kindergarten teacher bit her to show her how it felt after she bit another student.  I swallowed a dime in kindergarten, too.  It hurt like hell.  I got mad because I already knew how to read and we were learning the alphabet.

In first grade, I got glasses.  I also got sent to second grade for reading class because I was so far above grade level.  Unfortunately, I was also a chickenshit, so I think it lasted about five minutes.  Can you blame me?  I was barely six, and thrust into a classroom full of kids who were probably seven and eight, and they seemed so old!  I think my parents split up around this time, too.

In second grade, I fell in love with Joey Chewning, who I'm pretty sure had failed a grade, or at least I thought he had, which made him even more appealing.  He had buck teeth and skinny legs, and I thought he was a bad boy, which is probably why I loved him.  His best friend tried to hold me still so Joey could kiss me on the hopscotch court one day at recess.  I kicked the friend in the shin and ran away, and that was the end of that.  Joey moved to Virginia Beach later that year, and I never heard another word about him.  We spent recess trying to uncover a "gold" utility cap we found against the second grade classrooms; we'd clean it off, get the gravel dust off of it, and use it for a base in our games of tag.  (I looked for that thing the other day; unfortunately, they covered the playground with topsoil and planted grass, and I didn't have time for the vandalism required to dig the damn thing up.)

In third grade, I read Greek myths and had a boy for a best friend for about ten minutes, but I remember it.  My favorite Greek heroine was Atalanta, which maybe explains my tomboy tendencies that year.  Jeff McWhorter threw a snowball at me on the playground (we actually went to school when there was snow on the ground in those days) and broke my glasses.  He apologized, but I held a grudge and never forgave him.  We wrote love notes and asked the boys we liked to write back.

I don't think I liked fourth grade.  I remember 4-H and being made to write "I will not talk in class" one hundred times for homework.  I remember telling my dad that on the phone, him calling the teacher at home, and me getting out of it.  That's embarrassing.  I probably deserved it.

Fifth grade was a turning point in lots of ways.  My BFF and I weren't in the same class, and we both made new friends.  I was jealous of hers, and mine didn't speak any English.  I spent fifth grade on a mission to teach Sandy English and trying to learn Chinese.  We made each other word books, and I went to visit her family in the motel they owned.  I stopped going to "Bible" as we called it, (Weekday Religious Education, for those of you not fortunate enough to have that bit of weirdness in your lives) that year, too, with some newfound conviction that religion didn't have a place in the school day.  I caught some hell over that from a lot of people, but I stuck to my guns.  I gave handwriting lessons, and I learned that racism was a thing.  Our school play was The Jungle Book, in which I was cast as an elephant, which traumatized me a smidge.  No cute costume for me, nope.  I had to wear baggy grey sweatpants, a baggy grey t-shirt, and a paper grocery bag elephant mask with an accordion trunk over my head.  I remember how that grey spray paint smelled--a little like shame.  I got in a fight with a girl named Michelle during a practice, and we both got in school suspension and kicked out of the dress rehearsal.  It was a strange experience to walk into the cafeteria on Saturday, where choir students were performing, to immediately recognize a song from The Jungle Book, which I performed on that very stage.

I watched General Hospital and Rick Springfield in the afternoons in my mom's classroom(s) while I helped her do teachery-stuff.  I put nametags on desks and graded papers.  I used the opaque projector to draw large characters for the bulletin boards, then I colored them with Mr. Sketch smelly markers before they got laminated.  I changed the monthly calendar and cut out leaves and turkeys to hang up for the dates.  I put a staple through my finger trying to reload a stapler.  I bought Tab from the teachers' lounge machine...one of those 1970's machines that sold glass bottles that we slid from one side of the machine down metal slots in the drink chest.  Truth be known, I learned how to be a teacher during those years, both from my mom and the whole slew of awesome teachers I had through the years, more so than I did in any college course I ever took.

Years later, I took my own son to visit his "Grammy" in his preschool years.  I'd pick him up at the sitter or at preschool, and we'd stop by for a visit.  He'd explore her classroom and she'd show him off to her teacher friends before we made the requisite stop to the modern playground equipment that was added long after they took out our beloved merry-go-round.  He'd play, and slide down the "firepole," and my focus was on him, not on the school or the possibility that it might not one day be there just as it always had been during my life.




I understand the need to close the school, in a fiscal sense.  But I'm fighting an urge to try to buy every piece of memorabilia possible from that building.  The tiny pastel chairs in the kindergarten and first grade buildings (which must have been great chairs, because they've lasted all this time). The avocado-green bookcases and rolling coat closets that were in every room.  The low-slung counters in the primary grades.  Even the bathroom stall doors that we used to lock and climb over so the next person couldn't get to the toilet.  The large piece of eternal pipe that we used to play on and hide in from the boys who were chasing us.  I can't do that, of course, but I can take the memories with me and smile a little at the fact that my mom remembers things the way I do.

Goodbye, Verona, and thank you.

When Turkeys Try to Fly

Last weekend, on a road in rural Maryland, I spotted some strange-looking birds in a small flock beside the road.  Too large to be crows or blackbirds, not quite ugly enough to be vultures, I decided they were some type of strange-looking turkey.  The fact that a couple of them flew a small distance into the air further complicated the discussion in the vehicle because, after all...turkeys can't fly.  Or can they?  I insisted they could...but only when they have to...for example, when it prevents their death or dismemberment by minivans hurtling down the road.

Fast forward a few days to Thanksgiving, and the myriad of races and running events unfortunately titled as a "turkey trot."  (There's something in my middle school brain that wants to snicker at the thought of turkey causing the trots, but this post is not about potty humor.)  I had signed up for one of these trendy 5Ks on a whim.  (I get these ideas sometimes lately in which I either think I'm better equipped for something than I really am, or in which I decide that I don't give a rat's ass what people think about me, both of which are anomalies in my brain.  The trouble happens when both of those moods hit at once, as they did when I saw that a friend had signed up to do this race.  It's a cliche, but it sounded like a good idea at the time.)

Anyway, I was signed up for this race, which was to benefit a great cause, The Valley Children's Advocacy Center.  I thought, somewhat stupidly, that 3.2 miles sounds a lot better than 5K, even though they're equivalent.  And I thought, "Ehhhh, two miles is easy...three shouldn't be that much worse."  But as race day approached, my Negative Nancy inner self kicked in.  The idea of the event itself loomed over me.  For someone with a raging case of social anxiety, showing up alone at any event is a daunting task, much less to an event such as this one, in which I'd be very out of my element.  Combine that with a real fear of being the very last person to finish as everyone else gawked at the fat girl finishing awkwardly...well, I chickened out, apologies to all of the maligned fowl.  My internal struggle was real.  Half of me knew that I'd never forgive myself for not going, and half of me just wanted to avoid it at any cost.  As is par for the course, Ms. Self-Doubt won easily. After all, they had my money, what did it matter?

When the alarm went off, I turned it off.  I was just going to go back to sleep and pretend I wasn't supposed to be somewhere.  But then my phone beeped with a "good luck" text message from someone whose opinion I value highly...who also happens to be a coach.  And I begrudgingly told him I wasn't going to go.  He didn't accept that answer, and guilted me in his own special way into getting out of bed and getting dressed, which I did.  I put my big girl panties and my sports bra on, sucked up my growing fear and social anxiety, and went to the event.  At that point, I thought I had the hard part behind me.

What followed was the absolute hardest physical thing I've ever done in my life, and by the time I reached the 1.5 mile mark of the brutally hilly course, I was ready to quit.  Instead of urging myself on and telling myself I could do it, my survival instincts kicked in and I started threatening to cut across the middle or hitch a ride with the event staff in their golf carts.  I was miserable, physically, and growing more and more anxious by the step, as more and more people passed me and left me in their dust.  Even the moms pushing strollers and the guy on crutches easily left me behind.  Each time I heard cheers from the finish line, I wanted to run...or crawl... in the other direction.  The Fat Girl Finishes Last Phobia was in full swing by this point, which made my labored breathing and racing heartbeat all the more difficult to deal with.  And the farther behind I got, the more I wanted to quit.  Fortunately, I had another "coach," who wouldn't let me quit.  He walked with me the whole time, when he easily could have run all or part of it.  He stopped halfway up the most vicious of hills to give me pep talks when I wanted to quit, and he shook his ass cutely at the top of the hills to encourage me to get there in spite of my pain and quivering legs.  Without him, I'd probably still be sitting somewhere along the 10th or 11th hole.

I finished the "race."  I finished--dead last, what I thought was my worst fear.  204th out of 204.  One hour, 13 minutes, and 37 seconds, according to official chip time.  That's a 23 minute mile, not that anyone is counting.  The guy on crutches finished eons ahead of me, as did all of the Stroller Moms. Behind me, I had my own little embarrassing motorcade of golf carts bringing up the rear...no chance of me sneaking stealthily across the line and to my car unnoticed.  But.  I.  Finished.  I finished in spite of my shit hip, and in spite of the fact that in order to make it an even playing field, some of the participants would have to carry each other on their backs.  I finished in spite of the fact that it was an emotional struggle to even get there, and in spite of the fact that I was literally in tears behind my sunglasses through a lot of it.  I finished.  And I made people proud of me in the process...all of my coaches, my tiny little cheering section.

What does this have to do with turkeys?

Well, turkeys don't fly because they think they can't.  They're clumsy, and top-heavy, and nobody has ever told them that they can.  They only get short bursts of energy that they can utilize.  In fact, only the wild ones can and will fly, and the others have been bred not to.  Turkeys fly when they need to, not for fun, and they're awkward and silly looking when they do it.  They'll never catch a falcon or an eagle, and they'll never impress anyone when they fly.  But they'll do it, sometimes, and they might even get better at it if they keep trying.  Until then, they'll trot.

"I'm Just a Girl in the World"

I just joined a fantasy football league.  And by joined, I mean stomped my feet and bitched and moaned until I was begrudgingly allowed to take over an abandoned team.  It only took me about two weeks of whining about it, and all along, I was thinking, "You'll just be kicking my ass every week, isn't that a GOOD thing?"  I mean, I just really improved the odds of winning for every other person in the league!  How can that be bad?

I don't know much about football.  Go ahead, say it.  It's because I'm a girl.  Pfffffft.  I know that I have a team I've rooted for since 1986 that I loyally hold onto, even though they suck.  I know that I like to look at football pants.  I know enough about the rules to get by, and I know team colors and mascots... Hell, I even like watching it!  But what I don't know is the necessary information for competitive play in a fantasy league.  Is that because I'm a girl?  Maybe.  Boys seem to have this innate ability to remember stats and positions and who's injured and who got traded...and I just don't.  I could tell you what I remember, but then I'd get sidetracked talking about Odell Beckham's tattoos, and that's just... not productive right now.  But I'm not sure if it's due to the male/female brain thing, or if it's about the learned skills that society has drilled into our brains.

So, why, then, did I want to play?  Simple.  Because I wasn't asked.  The guy running the thing invited every dude he ran into to play, and treated me like chopped liver.  He said it was because I didn't know anything about football....although he never bothered to ask, and we'd never discussed it. But he didn't ask those guys either...he just assumed they did.  Not because of football knowledge...but because of different...equipment.  Grrrrrrrrrr.

I don't know why I got my panties in a wad over gender inequality for such a trivial topic.  I mean, who really CARES about points in an imaginary league with no real bragging rights for a win?  But it seemed like the more I was denied the opportunity, the more I wanted it.  And the more I was denied that opportunity, the more I wanted to argue about other instances of gender inequality that got me fired up...all of them stupid, and trivial, but somehow really meaningful at the same time.  Like being in a room full of guys and the host asking only the MEN if they'd like a shot of bourbon.  I frigging LOVE bourbon, and I'm RIGHT HERE!  Somehow my skirt, or my boobs, disqualified me.

I was fired up over dress codes last week, too.  Reading articles such as this one and this one and seeing comments from friends who have daughters really made me thankful to have a boy (the responsibility just changes a bit).  I remember being fussed at, shamed, for not wearing a bra in my own house frequently in my adolescent years, and how bad that felt, like it was my fault I had boobs.  Like I was supposed to remember to stop to put a bra on under my pajamas before I went to eat my Fruity Pebbles and watch The Smurfs.  Hell no.  Flagrant issues...by all means, I'll address those.  But otherwise, kids are doing the work I assigned and not bothering me or each other, so I don't care.  If the boys are distracted, give them more to do and whack them over the metaphorical head with a good case of "act like you have some sense."  It might seem like it's about spaghetti straps, but it's not.

It's human to look and appreciate.  That's not lost on me, as a mere girl. After all, Odell and his ink, and those football pants...well, golly.  I do a lot of looking and appreciating, but it stops there. Anyone who says "boys can't help it" is risking a fight with me, though, because boys CAN help it.   They can help making girls feel bad because her boobs are bigger than the other girls'.  They can help not choosing girls to play on their teams...or in their leagues...because they "don't know shit about football. "  They can help assuming that girls don't drink bourbon, and that girls are there to sit and be pretty, but not be distracting, mind you!  There's that double effing standard that means that we can NEVER win, no matter what we do.  They CAN help it, and they need to be taught to, and so help me, if anyone ever says about MY son, "He can't help it, he's a boy," I'll teach everyone in the room how to help it.

I actually started this post with the idea of writing about how I prefer the company of men to women.  About how it's easier for me to be comfortable when I only have to worry about witty banter and not the conversation at a "hen party."  About how I'd rather be clueless and at a fantasy draft than on level ground and at a Lularoe party...or Pampered Chef...or any of those other approved "girl" things. About how that comes from being raised with a pack of wolves...I mean, boys...as an only girl, and from watching the men in my family retreat to the dining room to discuss important family issues while the women did the dishes.  Clearly, they couldn't be trusted with input, but Saran Wrap?  Yeah, we can let them handle that.  It's all of the above, and more.  And I'm just a girl in the world, giving props to Gwen Stefani for today's soundtrack.  (Just press play and turn up your volume, girls.)

Dear Rick Springfield...

Dear Rick,
     I'm a terrible girlfriend.  I have put my own needs ahead of yours for the last time. You see, you have been there for me on oh-so-many occasions. You've never let me down. You've been on time for our dates throughout the years, and the words you've said to me have meant so, so much. You've given me hugs when I needed them, and shared your soul.  But I suck.  At the first sign of inconvenience, I bailed on you.  Stood you up.  Left you hanging.

I blame it on old age.  Years ago, pre-kid, the eight-hour drive to Myrtle Beach on a Friday night for a Saturday night show didn't even cause me to blink twice.  And that one paid off, in spades.  You wrapped your arm around me like an old friend while I tried not to pass out.  And it was a great night.
But I'm sure you understand.  You'd understand that the last couple of weeks have been very trying for me.  You'd understand the need to recharge and just exist for a little while.  You'd probably even understand that it was a really tough choice for me, one that I'm second-guessing even now, knowing there's no way I could jump in the car right now and drive really fast and still make it to the show tonight.  I don't know if you'd understand the tears I stupidly shed (or that I'm shedding now) when I made that final decision, but then again, that wasn't really about you.  It wasn't even about the waste of the money I spent on Gold Circle seats months ago, when it seemed like Myrtle Beach was the closest you'd come to me. That was about being stuck, straddling a decision like an ever-widening gap, then having to make a quick, final attempt to get both legs on solid ground.  And maybe, just maybe, about knowing you'd been closer and I missed those opportunities, too.

But, Rick...you see...I don't think I can explain it.  My priorities are just different right now.  It's not that I'm forsaking you for another.  That would never happen.  It's just that I need to focus on myself a little, not in a narcissistic kind of way, but in a hold-myself-together kind of way.  Too many changes in too short a time requiring too much of my physical and emotional energy have just left nothing else.  And I couldn't do it.

So, have a great show tonight.  You'll be on my mind.  I'll be wishing I were center stage for "Human Touch."  I'll be jealous of other women getting Rick-sweated upon.  I'll be wondering if we'd have had a chance to talk before the show, and if Andrew would have gotten to talk to you again and tell you how much he loves "If Wishes Were Fishes" because you drop a couple of F-bombs.  But I'll also be braless in my jammies by about ten o'clock, and my feet will be recovering from wearing dressy shoes to school all week.  I'll be snuggled up with the blankets pulled up to my chin and a glass of the red wine we love so much on my nightstand...and if I want, I can YouTube you from the comfort of my air-conditioned room without worrying about drunks pissing me off, or traffic, or anything else.

And I know you'd understand.
Love, Me

And the Nomination Goes to...

This little nugget started out as a Facebook post, but when I went past three paragraphs, I decided that this was a better venue for my ramblings, and also less likely to get my blood pressure elevated as I was forced to deal with comments from the masses.  We all know I can't ignore things very well, so I'm much better off this way.  The root of it is that I'm not trying to get into a political argument with anyone today, but I AM marking the moment in time for my son, in the hopes that he doesn't have to rely solely on his fading memories in later years, as I do.


You see, he watched the DNC with me all week (the RNC last week, too, because we believe in being well-informed and listening to all sides, and checking facts, even when we don't agree with the opinion), and he stayed up with me last night as well.

He humored me while I told him that someday he will be able to tell his kids that he remembers seeing our first black President speak on the soccer field at JMU after freezing to death for hours and then being disappointed when we didn't get into the official speech in the Convo.

Barack Obama at JMU October 28, 2008

He also humored me while I told him to look around and remember what was happening while Hillary made her acceptance speech as the first female presidential nominee--his father asleep and snoring in the chair, the "porch kitties" chasing moths attracted to the light shining through the window behind the couch, and his sentimental old mom, who was moved to tears and applause, first by Mr. Khizr Khan, then by Hillary's speech.  Don't jump to conclusions, this isn't about Hillary, per se, but because it's been too long in the making.  The fact that I even have to celebrate the nomination of a woman as groundbreaking in 2016 should be cause for dismay.

Save your political comments of disgust or whatever...this isn't about whom I've voted for, or for whom I intend to vote.  This is about moments in history, and I want to make sure he can say, "I remember when..."

On Facing Fears, and Former Students...

Unalome tattoos.  If it matters, mine is most like the far left image.  

We just returned from a week-long family vacation to the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  It's important to note that this is the first time we have attempted this as a family since the summer of 2009.  The significance of this is that that last summer trip really was a last summer trip for one of us.  That's not the focus of this post, but it does contribute.

I have this...problem.  Significant dates in my life, usually traumas of some sort, get tagged in my brain and remembered.  I have trouble remembering when the good things happen, but things that rip my guts out pop up in their little anniversary outfits and kick me in the teeth on a pretty consistent basis.  Sometimes the teeth-kicking is based on a calendar date, but other times, it's just the "oh, the last time I was here" thoughts that get me.  So, this was one of those things.  The last time we did this, Edna was still with us.  The last time we did this, things were very different.  The last time we did this, I was a different person than I am now.  But again, not the focus of the post, just the backstory.

Anyway, it was the same week seven years ago that we did this last.  To oversimplify, it's also a time of transition for me professionally and personally, and I also had some other "anniversaries" in my head rolling around, when I happened to come across an image of a tattoo that really called my name.  I've wanted a tattoo for a couple of years.  In fact, it was supposed to be my birthday present in 2014, but I just never got around to it.  No, that's not entirely true--I had plenty of time to get one, but I didn't know HOW.  The same fear, if you will, stops me from going to get a pedicure without backup from my girls.  I don't know how things are done, so I just don't do them.  Easy solution, but also the wussy way out.  So this tattoo yelled my name, and my ever-courageous (and sometimes slightly scary) baby sister made the appointment.

I could have chosen an ankle or a thigh or a shoulder for my first ink...but I rarely do things the easy way, and I chose my sternum instead.  Worrying about the pain a little, I had ONE cocktail before we left, and chose undergarments and a shirt that I thought would provide easy and modest access to the area. I had the distraction of a ceiling fan accident (another story) to distract me just before departure, and I was feeling pretty good, pretty decisive about the whole thing.  A rarity for me, so it had to be acted upon.  Not even learning that I'd have to disrobe before the procedure really slowed me down much--it increased the anxiety level, of course, but after all--these people are professionals!

Turns out, one is required to show ID before a tattoo, even if you're clearly over the age of consent, and when the artist read out my small town name as if he recognized it, warning signs went off in my head.  Nobody knows where this town is unless you've lived here, and if that's true, you've usually tried to forget.  But he knew it, and then elaborated by saying he grew up around here and...Went.  To.  My.  School.  You know, the one where I teach?  Oh, and, "You were my 7th grade English teacher!" And here are those band-aids to satisfy your modesty.  Band-aids.  The little teeny ones.  Which makes them the only little teeny things on my body, if you catch my drift.  I avoid the grocery store at home in order to avoid students and former students, and you're telling me I'm five hours away from home and about to set the girls free...and, eeeek!

If I've ever felt like dashing out of a place of business, that was it.  But I sucked it up.  I was on a mission, the tattoo was calling my name, and I knew if I didn't do it then, I'd never get that one OR any other one.  It had to happen.  So I sucked it up.  I held on to my shirt until the very last possible minute, covered up to the best of my half-naked ability, and counted holes in the ceiling tiles as I anticipated the pain that I hoped would distract me from my psychological discomfort.  And it.  Was a piece.  Of cake.  The pain was minimal, the artist was ultra-professional, even when I threatened to time travel and put him in silent lunch, and I love the tattoo itself.  (Shout-out to AJ at Wicked Parrot Tattoos in Kill Devil Hills, should you be looking for a vacation tattoo.)

Symbolically, it represents the path to enlightenment.  The curves and spirals are the difficulties of life, the challenges, the times we don't know where our paths are headed.  The top, the straight part, is where we figure our proverbial shit out, become "enlightened," if you will.  The dots at the top allegedly represent death, the end of the journey.  As I write that, I realize that it's like punctuation, and you know I LOVE that connection to the grammar queen in me.  I have dots at the bottom, too, which to me, mean that everything comes full circle.  Emotionally, it is even more significant.  It marks a time when I faced not one fear, but SEVERAL, and came out on the other end better for it.  It also marks this time of transition, a connection that I will always make when I look at it.  And it replaces some memories, or signifies them, in a way that I could never have done on my own.  Those are all my "squiggles," and my getting through them and coming out better and stronger on the other end is my straight line, my goal in life...and it's closer all the time.

On Trust Issues and Disbelief

     

Blind faith is not my strong suit.  The other day, a young lady who was helping me direct our most recent play came up to me and said, "Hold out your hand," and she held her hand above mine as if she were holding something inside.  I panicked a little.  In the span of a second or two, all sorts of things blasted through my brain---things like, "Maybe she's putting a spider in my hand!"  or 'What if it's something gross?"  I had nothing to fear or worry about from this young lady, so I don't know why I expected it to be a fiery hot thumbtack or some sort of weird creature that might bore a hole in my palm.  But I did.  I expected the worst.

Knowing that that's an issue of mine, I went against my better judgment and held out my hand, cringing the whole time.  Every bone in my body screamed at me to pull my hand back in the nick of time, but I didn't, because I KNOW that my instincts and emotional reflexes aren't always the best. Once I held out my hand, she laced her fingers in mine and held my hand and swung back and forth and made some silly comment and laughed.  I should have relaxed at that point, but I didn't.  I laughed it off and flung her hand off of mine and made some smartass comment about being convinced she was putting boogers in my hand.  

I don't trust easily, even when harmless or stupid things are happening.  A trust fall, you know those team-building things that people do on retreats, just before they sing "Kumbaya" and make s'mores? Well, a trust fall for me would be an emotional disaster, even if I didn't end up in a pile on the floor. There is no way that I would ever blindly fall backwards and expect someone else to catch me. Instead, I would expect the opposite, that they would drop me, let me down.

It's become a viral thing lately for people to stand on busy streets or in marketplaces blindfolded with "Hug Me" signs hung around their neck.  I saw a few of those myself the last time I ventured onto the Charlottesville Mall.  I was fascinated and enthralled.  I could have sat and watched approaching huggers and their reactions all day, but it was really the "huggee" that intrigued me more.  I was too squeamish to walk over and give hugs.  I don't readily touch people, not even people I know well---there was no way I was going to hug a random stranger on the street.  (Besides, in typical non-trusting manner, what if it's a trick?  A  candid camera experiment?  The horror!)  So there is no fathomable way I'd ever stand blindfolded anywhere, much less with an invitation for bodily contact hanging around my neck.

     

I don't think I'm naturally suspicious--I don't automatically assume that people have malicious intent. In fact, I think I do quite the opposite. I give the benefit of the doubt and look for the good in people  perhaps more than I should (and sometimes it bites me in the ass).  So how does that fit?  It comes down to a lack of evidence.  I need evidence to support my trust, to support my patience, to support my energy and effort. And if it's not there…if I'm working on blind trust…well, then my brain does its own thing, my psyche jumps in just for shits and giggles, and all proverbial hell breaks loose.

I don't often quote 80s hair bands as being words that speak from my heart.  But Poison's "Give Me Something to Believe In" has been running through my brain the last few days.  They're singing about faith in a bigger sense, not the day-to-day trust in other people.  But for me, they're the same thing.  I need something to believe in, and I need the evidence.  And if that evidence isn't there, well, I'll keep looking until it is.   

Words and Actions

When the words and the actions don’t match

When nothing seems to fit

When I feel like the only solution

Is to give up and to quit

Trying to make it work and

Trying to find a reason

Because to keep fighting for this

Love through every season

Is taking every ounce of my

Faith and loyalty

And all I want understood is that

My love doesn’t come for free

In your corner, on your team

Through every bump in the road

But that comes with a serious price

And, eventually, you’ll reap what you sow

Wound me, hurt me, I forgive

And my scars will slowly heal

Ignore me, slight me, brush me off

Eventually, nothing I will feel

Words and actions need to match

It needs to be give and take

Because when there’s nothing left to give

The camel’s back will finally break.

The Science of Coloring

I love the smell of crayons, and I like to fill in empty spaces, like writing in a new notebook or filling in a chart, or rolling a paint roller over a wall and watching the white spaces disappear.  There's something very satisfying about making sure every spot is covered and complete.  So, of course I like to color!

I colored a lot as a child.  It was one of my favorite things to do.  There were very few things that matched up to a new coloring book and sharp, new crayons--you know, the ones where the edge hasn't been worn off yet.  I was careful with my crayons, tilting them and coloring on the side, then turning at strategic moments to make sure the tip stayed even.  Eventually, I'd have to peel the label off little by little to continue to move up the crayon, but that was always sort of tragic for me, because the names of the colors were very important.  There was a big distinction between burnt sienna and raw sienna, and between peach and apricot, but sometimes that difference disappeared with the shreds of the label, and I didn't like to be surprised by the color when those damn labels weren't there.
Adult coloring has become mainstream and trendy lately.  Suddenly closeted colorers, myself included, have options other than stealing their kids' super hero or Cars coloring books to satisfy the urge.  And thank goodness, too, because the colors just weren't very fun--that Dark Knight IS, after all, DARK!

I have several coloring books that are all mine.  A couple were Christmas gifts from my like-minded sister.  But, just like all things in my life, I find it difficult to finish one before I move on to the next one.  So when I found myself facing a huge rack of intricately-designed "adult" coloring books in a craft store the other night, I knew better than to try to resist.  I'm not the only one, apparently.  While I stood there, trying to decide if I was really going to spend ten bucks on yet another coloring book, a friendly older man approached and struck up a conversation about his favorites among the choices, and before I could remove myself from the awkwardness of seeing "AA Susan" in his phone contacts, he was thumbing through photos of pictures he'd colored and snapped pics of, very proud of his work, indeed.  It occurred to me at the time to wonder why he'd photographed them at all when he has the colored page, but maybe it was just for bragging rights or to troll for chicks in Michaels' on a Friday night.

So, what's the appeal?  Google "adult coloring" and you'll find a plethora of articles speculating about the health benefits (stress relief) and entertainment value of coloring for us grownups.  (You'll also find a bunch of free printable pages, so why the hell am I spending money on these things?)

There's a sense of satisfaction in taking all of the white spaces, the blank spaces, and turning them into something.  I even tend to add my own details when I don't quite like the way it looks (boy, is that ever a metaphor for life!).

It's fairly mindless.  The extent of the mental exercise involved is just in the choosing of the colors (burnt sienna, or raw?).  I like a lot of contrast (again, life), but that's pretty easy to do without actual thought.

It's cheap, it's not too messy, it's easily transportable, and there's little to no embarrassment involved (okay, maybe now that I've outed my coloring habit) if people see what I created.  After all, I just filled in the spaces, right?  I didn't actually DRAW anything!

I get out what I put into it.  I have crayons, colored pencils, and two...no, THREE, different kinds of markers of varying tip widths and scents.  And oddly, the coloring utensil that I use is both directly affected by my mood and serves its own purpose.  When I really need to tune out, to disengage, an intricate design with a fine-point marker does the trick.  I have to concentrate to stay in the lines, and filling up those spaces requires a lot of back and forth in a small space, which is not as dirty as it sounds.  When I'm just taking a small break from life, though, I'm more likely to choose a picture with larger designs; I can use a wider variety of tools and not focus as intently on the task.  The markers fill the designs smoothly and without much resistance...my hand stays steady and I tend to color in one direction only, with ease...like little else in my life.

Crayons, on the other hand, are a different story.  Aside from that SMELL (yes, I did just stick my face in the crayon bucket and inhale deeply), crayons can do so many things.  They create that contrast on their own, if I want, depending on how much pressure I use, being careful not to snap those carefully-created sharp points.  And there is something much more satisfying about the need to scribble back and forth, to create that friction to accomplish the task, that markers just can't accomplish.

I don't think I have a favorite way to color.  That would involve choice.  As usual, though, when I can't make a choice, I just keep all of them.  My favorite way to finish a picture is by using markers, crayons, and colored pencils, to vary the colors and contrast, as well as the textures.  Turns out, burnt sienna and raw sienna feel the same, but markers and crayons do not.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

I failed high school chemistry.  No two ways about it.  I just plain failed it.  Those stupid proofs and balancing equations of things I couldn't even really tell existed...well, it just wasn't happening. Heathcliff and Catherine had my rapt attention, but not the test tubes and lab tables, and I got used to seeing the letter "F" on my papers and acknowledging that I might not graduate because of those stupid covalent bonds.  I still, to this day, don't know what the hell those are!

One thing that stuck, though, as I wrote notes and planned my underage drinking excursions for the weekend, was the spiel about changes.  You know, some substances undergo changes that aren't able to be undone, and some just change into other things that you can switch easily back from.  If I recall correctly (and I will, because I'll google that shit just to be sure), it's the physical changes that can sometimes be reversed and don't really change the makeup of the original substance.  Paper is still paper if you chop it up, and wood is still wood once you hack down the tree.  A broken fingernail will grow back, hair will regrow...and what they ARE never varies, no matter how different they might look on the surface.

The chemical changes, though--there's the rub.  You can't just undo that beautiful mess that gets created.  Just ask Peter Parker.  Some changes, just like a radioactive spider bite, alter the core at the center of the substance, and that is not something that's easily undone.  Photosynthesis, digestion, burning...they all result in some new thing, some important thing, but some different thing that isn't going back to the way it was, no matter what you do to it.

Peter Parker sometimes tries to go back to the ordinary guy he was.  He tries to shed his costume and pretend that things are hunky dory and he's normal.  But he's not, and he never will be again.  He can't change back to what he was.  Most of us don't have a spider to blame (not even that little guy that crawled into my shirt to his death last night), nor are the changes quite so drastic as slinging webs and climbing walls (at least not literally) but it doesn't change the fact that we change.

In the interest of winding this up before I turn into a pumpkin, change is inevitable.  As Jay Asher wrote in the excellent young adult novel Thirteen Reasons Why, "You can't stop the future, you can't rewind the past.  The only way to learn the secret...is to press play." And true change never changes back, it just is.  So press PLAY.  

Life is a Transition

Life is about transition, or transitions.  From asleep to awake, from horizontal to vertical, from hungry to fulfilled...all transitions, all day long, every day.  Because, guess what?  If those transitions don't happen, you're not alive.  That's literal and figurative, by the way.  Some of those basic biological transitions have to happen in order for our hearts to keep ticking, our lungs to keep filling, or blood to keep pumping.  The figurative ones?They may not be as immediately critical to sustaining life, but they can be just as important in the long run.

It is often the case that things that people say to me get the wheels in my brain turning.  Oh, who are we kidding?  The wheels are always turning.  I'm a charter member of Overthinkers Anonymous, and the alcoholic's glass of scotch is a lot easier to put down than my brain, trust me.  I'm also the self-appointed president of the It's Not Right, Therefore, I Don't Accept It Club. God did NOT grant me any sort of serenity, not one little drop.

The cute little meme gracing this post?  The one I plucked from a friend's Facebook share?  Well, I don't know how I feel about it.  It popped up in my news feed in the middle of me contemplating transitions, and it just seemed apropos, even though I don't really think it's true.  Sometimes the bad things are bullshit that shouldn't have happened to start with.  Sometimes the bad things are decisions that were made FOR us instead of with us, and which put us down on a path we don't want to walk down at all.  Sometimes the path ends without warning--someone throws up a fence, a tree falls, or it just becomes overgrown slowly.  And sometimes the BEST things that ever happen in our lives put us on the path to the worst things to ever happen to us...how's that for optimism?  And just like I don't know how I feel about the statement, how I react to that blocked path changes also.

Shamelessly stolen photo of trees.  

Choice Number One is just to sit down on a rock and let the weeds grow up around me.  It's not an awful thing.  I can sit and look at trees for hours, no matter where I am.  And when the sunlight filters through (my new favorite word, komorebi), that's about as close to God as I get. I'm not going to get anywhere that way, but I also won't get lost or hurt.  It's a safe choice, but also a lonely choice.

Choice Number Two is to grab the nearest machete and start whacking through the shrubbery to make a path that no one has ever walked before.  It's exhilarating!  It's titillating! But it's also exhausting and a little too much like exercise to be pleasant.  Thorns draw blood, there are snakes and creepy-crawlies in the underbrush, and it's not a quick or painless way to get anywhere.

Choice Number Three is to turn around and walk back the other way, back to the starting point.  I know exactly where that path leads and it's already clear and safe.  It doesn't really matter that the starting point is miles and miles away, that I worked hard and suffered through the forging of that path.  It'll be easier on the way back, but that also means that all that work was for nothing.  The scratches and scrapes may be healed, but the scars are still there.

There are other choices.  The wind-up toy choice, the Sheldon-knocking-on-Penny's-door choice, the grin and bear it choice...the list goes on.  The point, which I sort of wandered away from, is that every single one of these things is a transition, a change.  A transition can be a bad thing, but it can also be a very good thing, a permanent one.  Just ask the butterfly.  It snuggled itself inside the cocoon as a slow-moving caterpillar with the idea of emerging as a beautiful, treasured butterfly who could fly anywhere gracefully, over the obstacles in the way, away from harmful things, to land on gentle arms and sweet-smelling flowers.  That's the way it should happen.  And if it does, whether there's a path or not is irrelevant.  The butterfly doesn't change back or decide to be something else.  It's just a butterfly forever, and happy.   And that...is probably way too many mixed metaphors for a Sunday morning.

One Small Step

My dad recently gifted my son with an old jon boat--nothing fancy-- gunmetal grey with oars that clamp on the edge, motor-worthy when he's old enough, but for now, just muscle power to putter around in the cove.  Andrew was ecstatic and couldn't wait to be afloat in his brand-new vessel for the first time yesterday.

Once there, however, he was scared.  The boat felt unstable to him. It rocked and tilted as the small swells drifted into our cove from the main channel.  The novelty wore off quickly.  He realized it was hard work, and in the hot sun, he quickly wished he were bobbing in the cool water himself.  But he couldn't get out--there was no one to help him out at the dock.  Everyone was either in the water or otherwise occupied, so I suggested to him that he just jump in from the jon boat.

To your average almost ten year-old, maybe that would have solved the problem, but Andrew froze, uncertain of his balance already and unable to take the leap, small though it was.  So there he sat, one leg swung over the side of the boat, one leg firmly inside, while the rest of us grew more and more frustrated over his inability to stop thinking about it and just jump.

It was clear that the idea of what could happen was worse than what actually would happen.  His fear, insecurity, and lack of confidence in himself paralyzed him, even though he knew logically that he was inches from the surface with a life jacket on and capable adults by his side.  The more he thought, though, the harder it became, and he went nowhere.

Today, as we took the pontoon out for a brief excursion, we headed to the marina to fuel up.  Normally, we have a full boat and someone is at the ready to hop off and "catch" the boat and tie us off.  But with just the three of us, the options were few.  I'm not the steadiest on my feet sometimes.  I can trip and fall over nothing, and with a tricky hip that isn't always reliable, I don't tend to put myself into physically precarious positions.  Today, however, without thinking, I stepped agilely off of the still-moving boat and onto the gas dock, nimbly skirting pilings and line as well as the widening expanse of water between the bow of the boat and the slightly higher dock.  And without a thought, until afterwards, when I realized with amazement what I had done.  I know, I know...it's not bungee jumping or skydiving, but trust me when I say that it was a big deal for me.

Different situations, but equally challenging in their own way.  Why was mine easier?  Because I just DID.  No thought, just action, while he was locked in a position of neither forward nor backward, looking for a solution that wasn't there.  I know the panic he felt trying to get out of the boat.  The situation was wobbly and uncertain, and he was terrified of someone letting him down and of the idea of getting hurt.  He did eventually succumb to the pressure and slid off effortlessly into the water. And the look of surprise on his face when nothing bad happened was exactly what I felt when I hopped onto the dock like it was my job.

I've done a lot of changing and growing in that past two years, all of it for the better. I"m a stronger, more confident person in a lot of ways, and I prove to myself on a daily basis that I can handle whatever life throws at me, even if it doesn't feel like it at the time.  He thought too much, I didn't think at all, and we both made it through.  He was embarrassed though, and showed his ass a little as he was panicking, and I can relate to that as well. The desperation of trying to hold on to something you've placed your trust in as it slips away is strong, and people do and say dumb things when they're scared and lost, me included.  The lesson here?  Turn off your brain, trust yourself first, and just let go.

The Trouble with Risks

Who we are often gets lost in what we do--the vagaries, the vicissitudes, sometimes even the chaos of our lives.  And inevitably, when that happens, we start to look for ourselves among the rubble.  Some people make bucket lists, some take up hobbies, others just do really deep soul-searching.  Whatever your poison, a healthy dose of "shake your shit up" can be a really powerful and even necessary thing.

And when we do find who or what it is we were looking for, even by accident, it's natural to want it.  You'd have to be dead inside, broken, not to.  When dreams are realized, it's the best feeling in the world.  A niche that fits, that feels good, that allows us to be who we are, even temporarily--everyone wants that, to be comfortable in his or her own skin.

The trouble lies, though, with the smoke and mirrors that our minds (and others') use to fuck with us.  Strong language, I know, but it's the only word suitable.  The brain is a magical place, where dreams and wishes materialize, but that means there are magical gremlins up there firing shots in the dark just to shake us up.  That amygdala is a bitch, and not just to spell.  Get the dopamine and serotonin levels fluctuating, as they do when we're falling in and out of love with something or someone, and it's a party of emotions up there.  Not a tea party, either...more like a drunken frat party where clothes get ruined and nobody remembers what the hell happened the next day.

It's that new car smell, the sound of a beer can opening, the excitement of having a new outfit or hairstyle that you love, that first kiss, that new library book, that brand new television series premiere, Rick Springfield's (or insert favorite artist) newest album, that brand new video game that you have to play obsessively until all the characters are earned...all of those simple things that thrill us, that get our hearts racing, that make us feel like we're not just on a treadmill but actually LIVING, for a little while, anyway.

Creative people are especially at risk for being ambushed by our overdeveloped sensitivities to boredom and routine.  The science behind it is lost on me, but there are parts of the brain that sit there idle while we don't know how to get down and dirty and utilize those brain cells.  Taking risks, putting ourselves out there, stimulates those dusty brain areas and lets us use them.

I've been scared of risks my entire life, and terrified of change.  That's not a healthy place to be. Things that don't change, die...just ask the dinosaurs.  At some point, a new hair color or cut doesn't make the brain matter quiver.  And eventually, you just have to decide that risk is necessary.  You might fall and skin some knees or elbows, you might fail at whatever it is you tried to do.  But you'll live through it and come out stronger on the other side.  (And if you don't, you won't care!)

So, do it.  Whatever it is in the back of your mind tickling your fancy, do it.  The best case scenario is that you succeed like a MOTHER and it's amazing!  The worst that can happen is that you fail miserably, bruise your ego a little bit (or a LOT) and end up with a great story to tell (or write!) someday.  But you'll grow.  You'll spread your wings.  You'll learn that you are badass, invincible, that you rock your own world (as well as some others), and that you.  Will.  Survive.  You'll learn to be fearless, which makes life so much easier.  Take that chance.  It's worth it, and so are you.  Your brain will thank you.