The Space Between Doing and Feeling or How I Love My Dad

So tonight, a night when I should have been doing a million other things in preparation for my family's arrival on Christmas eve, I found myself listening to Rosanne Cash's album Black Cadillac, an album which she began writing after her father's death. Specifically the song "I was Watching You" in which she tells her father that before she was even born, she knew him because "before life, there was love." This was a bad idea, because I really, really love my dad. And as the years go by and he gets older, I feel like the reality of a life without his physical presence in the world comes closer and closer and I do not want it to. And I try to tell myself that missing him before he is gone is not helpful, that it does nothing, but even the idea of him being gone creates a vacuum inside me and I feel profoundly alone.

A part of this is good. That I love my father, that my last name, my giant round head and huge duck feet are all things I inherited from him fills me with pride, that with my life, I feel I can make good on the promises he made to himself as a child--these are wonderful things. I can't deny the fact that someday he, and everyone, will die and that it will be painful, but I also cannot forget that right now he, and I, are alive. And I have wasted my first free evening in 8 days, feeling afraid of something I cannot control and allowing my heart to break before it really has reason to.

What I find difficult, is how to clean the toilet and the bathtub, when you cannot stop thinking about how your father is... how he is almost god-like in his presence in your life, the way he finds his way into your everyday speech, the texture of your gray hairs, your eyebrows, the way you handle conflict at your job, the way you talk to people at the grocery store, the way you love being admired for your intellect, the way you love spirituality, the way you search for god (even if you have found different ones). My dad isn't just himself, his physical body. There is me, and Allan and Adrienne and all of my siblings, and he is there too. My heart beats because he existed, because he exists. So what will it do when he is gone?

And what will I do in the meantime? The problem is that I cannot not think of it, but I can't just think of it. Where is the balance? How do I find the place where he can die and I can wait to be sad and I can continue breathing and just clean the bathtub and wash the dishes in the sink and wash the sheets and be ready for him when he comes, alive and well, not as far from death as he was 20 years ago, but far still, to celebrate Christmas with his family in my unique, strange adult life? Where is this space?

It is a small space I think, a narrow hallway. And I may never find it. My life isn't necessarily the epitome of balance. Perhaps, when I feel afraid of my dad's death, I can reach further into my chest and find that what lies at the foundation of that fear, is a bottomless ocean abyss full of loyalty, gratitude and love for the first man for whom I ever felt loyalty, gratitude or love. And maybe once I am there, I will be able to clean the bathroom, so that when he gets here, he won't have to worry about slipping on the floor of my shower.

The Art of Crankiness (or when to hold your tongue)

I have been increasingly cranky the past four days. And when I say cranky I mean easy to irritate, easy to yell, easy to upset, and then equally as easy to calm down once I've yelled, been upset and been irritated. I suppose a better word word would be moody, but the thing is that the very juvenile nature of my irritability requires a word associated with toddlers.

This morning, a friend of mine (taking a hint from Resevoir Dogs let us call her Mrs. Pink) and I had made a coffee date (like we do almost every single day). Poor Mrs. Pink woke up late, thought she could still get to Starbucks on time but couldn't, called me to let me know she wouldn't be able to make it and unknowingly placed herself in Cranky Deb's line of fire. I attempted to shame Mrs. Pink on the phone (lucky for her, she refused to accept said shame) and when that wasn't enough, attempted to shame her via text message, the most juvenile form of reprimand. Then, while we reconciled ourselves via g-chat, I proceeded to emotionally vomit upon Mrs. Pink my disappointment about she and I going to a different mall then I had wanted to go to on Tuesday, at which point I realized I had gone too far.

When I was growing up, my parents were firm believers in expressing one's emotions at all times, and this, not so surprisingly, has translated itself in my adult life to a complete inability to hold anything back. Anything I think, feel, experience at any given moment must be described to anyone and everyone, be it the time I pooped my pants, a magical experience seeing Symphony Hall completely empty for the first time, or my concern for my Dad and his swollen leg. Most of the time (I hope) this is just entertaining.

But what I'm starting to realize is that there is also a time to just shut up. Not everyone needs to know everything and I am not necessarily talking about my own embarrassing stories. The thing is that Mrs. Pink doesn't need to be subjected to my anger because she is late once out of a thousand coffee dates. There is no reason for her to feel guilty or for me to try to make her feel guilty. And, yes, I feel better after I've talked about it, but at what cost? Maybe it's about time for me to reign it in and to start expressing myself with a little grace and tact, which, though hard to come by when you are a member of my family, would be appreciated by all my loved ones. So, stay prepared for stories about excrement and my beard hair, but know that hopefully, if you are late, I can be capable of loving you enough to know that, sometimes, you just oversleep.

The Tell Tale Signs of Monday

1) You have been at work for less than 3 hours and already feel as though it is time to go home.

2) You have a list of things to do, but no matter how hard you try and no matter how time sensitive the things on said list may be, you cannot bring yourself to do any of them.

3) Your friends who are still students tell you they are still in their pajamas and a pit of rage and longing wells up in your gut with such intensity you feel you may ralph.

4) You are hungry all the time and hence, count the minutes until lunch (30 minutes to go).

5) You walk very VERY slowly to the bathroom, hoping to maximize time away from your desk only to return to find 3 minutes have passed. In response to this you drink as much water as your poor stomach can hold in order to take as many 3 minute bathroom breaks as possible.

6) You start to fantasize about what you would be doing if you had the day off. For example, let's say it's 60 degrees and sunny out on December 1st in a city renowned for its terrible weather. As a result of this you find yourself spending tens of minutes imagining sitting in the sunshine and reading a book. Or maybe, regardless of the weather, you just wish you were ANYWHERE but at your desk.

7) You imagine how great it would be to live a nomadic lifestyle. To grow your hair out and make it into dreadlocks. To grow out your beard (if you are so inclined) and stop showering. To hitchhike across the country until you reach your parents house and live with them just so that you won't have to pay rent so that you won't have to have a job that would require you to be in any sort of building for 8 hours a day.

And then you think of your iPhone. The one which you have been wanting for so long. And you think that if you can just sit at your desk until lunch, and then after lunch until 6pm you just might be able to buy one someday.

And then you think that maybe tomorrow you should call in sick.

A New Vocabulary

I have been going through a phase lately where, for some reason or another, I am jealous of everyone I know. Because they have more money than I do. Because they are thinner. Because they have a freer diet. Because they are not subject to debilitating periods of guilt and self-hatred. Because they are attractive. Because they have straight hair. Because they can accept things the way they are without judgment. Because they have a fitted wardrobe. Because they are going home for Thanksgiving. You name it, I am jealous of it.

Now, it is all well and good to tell your friends you feel jealous of them but the thing is that usually whatever you feel jealous of them for is something they can rationalize away. For example, I'm thinner because I work out more, I just am not as expressive about my self-hatred, I am NOT that attractive, I wish I had curly hair etc. So to tell a person you feel jealous of them, doesn't really make anyone feel any better. In fact, the other person looks like an idiot for not appreciating what they have, while you just feel enraged that they can have something so fantastic and not appreciate it.

But what my jealously comes down to is my own life. It doesn't really have anything to do with how my friends handle money or sex or beauty or food, but how I feel about how I handle these things. I perpetuate this terrible cycle in which everything I do amounts to absolutely nothing. There are people who have made better financial choices than me, but right now, I am piecing together the foundation of my adult relationship to money. I make less mistakes now than I did a year ago, and I am proud of this. And the real truth is, I find myself nice to look at and for all my flaws and failures, I am trying to be good and I think that, sometimes, this is all we can say for ourselves.

My biggest problem is not my friends and their successes (which are many as I have incredible friends) but the fact that I have trouble giving myself room to succeed. I project failure and rejection before it is even a reality and then make my own terrible dreams come true.

WELL, I AM DONE WITH THAT!!!

I am officially only going to use the following words in regards to myself: wonderful, successful, hard-working, in progress, sextastic, and hot.

Laundry and Leaders

I do my laundry at a laundromat three blocks away from my house and, because it is so close, I rarely hang out while my things are laundered, having faith that very few thieves are hefty enough or have girlfriends hefty enough to fit into my clothes. Last night, when I returned to pick up my dried clothes, a disheveled and slightly bloody man was reporting that he had been mugged while waiting for his clothes to dry. Apparently, the mugger had come in the back door of the building and tackled this poor man to the ground before dragging him outside and punching him repeatedly all the while shouting, "Give me all your money." The man had no money on him, but informed the mugger that his wallet was in his jacket inside the laundromat. The mugger ran back in the building, grabbed the jacket and took off down the block. And I think to myself My clothes were in the drier that whole time. It sounds petty, but what I mean is I could've been there. That could've been me.

It's strange, but yesterday, because of the election, because Americans banded together and elected Barack Obama president, I feel affected by the entire world. I suppose I always have been, but this election is the first time I made my own decision for whom to vote. I watched some of the debates, I read Obama's speeches and I decided that he was the person I wanted to be in the executive branch of the government. When I filled in the bubble next to his name I felt confident that I was making an informed decision, the decision I thought best for myself, the people I love and my country as a whole. And then when he won, my first thought was that I had a part in it, albeit a small one. My tiny little vote bubble, along with millions of other Americans', voted that man into office. I stayed up late (as did the rest of the country) to watch his acceptance speech and was surprised to find myself moved to tears, not by anything he said, but by his face as he walked to the podium. He looked heavy, aware of the gravity of his new role, vulnerable and slightly afraid. This is the way I would want my president to feel.

I think we forget, as Americans, that we are not invulnerable. On Tuesday, we exert our power in the political world, and then on Wednesday, a man doing his laundry gets beat up. We are powerful when we join together, but our power is limited. We, as a country, as human beings are hanging on by a thread. This is not to diminish the sheer awesomeness, hopefulness and joy that President Obama brings with him to the Oval Office, but we should take his example and understand the sheer weight of our role. Obama is an advocate for change, and with change comes the need for good, difficult work and with this comes risk and with risk comes an inevitable exposure of the most delicate parts of ourselves.

I am not going to stop doing laundry at my laundromat because that poor man was hurt. But I am going to try to be aware that at anytime, for any reason or no reason at all, things happen. I hope I can be gracious while watching President Obama govern our country, because, as he proved with just a look in his eyes, he is just a man. And thank god for it.

WANTED: Easy Answers (or brown pants)

There. I said it. I want them. And I want them to be formulaic and terribly simple. Steps, in fact. Like the New Kids on the Block song. I would like to understand the answers to the following questions:

1)How do I get rid of my acne? It isn't bad enough to pay to see a Doctor, but in my mind I have freaking leprosy. I think Like I don't have enough physical deficiencies without cystic fucking acne.

2)Why don't I like my job? It isn't my boss (even though it would be excellent to blame it all on him); he is actually quite pleasant the majority of the time. It isn't the hours, or the work, or anything like that. Perhaps my unexplained disdain for my work place is manifesting itself in giant, painful red pimples on my face that I cannot help but pick at constantly.

3)Why do I live so far away from my freaking family? They are the only people with whom I feel unafraid to love and be loved. I am TERRIFIED with everyone else, convinced I will do something, say something and then *poof* love dissipates like steam on a mirror.

and the most important questions is this...

4) What is it like to love someone? How do you do it without hurting them, hurting yourself? I would tell myself the answer... that you cannot. But that is not easy enough for me today. Everything... every aspect of one's self goes into the act of loving: the emotional self, of course, but what about the political self, the career-oriented self, the spiritual self, the physical self... all of these involved in the act of love. What is it really? The only answer I can think of (which is just not easy enough) is that love is chaos. But how do you love people who don't understand this? Perhaps this is the big question... how do you love someone who thinks you aren't supposed to hurt them? Because I'm going to. And each time I will be sorry and I will repent and I will try my hardest to do right... but someday I will hurt you while trying to do right. And those people who don't understand, their love will go *poof* and though I know logically that perhaps that person doesn't want my love, love is chaotic enough to not understand who is deserving of it.

Since I can't have easy answers, all I want is a pair of brown pants that fit me and are the right length. Please... I just want a pair of brown pants. 

The Big D (and I don't mean me)

For the past week and a half, I have been reading a non-fiction book by Mary Roach called Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers which describes all the different uses (scientific and otherwise) for the lifeless human form. If it sounds grotesque that's because it is. I spend most of my time reading with a horrified (and fascinated) look on my face. I started reading it as an attempt to shock my psyche into a familiarity with death, to confront head-on that which I am afraid of and, for once in my life an idea of mine is working the way I planned and it is doing just that.

While sitting in Symphony Hall on Friday listening to the Brahms Requiem, I thought, "In a hundred years, everyone in this building will be dead." There was no fear (well not just then) but wonder at the fragility of skin, organs, breath, the body as a whole. Now, don't get me wrong, I was scared a moment later (and that moment of courage could have been rooted in the fact that I did not really love anyone in the hall), but for the millisecond it took for the thought to form in my mind, death was just something that happened. It wasn't scary; it was simply the evolution of time, huge and full of chaos. I was completely diminished and relieved to be so. 

Penny asked me today if I've always been obsessed with death, and I suppose it is a more recent development. I am aware of the expiring of my body, my parents' bodies, my brother's body... I have spent so much time trying to not to think about that which begins to happen from the moment we reach adulthood.

But Walt Whitman says: 

"What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere.

The smallest sprout shows that there is really no death

and if ever there was, it led forward life

and does not wait at the end to arrest it

and cease the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward.

Nothing collapses.

And to die is different from what anyone supposed

And luckier."

Apparently, reading about cadavers being crashed in cars to test air bags, being blown up to test land mine foot protection, rotting in a field in order to study human decomposition for forensic purposes, or being dissected in medical school labs makes me think... what a delicate and brave thing is a human being.

Of Adulthood and Finances

As an adult, I am realizing that there are certain necessities that warrant the spending of a decent amount of money: i.e. haircuts, shoes with proper arch support, work clothes (because you've been wearing the same pair of black pants every other day for almost two weeks). We're not talking about the expensive purse buying or the excessive book and movie purchasing in which I have been known to indulge. I am talking about the basic effects that a person needs to be comfortable in this life. But unfortunately, while in my early twenties, I spent a spectacular amount of fake money on crap I didn't need hence acquiring a butt load of credit card debt that I never really paid attention to until the grand total equalled a poor man's yearly salary. 

I feel sometimes like my whole past is this debt, something I want to eradicate, but something I have to live with everyday, paying it off in small increments even though it was accrued over the course of only a couple of years. I feel like the good decisions I want to make for my life now (for example, shoes that I can stand in and walk in without hurting my feet or legs or back) are jaded by the decisions I made then. It would be nice to be able to spend $110 on a pair of really good shoes but can I really justify that in relation to my debt? 

The problem here is that the $110 I spent four years ago probably amounts to one quarter interest, a really expensive dinner at the Cheesecake Factory (which I have now realized is a TOTAL sham of a restaurant; if I wanted to consume 10,000 calories I would eat food that actually has taste versus that generic American bulk food they sell), and a night out drinking. And there it is. The shoes that would keep my knees from hurting I can't buy because I already spent that money 4 years ago on shitty food and a couple of drinks. 

I sometimes wish I could relive parts of my life with the knowledge I have now. I've been fat long enough  to have forgotten when it really became an issue and so there is no palpable regret there. Also, though the decisions I made then in regards to food haunt me in the way of stretch marks, cellulite and repressed sexuality, I have joined a weight loss group that allows me to micromanage my eating into weeks (even days when it feels especially hard), leaving very little room for shame. But money...

Even now, when I attempt to not spend needlessly, to return things I don't need or love, to spend more money at the grocery store and less at restaurants, I find I am having to choose between making good decisions now or paying for the decisions of my past. My relationship with money is such a delicate balance of letting go, holding on, releasing, forgiving, spending, returning and sometimes, just having to eat the shit I served myself. 

I want to buy good shoes. But someday I also want to be able to save to buy a house, and I can't do that until the credit card debt is paid off. But how much will the house mean if I fucked up my body wearing shitty shoes? If I had continued in the trend of my earlier blogs I would've called this one, "WANTED: Easy Answers." But unfortunately for my knees and my future home, I am pretty sure the easy type of answer doesn't exist.

Not-so-little Debbie in a small coat

Now when I call myself "Little Debbie" I don't mean that I am literally small. Though I am short, I would not call my stature (not to mention any other part of my body or spirit) "diminutive" by any means. But in the midst of an on going love relationship with Weight Watchers, I have found almost 10% of myself to have disappeared into an oblivion and am now stuck with the joyful (though somewhat annoying) task of finding clothes that fit. Now the problem with being "in transition" in terms of my weight is that it is not wise to buy too many of anything, due to the expectation of being 5-8 pounds smaller in the course of the next couple of months. This leaves me with one pair of jeans and two pairs of dress pants that have to be re worn enough times for me to utilize the 10,000 pairs of underpants I must go through before deciding it is finally time to visit the Laundromat. Blouses are a little more forgiving, but clothes that are even slightly too big make one feel and look pretty frumpy. 

Now as a devout "fat kid," which I have been almost my whole life, I know the rule. To look your best you must wear clothes that fit (not too big, not too small) which is made difficult by the boxy clothes worn by most thin women that stores such as Macy's and Old Navy just make bigger to accommodate the plus sizes. Then you have stores such as Sears or Lord and Taylor that think all big women want to wear is caftans and sweatpants (very expensive sweatpants) and Lane Bryant which sells its beautiful, albeit cheaply-made, clothes at ridiculous prices because they (and we) know that they are the only store where young, fat, aspiring fashionistas can shop.

So in addition to being a clothes minded Goldilocks, I, as a larger lady, have my own personal rule as well: NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, buy clothes that you cannot wear out of the store, meaning NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES buy clothes that are too small in order to motivate you to lose weight. 

And today, my friends, I broke my own cardinal rule. I purchased a coat that was too small. Now I suppose it is not as small as it could be. It fits in the shoulders and I can button the buttons. It doesn't look too bad actually, but the fact of the matter is, I know it is too small. I, of course, left the tags on and the coat hangs over the chair in my room, a dead weight of shame. It really is a beautiful coat (camel colored wool, pretty collar, big bell sleeves), but it the principle of the thing. I, being a terrible judge of weight, have no idea how much weight I would need to lose for this coat to fit the way I would want. Ten pounds is doable, but twenty? If I have to lose 20 lbs. to fit into the stupid thing is it even worth it? I don't even know!! I am at a loss, not really because of the coat, but because of the idea of a future that I never had really imagined feasible for me: a future in which I could shop in more than three stores, where my normal sized friends and I could shop at the same stores, where my doctor doesn't lecture me about weight loss, where I don't feel like the fat kid at Yoga class. I understand I will still never be diminutive, but I could be on the big side of average.

Up until I was 22, I would use the phrase, "well, when I get skinny..." you know, I won't wear mini-skirts, I'll still only shop at Marshalls etc. but when I turned 23 the phrase changed to "if I ever decide to lose weight" because from my vantage point it didn't look like it would ever be something I would ever feel ready to do.

But here I am on the other side of 25 pounds feeling... lost. I mean, don't get me wrong, I feel joy and pride too, but I have been fat my entire life, and even when I wasn't so fat, I still thought I was, and so I feel like I am losing, not just weight, but a whole part of my identity. And to buy a coat that is pretty snug with the intention to fit into it, goes against every fiber of my fat kid being, because even after 20 pounds I wonder if something could still go terribly wrong. And to have a coat that I love, a coat that is not just a coat but a physical representation of my hopes for myself... oh the possibilities for disappointment are endless.

So I will do one of two things: 

1) I will return the coat next weekend and rue the day I ever thought I could go against my much ingrained fat kid nature

or 

2) I will keep the coat (with the tags still on) until it either fits or I need the money I spent on it to buy groceries.

In the wake of feeling threatened...

So tonight, while walking home, I was followed by a woman who I'm pretty sure was on drugs. She was following very close behind me for two blocks, so I called Jan, making sure someone knew where I was, and then turned around and asked, "Are you following me?"

"We're cool. We're friends."

"I've never met you before in my life."

"No. We used to live together. In Southie."

"I've never lived in Southie."

"We're in Southie."

"No, this is East Cambridge."

"Oh. But we're cool."

"No, if you want to get to Southie you need to take a bus."

"How do I get there?"

"The bus terminal is down that street. Walk down this street and it will be on your right."

"Oh."

And I watched her walk away, and then walked home, looking constantly over my shoulder.

It was a strange (and slightly humorous) interaction that could have happened anywhere, and I am almost positive the woman was harmless, but it is the first time I have really felt threatened in my neighborhood. And I don't like it, because of course I want to feel safe near my home, but mostly because that brief moment of fear has exposed all my secret prejudices. This was a twenty something white woman, and the fact that I am surprised by how scared I was of her and that I noticed she was a twenty something white woman, just goes to show you the kinds of people of whom I think I should be afraid walking down the street at midnight on a Friday. 

How shameful of me. 

WANTED: Voyeurs

I have to admit, I've been feeling kind of silly and embarrassed by this blog. I haven't told most people that I am even writing one, even though I LOVE composing each post and reading all of my friends'. There is something intoxicating about being able to watch people's lives from some distance. I track my friends blogs, and though I track them as myself, they don't write those thoughts for me, but for a public. I like reading the formed thoughts: edited, re-read, spell checked. I am finding that the people I love are even funnier, more intelligent and more eloquent than I knew, and I love being a part of their audience. It's like watching a one man show: something intimate and anonymous.

When I see Penny performing on stage, as she is the person who I am lucky enough to see on stage more than any other, I feel like I know her best in those moments. And perhaps that is true for all artists: one's best self emerges when he or she is acting, composing, painting, consciously aware of each movement of the hand, each tremble in the voice, each sweep of color, not with judgment, but with simple sight.

In the movie, Shortbus, by the ridiculously brilliant John Cameron Mitchell (who wrote and directed Hedwig), it is said that, "Voyeurism is involvement." I think this means that to simply watch, to pay attention (thanks Iris Murdoch!) is the epitomical way to be inside the world, to be one's self, to love and to affect change. And I also think it means that to be involved in another's life you have to watch them as if they were your favorite movie, with love and attention. I, for one, feel that no experience I've had was really anything until I told someone else about it (hence the reason everyone knows I peed myself while sleeping in Gretchen's bed at Tanglewood).

Last night, while bouncing Gretchen and Eric's wee Philip to sleep on the exercise ball, Philip kept staring at the light fixture on the ceiling. Eric says it is because the fixture looks like a nipple but I think (I hope) that he is just looking to look. He is too little to do anything about what he sees; his body is not yet ready to reach for it, so all he does is look. I tried it when I fell asleep last night. Just staring at the ceiling. I felt comforted, because there it was. The ceiling. And there I was, eyes open, alive to see it.

WANTED: Back Purse

I have back pain. It's true. And I carry a lot of stuff in my purse. Also true. But I need it all. I need giant sunglasses to cover my allergy eyes, and I need a giant case to make sure the giant lenses don't get scratched. I need my planner because I have a terrible memory. I need my pencil case because it contains my allergy medicine, lactose pills, anti-diarrhea medication, my lip gloss, hair clips for when my hair gets in my eyes and a spare tampon. I need my wallet because you never know when I might need ANY of the numerous frequent buyer cards stored there in. I need my cell phone, just in case I miss the bus and have to call Jan. And I need my waterbottle because when I get dehydrated I get headaches and become very cranky. And all of this puts about 10 lbs. of weight on my right shoulder. It is also true that I love my current purse (because it is probably the best purse ever made by man's hands) and that I have a firm belief in one's right to look hip, not be in pain, AND carry all 10 lbs. of one's much needed effects.

So my brother says, "Deb, you should carry a backpack." And I think, "Well that's an idea! That would at least equally distribute the 10 lbs. onto both my shoulders, hence reducing the aggravation of my self-diagnosed scoliosis. I'll just find a backpack that is cute." But after many adventures in Macy's, Urban Outfitters, Filenes and Marshalls, I've come to this conclusion: back packs aren't cute. And backpacks aren't like dogs, where sometimes they are so ugly, they're cute. The ugly ones are just ugly. And the cute ones are ugly too.

So there I am, Marshalls closes at 9pm, it is 8:55 and I find a backpack/purse that could do. So I buy it, knowing I can return it if need be. I carry it around, price tag flapping in the wind, get home, put it on my desk, get ready for bed, and then, while in the midst of my pre-slumber meditation I think, "That is the ugliest and stupidest purse ever," and I resolve to return it on my lunch break today.

I relate this to my life as a whole in the following way: life is too short to carry an ugly purse, no matter how much better it makes your back feel. I would rather have my back hurt than my soul.

Louis Vuitton and still ugly.




Ugly cause it's a backpack but the dog is cute.



Best purse ever made my man's hands

WANTED: Pair of Pants

When I lived in California, the temperature always coincided with the climate: meaning 90 degrees = sunny, 50 degrees = cloudy. So when I look at my weather report this morning and it says "high of 86 degrees," my logical response is, "oh yes... sunny, summery weather." So what do I do? I wear a sunny, summery skirt. During the day, a work friend of mine invites me to attend a Red Sox game with her that evening, so I resolve to go home during my lunch to change into some pants and a jacket, just in case it gets cold. But at 1pm, when I try to exit my office I meet with a torrential down pour. I cannot imagine anyone playing anything in such weather, so I opt out of going home and instead eat lunch and then waste a colossal amount of time waiting in line at the bank. But, unfortunately, my California imagination doesn't fly in New England. Which means the game is going on as planned. Which means here I am, with a summery black and white skirt, a short sleeved black blouse, and a bad ass ticket to a Red Sox game on a VERY rainy evening. What's a girl to do?

I wonder occassionally at my own view of preparedness: if it is really ever possible to be ready for the best and worst experiences of one's life. And it is all well and good to say, "Carpe Diem," or "Tomorrow will take care of itself," or "His eye is on the Sparrow," but this is not the point. The point is that I wish I wore pants today; I wish I looked at the hour by hour weather instead of just the highs and lows; I wish I had really thought about what I wanted in a career before I took this job; I wish that love was something you could find if you looked hard enough; and more than anything in the world, I wish that people wouldn't die.

So what will I do? I will take a breath, filling my lungs with all those wishes, and I will take my bad ass Red Sox ticket and my summery skirt to Fenway Park, where I will buy myself a $50 Red Sox Sweatshirt, yell "YOOOOOOOOOOOUK!" at the top of my lungs, a $9 guiness in one hand, and a bag of 2,000 calorie kettlecorn in the other, and sing my heart out to "Sweet Caroline," even if it was inspired by a 9 year old girl.