Not An Easy Sunday
November 7, 2022
Sunday mornings I start my day, sometimes in my pajamas, at 750 am. I go to the gym down the street for a 8 o’clock Pilates class. I reserve a space three days in advance; it’s popular because it’s ridiculously hard but eighty percent of the time, we’re lying down, on our backs or our bellies, so it suits the lazy, the hungover, and the people that want to look good in a bikini. The classes are never the same, but I can count on a Joni Mitchell, Taylor Swift, James Taylor, type music, on the playlist.
It is hard, it is not so hard. If I chose. I can do pushups from my knees and use light weights. I like staying low to the ground when I’m just waking up.
Today, there was someone new. The music was soft. The moves were hard; ten minutes of side planks on a Sunday? There was stretching, and then more work. It was lovely. It was different. It ended at 849 am, four minutes over.
Church is at 1030. I’d signed up to teach religious education, or Sunday School, which means I spent half the service with eight 7th graders, helping the lead teacher with the lesson of the week. I’ve been out of the loop for a while, so I didn’t know the kids or the teacher, at all.
I made friends with Leona, the artist, and Sebastian, the shy one. The lesson had an African theme, my husband volunteered to fry the plaintains, (a job assigned to me,) so I could join everyone out to the yard and watch our group play a game.
It is November in New England and this morning the temperature was over sixty degrees. There is something delicious about spinning around in the leaves and the wind on a November morning in very short sleeves.
I can’t remember the name of our activity, but it came from Africa and hiding, then finding stones, was the point. The leaves have mostly fallen, so there were breaks to hang on naked branches, examine seeed pods, and discuss whose turn was next. No one slipped on the wet grass, or broke a limb, the human or the tree kind. At the end, we lost about half the stones, and the lead teacher said that was impressive.
We all tried the fried plaintains, and I don’t think they were that good, but some of the kids liked them or were polite.
I raced home afterewards to get ready for a funeral for a friend. This was a woman I worked with a long time ago at Quincy College. I can’t sum her up in a few words. She smiled with her eyes, adored sparkly eye shadow, spoke her mind without lowering her voice, and was someone I would call a friend today, even though it’s been four years, because she was loyal and fierce and…
I will think of her often. I wish I’d seen her before she died and after Covid.
There was dinner with friends and two glasses of Chardonnay. There was a walk around the block, Sophie sniffed, and Chanel sniffed and pulled.
And now, I am home. I am thinking about church and faith. I am thinking about my kids when they were young, and if the dogs will need another walk. The windows are open, so I’m thinking about global warming. I hear Colin’s voice upstairs, I wonder if I should remind him to bring his trash down tonight; tomorrow is Monday.
I am thinking about my friend Pat- years ago, she told me my boots were too beat up to wear to work, I gave them away the next week.
I am thinking about how two weeks ago, my friend and I talked about visiting Pat at a home and how she was a little confused. Both of us knew we didn’t have the time to make the trip.
So many people were there to say goodbye today. I hope she was watching.
We toasted at her when we got our drinks, and then conversation moved on- to classes, work, flight plans, holidays, kids and conversations.
That’s the way it goes, I guess. One day isn’t ever one day, really, it’s a million tiny days sandwiched between waking up and sliding in between the sheets.
May peace be with you, Pat.
May peace be with all of you,
Julie
The dog who couldn’t get up and did.
October 14, 2022
I don’t want to go back and read what I wrote about three weeks ago. I’m pretty sure it was a softspoken couple of lines about the impending death of my Sweetest of Dogs, Sophie, also known as Mrs. Blackburn.
Maybe, I talked about carrying her down the stairs to a final cookie party, or our trip to the pond so she could move in the water. On land, she could only stagger, or lurch, or sigh, sit, and rearrange her paws around her body to look up at me as if I had inflicted her with aging joints and rapidly advancing kidney disease.
Let’s be clear. It’s been three years since she started dying. I’ve written similar elegies. I’ve had my minister mention her name at church and more than one drink put on someone else’s tab after I spilled the sad story of Sophie the Magnificent, aka Mrs. Blackburn.
But three weeks ago, well- I’ve never had to carry her to and from the car before. I’ve never had to lift her onto the sofa, the low one, where we forcefeed her meds, my husband prying open her jaws with two hands, and me dropping the crushed up powder in, sliding in down a folded square of cardboard. I gave up all pretense of healthy dog food, gave her Sheldon’s leftover steak, with a smear of catfood on top, and a little bit of buffalo chicken for bedtime snack.
That was three weeks ago. And for those of you who know just how bad it was, I gotta tell you now-
She’s fine again.
She’s climbs up and down the stairs three times a night, because sometimes at three am, Mrs. Blackburn likes to look at the stars, take a drink from the toilet, or chase Michael the cat. She is still fussy as hell, but is starting to realize we’ve noticed she eats the healthy dog food when we’re not looking.
I sent Sheldon to the store yesterday for another case of the damn stuff, I think it’s four bucks a can. I didn’t want to send him to the store until I was sure, well, you know.
She had a fight with the neighbor’s dog this morning, which translates to when the tiny grey poodle walked by, owner following behind on the phone, Sophia the Fierce, tore out the back door to the fence, where she alternated fierce, ear splitting barks with deep throated, impressive growls.
She’s fine again, though that dog from this morning might disagree.
I was going to say, I’m looking forward to taking her for granted again, but I don’t think I will.
Winter’s close, and it’s time to stay close to those that we love.
Sophia, The Kindest Of Queens will keep us warm and safe until spring. We need her this year more than ever.
The season of the big ouch
October 2, 2022
About three years ago, Sophie the Sweet, was diagnosed with liver and kidney failure. We were warned she didn’t have much longer to live.
I jumped on the internet and started making recipes for low protein low fat meals, most of them ended up greyish brown or brownish grey. Sophie the Stubborn never ate a bite.
We found her a ‘healthy” dog food that I would eat after I covered it with slabs of bacon, shredded mozzerella cheese, meatloaf, chicken skin, and catfood. We would place her bowl at the top of the basement stairs, behind the door, and stand on the other side to listen for slurping or toenails on cement heading downstairs.
For months after the first visit to the vet, tears would spring at random. Was this our last walk at Houghton’s? The final cookie party? The final glimpse of her gobbling a rabbit smeared on the driveway left by Michael, the cat?
But she went on. So we did.
Just last week, she started limping. My husband diagnosed her as needing a day at the spa. The pawdicure didn’t work.
For the past three days, I’ve been carrying her inside and out of the house. The healthy dog food is going to my son’s puppy, Nell.
Tonight, I fed Sophie a chicken enchilada, tore every morsel into tiny bites, and left out the bits with tomato, in the middle of the living room while Nellie tried vigorously to climb my right leg. I’m not sure what exactly Nel was trying to accomplish, but when she stopped, she looked like she wanted a cigarette.
Tomorrow, I’m thinking Peking Duck for lunch. It will be Sunday, and Chinese food tastes best on Sunday. We’ll take her to the vet on Monday. Maybe there will be another miracle.
Right now, there is a miracle dog in my living room. I”m going to go read a book and hope that she can read my heart as I sit on the couch, near her, in her bed, on the floor.
Tomorrow we’ll visit Houghton’s so that she can swim before the weather turns cold.
Winter is promises to be bitter this year.
I bury the lead and ponder a little.
October 14, 2021
I’ve been working on texting with two hands lately and mildly obsessed with the trying the new dance cardio on the Peloton app. I don’t know why I want to text with two hands, I’m not twelve, and I don’t think it will impress my friends. When I finally tried the dance cardio, it made me feel dumb. My upper body is not able to move like a snake, and they never asked me to do that in jazz class a million years ago. When I touch my chest, I look silly, though I am far from the mirror because I learned in the days of group exercise to stay far away from the mirror. The whole thing made me laugh and I needed to laugh.
Colin, my 21 year old son, is home again, not his choice, and certainly not mine or my daughter’s. Katy’s eighteenth birthday was spent at a hotel because she didn’t want to entertain with Collie scowling in the background or, even worse, trying to include himself. (I believe he would have been respectful of Kate, but I am an optimist, and she liked the hotel idea.)
Work is what heals me; I work with students at a community college. The ones that are able to get through on the phone need help, and it feels good to be presented with a question- “how do I apply to the nursing program”?- that has answers that I know. I’m new there, so I don’t know all the answers, but I’m good at finding out. It’s a college so there are lots of people with answers. I use the directory often.
At home, I don’t know much. I don’t know how long Collie will be here, or what’s going to happen next. I don’t know if Sophie will eat dinner three times, or not at all. I don’t know if Katy will ever get to her college applications, put away her laundry, or watch tv with me again, because Covid ended and she’s eighteen and has a life.
I do know I’m getting better at texting with my hands, and I’ll probably go back to bike boot camp on the app.
I do know I”m tired of hearing the words “stay safe.” I know they are meant as loving or kind, but lately, they feel paranoid and dark or judgmental, like someone feels like I might go into a crowded grocery store without a mask, and spread germs on all the produce, if they forget to remind me with those cautionary words to take precautions, there is still a crisis. I know it’s still a crisis, and there is no danger of forgetting.
Maybe, I should have said those two words to Colin, starting when he was two, every time he left the room. Maybe things would have turned out differently.
Homecoming
October 6, 2021
I’ve been thinking about my high school reunion since the invitation came last May.
There was Covid to consider. And the memory of the last one I attended where the night ended with me falling up my friends stairs and splitting my forehead open. There was the twenty pounds I wanted to lose, and the people I didn’t want to see, and the people I missed.
One night, I finally clicked yes on the Evite, knowing I could always cancel. It was late Spring of 2021; I wanted a plan to get out of town and see some faces that I hadn’t been seeing for the past year and a half.
Amy, one of my best friends, still lives in Mountain Lakes, and she volunteered to go along, even though she wasn’t in my class, and isn’t much for cocktail parties.
A week before the party, my friend came to visit me in Boston. Taylor, Amy’s daughter, had been found in bed by her roommate, unable to open her eyes and mumbling into her pillow. Her roommate called an ambulance.
Before she left, she laughed nervously in my living room and asked me- “Maybe you can come down anyway next weekend? And take care of me? While I look after Taylor? I mean, I know you have your reunion…” I hugged her and thought there was no way I’d drive five hours, miss a party that I had given up Ben and Jerry’s for, (mostly), so she could lean on me while her daughter recovered from a really bad case of the flu?
It wasn’t a bad case of the flu.
On the Thursday before the reunion, I flew to New Jersey. Amy’s husband picked me up at the airport. On the way home we talked about my daughter’s SAT scores, how much harder it is to pack for travel by plane than to load up a car, and that my husband thinks Facebook updates on his phone are actually text messages to him. No one knew what was wrong with Taylor for a while. Now they think it’s encephalitis. Tonight, John, Amy’s husband, let me know Taylor hasn’t had any seizures all day. This has made all of us who love her giddy with joy.
She hadn’t had any seizures for twelve hours. It’s going to be a long time before she gets better. It’s going to be a long time before she comes home.
I didn’t visit Taylor. I stayed home and matched socks, made smoothies, one bad pot roast, a salad of strawberries and goat cheese, and enough Bolognese sauce to last them until spring. Or until I go back.
I made it to the reunion. I found friends I didn’t know I had, and connected with people that I love as much as I did when I was in high school, when most Saturday afternoon’s we’d drink too much beer and exchange drunken, slobbering hugs, while declaring undying affection. Since I’ve only stayed in touch with a few, it was nice to know that those promises all those years ago were true. My affection for these people is undying and I am glad to know, and have known them.
I’ve changed a lot since then, I guess we all have. But when I stood in that room, I knew I’d made it to Homecoming, even though it had taken a long time to figure out what that means. These people knew the awkward, bumbling seventeen year old and were happy to see the tired, worried, friend who badly needed a night out. I didn’t get the chance to talk in depth with many, and I regret that. I was distracted with guilt about being away from Amy and John and trying to decide if my outfit looked better without the sweater.
When I walked up Amy’s stairs that night, and Gigi greeted me at the door, I was home there too.Home is where we choose to be, where we offer and accept love or acceptance. Where we pretend to remember things we don’t remember, and when someone gets drunk, we drive them home, partly because we don’t want them to get sick in our car, partly because that is what we do for the people who have known us our whole lives, and remember what we looked like with big hair and braces, and partly because a lot of us have been the drunk in the room that needed a ride.
These days, I have a crooked smile, I can’t wear heels. I could still lose another twenty pounds, I’m a little pissed off that I work out every single day and I will never, ever have Michelle Obama arms. One of my classmates does, and I adore her anyway. I will not share her name but we all know who I’m talking about.
Thanks for being there, my friends. And for those of you who couldn’t be, I hope to see you the next time. I like us better now. Please, let me know if you ever get up to Boston, or are driving through on your way somewhere else. I would like to hear what you’ve been doing all these years, and I’m sorry there wasn’t more time.
I think I’ll go to the next one, I can’t wait for the next one.
And thank you, Amy and John. It is an honor to be there for you. I changed my cell phone settings so you can call anytime. You have your own ringtone. Call anytime.
Taylor, girl, come home soon. You have the best home in the world, or it will be, when you are back in it.
Mixed Emotions/ I’m going to my high school reunion in two weeks.
September 19, 2021
I live in Massachusetts and I grew up, mostly, in Jersey.
But Facebook means that even though it’s been years, I know that Jim is a doctor and just got divorced. Laurie just had a grandchild, Emma is a professor and Allan is killing it in real estate.
Facebook means there is a place where everyone from Mountain Lakes shares memories, obits, updates and asks for help- tracking down an old friend, prayers during a battle with cancer, supporting a business, a page, or a cause.
This is the thing, and I’m being careful because the reunion is next week, and I love my hometown. I have connected with people on social media who I didn’t know when I saw them every damn day in the hallways at the high school or in the parking lot at Del’s Village.
When people reminisce about Mountain Lakes, many talk about the town, and their youth, as if it was a spectacular aberration.
Yes, we had parties, and people played guitar. Yes, the parties were really good parties, and the Stanfield’s were the coolest family in the world, they had a fire pit, an open door policy, and their kids were and are some of the best, smartest, funniest, and most amazing people I know, as well as you can know someone years after you shared a beer with them in their backyard.
The football team won all their games. We skated all winter and swam all summer. We went to the Market for sandwiches and Roma for pizza, and the pizza was better than any pizza I’ve had since, including New York. Well, maybe NY pizza was a little bit better, I’m in Massachusetts. I’m deprived.
Mr. Fox was a magical art teacher. I remember what Mrs. Smith taught me in freshman English. Mr. Hoke recited Shakespeare in a baritone that I can still hear. There were bluegrass festivals two towns over, New York City was a bus ride away, I wrote poems on scraps of paper and people read them and said nice things, even though I don’t think they were that good.
I have pictures of me smiling in a black tuxedo and fishnets during something called GAA. a competition between two teams, Blue and the Orange, that happened each spring after months of preparation. Each team would pick a story, and perform it, like a musical with the songs being used as vehicles for different dances and gymnastics. I was excited when I made the the modern dance team, even though I was picked as second substitute. There’s a photo in the yearbook, I had thick thighs and a huge smile. (I didn’t smile between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, or so I’m told, but in that picture, I’m grinning.
Yes, it was a magical wonderful time. But it wasn’t all bonfires and pancake breakfasts.
It was being picked last at gym. Starting to drink beer because it made me a little less shy. Getting crappy grades because I always forgot my textbooks in my rush to be on time to watch General Hospital, bumming cigarettes during lunch, people getting sick of me bumming cigarettes during lunch, getting pinkeye every summer from swimming at Island Beach, not eating much and lying on the floor to put on my jeans because I’d had cereal for breakfast. Smoking pot and feeling dumb. Taking up beer and Marlboro lights with the enthusiasm some reserved for field hockey and making the honor roll. Not ever having a clue about what was coming next or where I wanted to land.
These memories aren’t specific to being a young person in Mountain Lakes. They aren’t specific to being young in the 80’s, young and privileged, young and female.
They are just some of the things I think of when I look back.
For many people, in Mountain Lakes, NJ, and Milton, Massachusetts, our memories are where we like to linger because now is so damned hard.
We tell ourselves and our children about life back then, and it all sounds glorious.
But I’m pretty sure we leave stuff out, or forget the worst. I do.
Because the now, with the sore hip and the Covid, the retirement looming and the dental bills mounting- it’s nice to look back to anything other than what I see in the mirror before I’m ready to look.
I just wanted to say Mountain Lakes was a great place to grow up. So is Milton. So are a million other places.
But, it was’t perfect. For me anyway. I still can’t wait to go back.
It will be nice to walk down the Boulevard and stand on the beach by Birchwood Lake.
It will be good to see people in three dimensions, especially after this past year. It will be nice to look back on all of the hard parts, the stuff I’d never talk about on Facebook, or with anyone. For me, growing up was one quarter bliss and Bruce Springsteen and three quarters braces and diets, wondering what to say next and wishing I’d said something else or nothing at all.
I’m grown, and I’m in pretty good place right now.
It’ll be nice to take a weekend to remember how I got here.
Vacation and coming home.
August 2, 2021
I’m home from vacation.
This morning was packing and loading. Peering under beds and wiping down counters. Filling up coolers and throwing things out. Twenty minutes of yoga on a mat in front of my bed before climbing into the car just because.
Saying goodbye to my friends in between gulps of coffee and wondering what the hell I did with the bungee cords.
From March on, there was anticipation, negotiations about bedrooms and coldcuts, and long conversations about what we wanted to do.
There was the arrival, the filling of the fridge, wresting with sheets, and the search for just the right place to put the bikes.
There was the exploration- of the house, parking spaces, the location of the blowdryer, convenience store, wine glasses, dumpster, pool towels, pool, bike path, convenience store, scissors, and bandaids.
That was in the beginning.
Then time flew.
We went on a boat, took in a drag show, rode to the beach, rode to the pond, ate far too much food, watched the Olympics, retreated to our rooms, and found each other in the kitchen.
There weren’t board games.
We only cooked once, and there were issues, but the dinner was salmon and salad and everyone ate.
There weren’t many photographs but there were too many of us to coordinate a picture that captured us all.
Some of stayed, some left.
We missed seeing a sunset over the ocean.
But we watched a sunset over the dunes, those of us that were left, just last night. I took a photo of the musicians I posted on Instagram but we got there late because I thought the collection of people was there for a wedding.
A vacation is a little life.
There are the Mondays and Tuesdays when there is all the time in the world,
The realization on Wednesday that there might not be time for the walk at the the old naval base
.
Then, the dark recognition on Thursday night the hotel might not fix it before the dryer before
Monday and on Monday, I’ll be scrolling through photos, wondering where summer went, if I’m the only person pissed off about back to school sales, and why I don’t care about the olympics.
Everyone else does or they’re faking.
On Saturday and Sunday, there is checkout and the eighteenth conversation about phone reception, dog walks and cleaning the bathroom.
I’m sad that’s it’s done but find comfort in coming home.
Sophie the most amazing of dogs spoke when she saw me. Usually she only communcates in the morning, after a good sleep, when I don’t wake her too early and linger to rub her shoulders and tell her she’s beautiful.
I managed a workout, and it wasn’t as sweet as a bike ride to Petite Boulangerie.
The bikes are in the shed. The cooler is empty. I don’t know why I brought home two tubs of cream cheese or if my nut milk survived the traffic on the bridge, but
my life is good.
Just not as good as it was on Wellfleet with the people I love where my big choice was
Beach. Pond. Pool.
Bike or car.
Swordfish or tuna.
Smoothie or waiting till lunch because I ate so much at dinner.
I hope all of you have the time to take some time to spend some time with the people you love.
It doesn’t really matter where you land.
(That sounds so stupid. Of course it matters where you land. It is hard to love people if they snore, there’s no air conditioning, someone eats your bagels, plays Celine Dion endlessly, doesn’t flush, or is cheerful before 8 am. If that sounds like I’m not pleased, I’ll admit- I had air conditioning. I snore. I don’t care about bagels and I am cheerful at 730 though stupid.
Add to the list.)
What I want to say is
I hope you take some time this summer to put the phone down and spend time
With the people you love,
like a lot
Might love,
but you’re making up your mind.
Or yourself.
When I ride my bike, I don’t listen to music. It’s the only workout I do without a soundtrack.
It’s awesome to have time, anywhere ,
with anyone, or alone, when it doesn’t require a playlist.
(Says the woman who created the Spotify game, thinks she can sing when she can’t and has actually fought with people who insist free Spotify is just as good.
It’s not.)
Love,
Julie Richmond Blackburn
Full Moon March 2021
March 28, 2021
Full moon tonight. The traffic heading into the city is almost like what it was before. The crocuses have bloomed by our front steps, and Sophie’s snoring on the couch.
I’ve been reading my journals from last year. I talked about meditation and our daily schedule, long walks in different woods, and conversations with Kate.
I didn’t have a clue what was coming.
We kept up with the schedules for about a month, I updated daily until June.
Lately, I’m trying to figure out how to fit reflection in with work, workouts, dinner and dishes. I know life is better when my house is clean, and I sweat a little. There’s not much time left to write about the latest pop song that made me smile or share the bliss I experience when Sophie eats a meal. There’s never enough time to talk about being lonely.
It’s helpful to look back on how I saw the world then, and think about how my point of view, and day to day life has changed.
I asked my friends last week- what would you keep from Covid? I don’t see the pandemic and quarantine as a gift. For many it has been a curse, and worse.
I am reluctant to speak about it because, for now, mostly, the worst I’ve had to deal with is remembering my mask and learning how to work while functioning as Sophie’s concierge.
I can’t begin to know how it will echo moving forward.
Do you wish you’d done things differently this past year? Do you have any regrets?
I wish I’d written more, taken a few skiing lessons, volunteered at the food kitchen, and played the flute every day. Katy has picked out a duet for us, and she says it doesn’t matter to her that I’m always a little flat.
Everyone is talking about the parties they will have, or attend, when this is done, the places they will go, and the people they will hug.
Invite me. Hug me. I’ll hug you back, or bump your fist.
Feel free to stop by for mediocre coffee or a glass of wine, if there’s any in the fridge. I make a good smoothie, and we have a tiny yard, with chairs. No fire pit, but I have a hoodie collection in a variety of colors and sizes.
I’m good at home with Sophie, but I’m feeling nervous as hell about face to face interaction, so put me on your guest list, or come on by.
And be patient if I’m awkward. I was awkward before all this.
Spin Class February 2021
February 21, 2021
Today, on the thousandth year of isolation, I spent the morning on the sofa. I was reading books, scrolling my phone, talking to dogs, and considering the possibility of washing the floors.
This afternoon, I found my favorite sneakers, and went upstairs to the room that was once my son’s bedroom. It is cluttered with clothes he didn’t want to take with him, and isn’t ready to give up. His desk is in the middle of the floor, to make room for the monitor, spin bikes, weights, and a pile of tools. Hung and pressed in his closet is the shirt he wore to court, sneakers, and a pile of socks we bought him for basketball that cost eighteen bucks a pair.
I found a sixty minute pop ride on the app that connects to the screen. I filled up my bottle. I hopped on the bike and rode nowhere, in the middle of a room where my boy once slept, spent time with his girlfriend, scribbled on walls, did homework, and stared at his phone. Sixty minutes is a long time for a spin class.
I watched the people walk by, in coats and gloves, masks and hats pulled well over ears. I had sweat in my eyes, and, halfway through, gulped the rest of my water.I played the music loud.
I tried sing along. I knew the words, even to “Fireworks” and “Believe”. I am not a fan of inspirational pop, unless the lyrics are telling someone to get the hell out the door.
When I was done, I folded some clothes, and swept up from under the bed. I thought about plans to make the room a guest room/workout space, which I guess it already is. But I’d like to make it look a little less like the space my boy left behind. He’ll always be my boy, but I don’t know him now.
This has been a long, quiet winter. I am not complaining- we have water and heat, when I flick a switch, lights turn on, and there are leftovers in the fridge. I am sending love and hope to my friends in Texas, and donated what I could.
I am blessed, but even with everything, I needed an hour to sweat and sing along to songs that I’d never listen to if I was walking outside.
Maybe we are fireworks, perhaps we just have to believe.
Today, I just needed to feel myself smile. I smiled.
Soon, we will be walking outside. Soon enough, it will be spring, and I will hop on a bike that brings me somewhere.
Until then, I am on the sofa, in front of my desk, or spinning and waiting, upstairs in my son’s tiny bedroom.
There are two tiny dogs, on either side of me, and Sophie the Amazing is glaring at me from the carpet. She looks forward to getting her sofa back.
Belated Notes from Super Bowl Sunday 2021- What Comes Next. (This isn’t about Brady, the game, or the upcoming baseball season.)
February 13, 2021
I cooked on Superbowl Sunday. I made a stew with chicken thighs, artichoke hearts, spinach, chicken stock, mushrooms, sour cream, and dill.
I ate at the kitchen table while I read the Sunday paper, and thought about work the next day.
Katy and I watched the halftime show, and then another episode of Designated Survivor.
I cleaned something, I don’t remember what, and read a novel that brought me to the world that was when “Friends” was on tv.
I’m used to the day being noisy, wherever I landed for the game and before. This year, it was quiet. I turned up the radio, and blasted my workout playlist through a speaker instead of headphones.
This is the year of quiet. I am learning to listen to my own thoughts and to others- my daughter, family, friends, colleagues, and members for the company where I work.
Sometimes what I’m thinking makes me uncomfortable. Getting older is weighing heavy; I am confronted with my face every day on Teams or Zoom meetings. I was laid off last year, and count myself lucky to have a job, but it’s an entry level position or an amazing company. This means that ninety percent of my colleagues are abbot twenty years younger than I am.
We spend a lot time looking at each other on screens. When I catch a glimpse of myself, the woman looking back is far older than I am ready to be. I am in a digital room with people who are worried about turning thirty and if they’ll be able to get married this summer, or buy their first house. I adore every one of them.
They love it when I forget to put my settings on mute when I talk to my dog, which means they are kind of laughing at me, but people are desperate to laugh at anything. Maybe I should leave my camera on next time I try to convince Sophie The Best Dog Ever to eat barbecued chicken for breakfast.
I’ve been married for twenty years and have a house.
Before class time on camera, I spend extra time on my hair and add mascara, but then I just look like a slightly better groomed woman of a certain age or someone who is trying too hard. Once the weekend comes, I avoid mirrors and spend too much money on moisturizer.
I think about what I miss. Hugs, mostly, and all that came with them.
I think about what I”ll miss when this over.
Katy and I hopped on a zoom meeting tonight, she kept scolding me because I wasn’t following the rules of virtual etiquette. This made me giggle, so she turned the camera off. She explained the rules, and scolded me some more, probably because I’ve been nagging her a lot about keeping her room clean. At the end of the day, does it really matter if she climbs into a bed that was made in the morning?
I know to mute my microphone, and to try to remember to mute my microphone, and that will have to be enough.
I’m going to try to make this a year to listen and learn, and make it less about the line that just appeared in the middle of my forehead.
I’m going to make time to laugh with the people I love, because not much is the end of the world, until it is.
Until then…
Who or what do you want to make time for?
jules
julierichmond 