Timelines and Deadline

             I was casually scrolling through a home maintenance newsfeed the other day and clicked on an article about how to sanitize a stainless-steel sink.  I was certain that a simple and frequent soap scrubbing with a non-abrasive sponge would do the trick.  The reality was somewhat more complex, and the author recommended that it occur every twelve days.

             I do not know about you, but I do not have the bandwidth to do anything at twelve-day intervals, much less add one more “should” to my life that has such a low return on investment.

             I have kind of nailed the daily mandates: exercise, hygiene, work, dog walking, car charging, flossing, skin care, dishes, and a healthy diet with conscientious water consumption.  I am mostly diligent about medical check-ups, though even annual exams seem to arrive with increasing frequency.  Twice-a-year dental appointments are not so bad; at least I am not summoned every 90 days like the veterinarian does for our older dog.  Health care providers must love me.  When the receptionist politely inquires if I want to schedule my next consultation, I always say yes though I have absolutely no clue what might conflict with a mammogram booked for 7:30 a.m. on a random day in May 2022.

             Work schedules are so easy in comparison; time-tested internal procedures ensure that court dates, conference calls, and motion deadlines are calendared in duplicative systems as “encouraged” by our malpractice insurance carrier.  Paying personal bills is simplified now that I am less suspicious of automatic bill payment systems.  (Though when our credit card got hacked recently, it was annoying to contact creditors to give them a new account number.)

             But the household obligations are killing me.  I agree that I should clean the furnace filter and check smoke and CO2 detectors every month, but I draw the line at inspecting electrical cords, cleaning showerheads to remove mineral deposits, and vacuuming heat vents every thirty days.  I could set Outlook reminders for those tasks to remind myself to do them, but I refuse to.  It is so much easier to drop not-so-subtle hints to my husband at random times until he tires of hearing them and succumbs.

             But I have some personal to-do’s that I wish I could get done; I guess I need a procrastination hack.  When my kids were young, I tried to change their behavior with logical consequences.  This term is a fancy way of telling Child A that if you do not stop torturing Child B, I will send you to your room.  When Child A does not stop, he gets sent to his room, howling with outrage.  You let Child A out of confinement shortly thereafter when he makes it clear that he is learning nothing from this exercise, and, besides, his hollering is driving you crazy.  (Despite the recommendations of learned psychologists, I became more of a carrot than a stick parent, bribing my children to productive young adulthood.)

             I am incrementally more evolved than a seven-year-old.  Instead of logical consequences for adult dithering, I need to fashion delayed gratification rewards.  If my Starbucks app shuts down until I shave my legs, my legs will be Bermuda-shorts ready all the time.  I am quite sure that if my kids refuse to meet me for dinner unless I sort through my running clothes drawer to get rid of things I do not wear, it will get done in a jiffy.  If the HGTV channel is inaccessible until I order a new iPhone, I will quickly bite the bullet on a desperately needed new model.

             But I am drawing the line on sanitizing the kitchen sink every twelve days.  Unless, of course, I place the dark chocolate covered almonds in a vault that only unlocks when the task is done.

Marriage Portage

            On Thursday night this week, my husband and I were dining in a restaurant for the first time in over a year.  It is a family gathering, the focal point of which is my great nephew, a 17-month-old whirling dervish.  Landon is shoving rice and beans into his mouth and flinging them onto the floor in approximately equal proportions.  Don is regaling us with a college story about taking a young woman out to a waterfront restaurant.  He calls ahead to request the best table in the house, hoping to impress his date.  She apparently was not smitten with Don when he does not leave a tip for the waiter.

             My husband shares the story with our server, who with practiced graciousness, laughs and secretly hopes we will dine quickly so she can replace the table with more generous – and less messy - patrons.   

             Don is slow to initiate telling of tales in a social setting and even slower to complete them.  I know how to prompt him to start, and how to curtail its length.  It is part of our marital covenant, one provision in a vast encyclopedia of behaviors, activities, responses, and temperaments. 

             We are matrimonial long-haulers, chugging along towards our fourth decade in a mostly traffic-free highway.  It is not that our marriage has not had its breakdowns or occasional detours; it is simply that our union has never faced the possibility that the expedition will end. 

             After just twenty years of matrimony, I used to joke that we would never get divorced because we were too old and tired to look for someone else.  But the truth is that if our union dissolved, I would look for someone else exactly like my husband.  Well, someone remarkably similar to Don, but with a tidier office.  Or maybe someone who resembles Don but with a tidier office and the ability to pull the trigger on a simple home repair without evaluating outcomes with multiple spreadsheets.  But you get my point.

             The marriages of rich and famous couples are crumbling these days like poorly maintained concrete footings.  The wife in one such pair related that she and her spouse had stopped evolving as a couple, a comment that mystified me.  The concept of a marriage as being something distinct from its participants has occurred to me, but the idea that it will transform over the years independent from its members is odd.  I do not believe that people really change with time, a fact that has proven true in our marriage.

             Do not get me wrong; Don and I have refined the efficiencies of our spousal partnership over time.  I know that my husband will take out the garbage and recycling on Tuesday mornings.  I anticipate that at any given point on the weekend, I will be able to find him in his home office, analyzing tables and databases and anything else that stimulates the pleasure centers of his engineering brain.  He knows that I will come home from work grumpy and exhausted, but will jump out of bed in the morning, chomping at the bit to get back to it.  I appreciate that he will file our tax returns before the deadline, and that I will spoon feed him the financial data to do so.  Any suggestion that I have for dinner will be met with cheery agreeableness.  He will cook; I will make the salad and do the dishes.

             We have never really had an argument in our marriage because arguments, by definition, require two participants.  Although I have a temperamental quick twitch, my life partner approaches disagreements with analytical thoughtfulness and study.  So, I am left with lopsided fuming and fussing while he is left with wondering what on earth is going on. 

             Reliability is the touchstone of our relationship, and Don is fundamentally the same person that I met and fell in love with almost forty years ago.  My husband is unfailingly sympathetic, ceaselessly steadfast, and perpetually funny.  He is the least thin-skinned person I have ever met, a trait I will never have.  He is thoughtful to the core, and he never whines.  If I ask him to do a disagreeable task, say pick up dog poop in the yard, his automatic response is, “you bet!” as though I had suggested we dispense with household chores, order delivery tacos, hunker down on the couch, and watch a movie.   His willingness to hitch his wagon to mine for the rest of his life remains one of life’s great mysteries.

             As we leave the Mexican restaurant, I glance down at the tab.  Don has left a $40 gratuity for a group meal that cost $130.  Maybe I am wrong that people do not change with time - Don has become a much better tipper.

Flat Out Burnout

            On Wednesday night this week, I drove home from the office and pulled my car into the quietly comforting space in our garage.  My car chirped obediently as I plugged it in and locked it up for the night.  I entered the house, petted the dogs absent-mindedly, and responded to my husband’s cheerfully welcome queries with robotic monosyllabic murmurs.

             Then I crawled into bed and fell asleep within minutes.

             I woke an hour later and stumbled around the kitchen searching for a rudimentary dinner.  My husband hovered around, just shy of anxious, asking if he could fix me something to eat.  I assured him that I would fend for myself, settling on a few weary celery stalks with cream cheese and a bunch of over-ripe grapes.  I polished off my evening meal with a small handful of chocolate-covered almonds and called it good.  Well, called it done, anyhow.  We spent a few minutes in the yard with the dogs before retiring for the evening, and I collapsed again and slept all night.

             I was startled at my behavior yet somehow not surprised.  I am tired, but my fatigue is not physical.  I feel spritely during my morning runs, and I bounce around the office with vigor.  But my workdays are everlasting, embedded with a weariness that I cannot shake.  My clients are endlessly needy, and my to do list is interminable.  I cannot escape the relentless treadmill of my weekdays; they are filled with both the ever-present and exhausting known tasks, as well as eager and insistent new ones.  My bed beckons earlier and earlier in the evening all the time.

             I have been teary-eyed all week, for reasons large and small.  The breathtaking beauty of our cabin in Cle Elum made me misty-eyed, along with the birthday of my beloved, long-deceased sister.  A simple legal question from my husband about the elements of adverse possession filled me with frustration.  I cried during social media videos of military homecomings, abandoned pets, and the kindness of strangers.  Persistent tear pricks pelt my eyelids as I view a stack of files at the office, as I listen to voicemail messages, and as I open backed-up emails.

             My body is mirroring my emotional state this week as well, with trivial but annoying aggravations.  My sinuses feel tight, and I have developed itchy patches on my back.  My mild but chronic allergies are making my nose run.  My left eye is sore and dry.  I briefly ponder if this is the beginning of the end of me and then admonish myself for making mountains out of molehills. 

             I click on a health article discussing current definitions of exhaustion, burnout, languishing, alonley, anxiety, and depression.  I am relieved that my symptoms most closely align with burnout.  I view my firm’s vacation calendar, and I am alarmed to see that I have not taken a week-long vacation in two years.  I recently made a conscious effort to avoid working on weekends, but oddly enough, my billable hours have never been higher.  My attitude towards my cases is lousy but curiously, I am at the top of my litigation game. 

             I have always prided myself of working harder than anyone else in my firm. It has been a career-long struggle – confronting the truth that committed lawyers take time away from the office and that dedicated managers set boundaries on their work lives.  But awareness does not equate to behavioral change.  It takes more.

             I undertake life pursuits in the same way I approach any other task: articulate an outcome, describe the steps to accomplish it, and, most critically, set a deadline.  Nothing fills me with more enthusiasm than envisioning a goal and figuring out to complete it.  But it feels extravagant to spend both the time planning a trip – and the money it will require.

  I remind myself that planning a vacation should be fun – and it is a project that is best researched in bed.

Finish Line

             It is Sunday, August 5, 1984, and Joan Benoit has just won the first Women’s Olympic Marathon at the Summer Games in Los Angeles.  Her gold medal time was 2:24:52. It was, she related later, the most important victory of her race running life.  The accomplishment was not just Joan’s triumph; it was the culmination of decades of work to increase the popularity of the sport so that it could become an Olympic event.  It also defied the long-held belief that long distance running was detrimental to women’s health.

             Joan Benoit Samuelson is still racing competitively at age 64.  The scope and breath of her achievements defy articulation.  In 1983, she set a course record in the Boston Marathon of 2:22:43 that stood for eleven years.   She held the fastest time for an American woman at the Chicago Marathon for 32 years after winning the race in 1985.  At age 53, she missed qualifying for the Olympic Marathon Trials by less than two minutes.  She founded the Beach to Beacon 10k, a Cape Elizabeth, Maine race, that supports non-profit youth organizations.

             Joan and I share a passion for running but we have wildly divergent skill sets.  I have plenty of competitive desire, I but lack inherent talent.  Diligent training cannot substitute for genetic physiology.  I ran a handful of marathons in my 40’s but gave them up because training took so much time.  I like to say that I am an excellent runner for a 65-year-old woman, a solid one for a 65-year-old female runner, and an abysmal one for a 65-year-old elite runner. 

             Joan’s perspective on running emerges in her quotes, and I relate to this one:

 I feel about marathons the way my parents taught me to feel about the ocean:  it is a mighty thing and very beautiful, but don’t underestimate its capacity to hurt you. 

             Physical exertion is not tied to pace, outcomes, or ability.  Pain is pain.  I do not run many races anymore, but every one hurts – a lot.  I do not set a goal for a finishing time, and I consciously avert my eyes at the mile marker clocks.  I just run the first half of the course at a pace that is relatively comfortable and the second half at a speed that is increasingly laborious until it is agonizing.  It is a simple formula.

             Joan famously quotes that, “there is no finish line” as she is a dedicated and successful racer in her sixth decade.  I love the optimism of that statement, but the realist in me suspects otherwise.  I run six days a week pain-free, but I worry that will not always be the case.  I contemplate my final jog with the complicated emotion of morbid curiosity.  Will it be like curling my eyelashes, which used to be a daily ritual and then settled into once-in-while until it petered out into never again?  Or will it be like employment retirement, where you plan a final day with pomp and circumstance and celebrate the transition to a different life?  If I had my choice, I would run until my final day on earth, returning home sweaty and upbeat, exhilarated by fresh air, heartened by movement, and calmed by effort.  I will slip off my running shoes and simply slip away.

             But I suspect the extent of my running life is what Joan likens to marathons-as-a-metaphor-for-life: you never know what is around the next bend.  My beautiful infatuation with the sport is partly due to its mystery; I cannot predict or contemplate the outcome.  I can only experience the impactful effort, the comforting rhythm, and the almost-heartbreaking solitude. 

             Happy birthday, Joan. 

Literary Equanimity

            I am in the third grade, and I am wandering the aisles of my elementary school library.  I select a thick book about the Wright brothers, fascinated with the account of the invention of flight.  I am about to head to the checkout desk when the librarian approaches me and gently admonishes me for perusing books in the sixth-grade aisle.  It occurs to me that it is silly to limit students to certain sections, but before I can protest, my teacher, Mrs. Conway, comes to my aid.  She tells the librarian that I should be allowed access to the entire library and assures her that I can read at the sixth-grade level.

             I came from a bookish family; the shelves in our house were full of books.  Though I did not have a natural proclivity in math or science, I loved reading.  My earliest childhood storybooks were Little Golden Books.  My mother read Poky Little Puppy, Tootle, Tawny Scrawny Lion, and the Saggy Baggy Elephant to me endlessly.  I could listen to the rhythm and rhymes of Dr. Seuss creations repeatedly.  But nothing delighted me like Grandpa Bunny, a story about a wise and beloved elderly rabbit who disappears one day but leaves behind a beatific sunset.  Even at a tender age, I knew that he had died. 

             My father would read to me, as well, but his reading selections were more to his liking than mine.  I remember sitting on his lap in our living room in a mid-Century modern black wool armchair.  He was still in his work clothes, having scooped me up as soon as he came in the door.  I listened, mesmerized, as he read Walden by Henry D. Thoreau, the sound of his voice captivating me.  I pretended to understand the philosophical concepts, but in truth, I just wanted to sit with him for as long as he would let me.

             As a special treat, my parents would allow me and my siblings to read at the dinner table, an event that thrilled me more than my favorite dessert.  I was not allowed to read during Saturday morning chores, however.  When I was supposed to be cleaning my room, I would crawl into bed surreptitiously and read.  My mother would call out from upstairs and ask if I had changed my bed sheets and picked up the clothes off the floor.  I would reply that I was almost done, to which her frequent response was, “That’s not true, I can tell from your voice that you are horizontal.”  I always wondered if she really knew, or whether she just suspected that I was derelict.

             As an emerging reader, I adored Beverly Cleary’s writings and those of Roald Dahl.  When I became more proficient, I read the creations of E.B. White and Gerald Durrell.  I was riveted by fanciful stories about children facing misfortune or injustice – and solving problems with pluck and determination.  The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, Charlotte’s Web, a Wrinkle in Time, and The Pink Motel enraptured me.  My allegiance to them has endured; I still have them.   

             In middle school, reading was a diversion from the monotony of the classroom.  I was an uninspired and diffident student, and grief from recent family tragedies supplanted any connection to learning.  I would sneak into the library as soon as I got to school and check out a horse book, my favorite genre.  I would read all day long, whenever I could get away with it.  I sometimes propped up a textbook on my desk and tucked a Marguerite Henry or Walter Farley selection inside it.  So long as the teacher sat at her desk at the front of the class, she had no idea.  A couple of times I completed an entire 200-page tome during a single day, and I triumphantly dropped it off at the library before catching the school bus home.

             I love slipping from the grasp of reality into the embrace of the fantastic.  Now, if I could just figure out how to read while pretending to edit a legal brief, my life would be perfect.

Replace the Race

                It is the first Saturday in May 2021, a day that resonates with every Kentuckian.  The day is as permeated with tradition as a mint julep is steeped with fragrant leaves.  The words Kentucky Derby fill me with complicated and bittersweet emotions.   I take in the sounds of horses snorting with impatience, their grooms softly crooning in response, hooves clattering across pavement and then quieting as they encounter turf.  Jockeys listen to last-minute trainer instructions and lean down to clap the well-muscled necks of their mounts.  Horse tails swish, saddle flaps fall after girth adjustments, owners send final farewell wishes for a safe ride.  Thoroughbreds leave the paddock and enter the track for warm-ups and the parade to the post.  The race is about to begin.

                I will not be one of the millions of spectators.  I will probably not even be in the same room as the televised race coverage.  The mournful toll of My Old Kentucky Home, the handlers’ cautionary chatter, the slamming of the gates as steeds are loaded, and the eerily prescient calm before the start is more than I can bear.

                To be fair, any competitive sporting event is hard for me to witness.  In my children’s youth athletic competitions, I would flee the last inning if the game was on the line and one of my sons was up to bat with two outs, runners on base.  I have been known to ditch close Seahawk games in the final minutes – rationalizing that a dog needs walking immediately.  My husband and I have one irreconcilable difference:  he will watch a full nine innings of a Seattle Mariners baseball game, even when it is clear they stand no chance of winning. 

But horseracing is categorically different, and I cannot stomach a neck-and-neck contest where animals give their all while being beaten for their efforts.  The most beautiful and talented creatures on earth are set forth on a thrilling and dangerous mission, the pace of which is accentuated by training, by breeding, by temperament, and by the roar of the crowd.  There is no question that thoroughbreds love to run – their leisure-time, pastoral antics make that clear.  Any seasoned jockey will tell you that there are times during a race when his or her mount will sprint faster, unbidden, when challengers approach.  Competitive drive is deeply imbedded in the athletic instincts of successful racehorses.

                But I have witnessed tragic accidents resulting from repetitive stress injuries, track turf defects, overuse of medications that reduce pain or enhance performance, or just the physical limitations and structural physics of impact.  Unlike a human, horses cannot undergo surgery and walk on crutches after a break.  If a horse cannot put weight on all four legs, it will not survive.  Euthanasia is the only obvious – and humane – option. 

                I am heartened by the fact that leaders and compassionate minds in the horseracing industry seem to be responding and responsibly self-regulating.  Most elite racehorses are pampered and receive the highest quality care, and they enjoy an abundant and affectionate partnership with their caretakers, exercisers, jockeys, trainers, and owners. But the economics of the industry circulate around the hard truth that horses are a central and essential commodity, a commodity that necessarily carries financial constraints.  While we might spend thousands of dollars on torn ACL surgery for the family dog, a racehorse who can no longer win and has no breeding value faces an uncertain future.

                I know that not watching the Kentucky Derby does not address the changes that need to be made.  I also recognize that race day is an optimistic beacon for a vast community.  Celebratory ceremonies tether us in uncertain times and provide comforting familiarity.  The horseracing industry provides jobs for millions, and the answer is not to simply shut it down.  But refusing to participate is a miniscule, silent protest that feels right while I search to understand my complex feelings.

                Today interposes a sad and crushing conflict for me: my love of horseracing traditions and the beauty of its participants juxtaposed with the understanding that these animals are born, raised, trained - and sometimes discarded - solely for human entertainment.  The Kentucky Derby may be the most exciting two minutes in sports, but for me, it is the most emotionally exacting.   

Commuting Kindly

             It is 8:05 on a weekday morning, and I am driving on a highway exit ramp that merges into a busy intersection.  A white delivery van suddenly pulls out in front of me, causing me to slam on my brakes.  The driver’s head is down, and he is scrolling through his phone, clearly not observing the cars around him.  He looks up at the last minute and realizes that he could have caused an accident.  I see regret, and a hint of shame, in his face as he lifts four fingers off his steering wheel in an apologetic gesture. 

             My response is not what he expects. I smile broadly and compassionately and give him an understanding and cheerful wave.  He looks at me gratefully and departs for his next dispatch.

             I was not always this person.  I used to be the queen of road rage, fuming at any driver that sped past me at a high speed.  Meandering motorists annoyed me, and tailgaters enraged me.  While I prided myself on being a defensive driver, the truth is that I interpreted every inadvertent swerve as an intentional act designed to intimidate me.  I would lean on the horn at every perceived motoring slight.

             Something changed a couple of years ago.  I remember driving west on I-90 one day navigating three rush-hour lanes of busy folks all jostling for positions that would save them, at best, three minutes of commute.  A dark, expensive SUV with tinted windows sped past me and then immediately jumped in front of me into my lane.  I was forced to abruptly reduce my speed and tap my brakes. 

             I was angry enough to make a point with my horn, when it occurred to me that I should question my assumption about the driver’s intentions.  I surmised that the driver was a self-absorbed jerk, who believed that his or her commuting time was more important than mine.  But what if that was not true?  What if he was rushing to his frail father’s bedside at a hospital, summoned by an anxious nurse?  What if she was driving hastily because there was a security breach at her office and police were awaiting her arrival?  What if a passenger in the car was in labor or had suffered a seizure?  I realized that I was projecting imperiousness onto the other driver, when possibly none existed. 

             It was an enlightening moment that has endured.  I have become a kindly automotive operator, happily slowing down to allow people to merge in front of me.  I sometimes pull over to allow a tailgater to safely pass.  I reduce my speed so that lumbering trucks and school buses can change lanes.  It is the only way I can demonstrate humanity while locked in my all-metal motorized suit of armor.

             So, if you pull out of a parking spot hastily without realizing that you should have waited for me to pass, do not worry.  I will likely smile at you and back up, nodding agreeably.

             Well, unless you smirk and hit the accelerator and roar off at a high velocity.  In that case, I will grit my teeth, channel my serene, inner karma goddess, and send prayers that the local police are poised at the next intersection.  I will cruise by, beam at you, and give you a cheery thumbs up as they issue you a traffic ticket.   

Procrastination Destination

            It is Monday, March 15, 2021, and I make a commitment about the next day.  Tomorrow will be unique, a day released from my usual workday routines.  I am going to cast aside my ingrained delayed gratification practices, those which coax and induce me through a stressful law practice.  I usually insert little rewards throughout my day – food, social media, casual but hilarious conversations with my law partners, and I listen to Amazon Audible on the drive home.  It might be childish, but I have been known to forestall a bathroom break until I compose and send a difficult email.  The proletarian pleasure of warming up my coffee in the microwave can be sufficient to get me through hundreds of pages of prebill reviews. 

             I suppose a more emotionally balanced person would plan a special day pursuing only what appealed to her, abandoning tedious tasks like they are disagreeable leftovers from last night’s supper.  But not me, at least not tomorrow.  Instead, I design a day where I tackle only things that I do not want to do – a kind of procrastination Hail Mary, aimed at executing on an ever-deepening checklist of duties delayed.  I am oddly curious about experiencing a day completely devoid of easiness; I have a dubious sense of morbid anticipation.

             I awaken in the early morning at about 2:30 am, my stomach erupting with gastrointestinal distress.  I almost never have an upset stomach, and I grind though it with a steely sense of humor.  It is, after all, the perfect start to what I expect will be an agonizing day.  Befittingly, when I fall back to sleep, I have a nightmare – childhood abandonment themed – which visits me a couple of times every year. But even after a poor night’s sleep, I remain grimly devoted to my plan.

             I pull on a sweater with slightly scratchy fabric, knowing that it will irritate my skin for a while.  Once I am at the office, I forbid myself from opening Facebook, which is my enjoyable entry to the workday, while I eat cereal.  I force myself to complete yesterday’s timesheet.  I fill my morning with uninspired projects, reviewing run-of-the-mill files, approving operating costs expenditures, and responding to emails that I have ignored for more than 24 hours.  I make a routine veterinary appointment for one of our dogs that should have been done several weeks ago.

             At noon, I watch a legal ethics webinar on changes to the code of professional conduct that relate to attorney advertising.  Though the speakers are knowledgeable and polished, the topic is painfully disinteresting.  I eat a mundane lunch consisting of a self-made turkey and cheese sandwich and an apple. 

             And then the day gets hard – brutally so.  Though I had committed to attacking projects that I had dawdled and delayed on first thing in the morning, I managed to prolong and procrastinate those tasks until the afternoon.  I hunker down.  I email a reminder to a client that I need a strategy decision on a case; the client had not been in contact with me for four or five months.  I had rationalized that the ball had been in the client’s court, but in truth, it is my ethical duty to move the matter along even if it means prodding my client.    

  I have several other cases where clients are due a status update, but I used the “no progress to report” excuse to delay communications.  I review a file that was neglected to the point that I was worried about malpractice, and after analysis, I realize that everything is fine.  Next, I open a file that had sat in my office for a year and a half.  The client had missed a proof of claim deadline in a probate case, and after I confirmed the validity of the estate notices to creditors, I let the client know there was nothing I could do.  The news was accepted with adult resignation.  I knew that I should close the file, but I just could not.  I felt that a better lawyer would have found a way to get the client paid, even when there was no legal basis for it.  I print out the electronic case notes and prepare it for closure.  A sense of relief and finality blows softly past me.

             I finish my day performing a half hour of personal tasks that I had postponed for reasons I cannot fathom.  I feel emotionally free in a way that has eluded me for months as I metaphorically lift a dank cloak of responsibility from my shoulders. As I shut down my computer, I chuckle at a quote from somewhere that keeps ambling across the changeable construct of my mind:

                              I completed a task in 15 minutes that I procrastinated on for

                            six months.  I have learned absolutely nothing from this.

Fixation Deviation

            It is Saturday morning, and I am at my computer, thinking about today’s blog post.  I adjust my desk chair, just a bit.  I take a sip of what is now lukewarm coffee, giving myself time to think.  I skim through my notes written down at random times during the week, all centered around the topic that I have chosen to explore.  I jot down titles for my essay and then discard them, like slipping on and off outdated sweaters that I thought would appeal to me but do not.  I stretch and reposition my keyboard, stalling for time. 

             Trying to adhere to planned blog content can be like doggedly trying to salvage a relationship that you know is going nowhere.  I was committed to this week’s theme all the way through my morning run, still refining a topic to make it more coherent and powerful.  But when I sat down to write, something was amiss.  Then I figured it out:  a more compelling topic was emerging.

             Creative writing is diametrically different from what I have done in my law career for 35 years.  With legal writing, you already know what you need to say.  There is an element of innovation in how you structure your argument; you know which points are the most persuasive and how to lead off and end with a convincing punch.  But you basically know where you are starting from and what your destination will be with little opportunity to change the route.

             But despite my curated collection of anecdotes for this week’s chosen subject, I am not drawn towards it.  Something else has pushed its way to the front of the line, shoving everything else aside.  You see, for the first Saturday in probably a year, I am not at my office -- I am at home.

             Going to the office on Saturday is the comforting culmination of my week.  It is quiet and relaxing.  It gives me a chance to tidy up from workday chaos, finishing timesheets, moving hard files to another location, saving and deleting emails, and revising legal briefs that have Monday filing deadlines.

             But that changed today.  One of my belated resolutions was to break the going-to-work-every-Saturday habit.  I had countless justifications for my weekend workplace obsession:  concentrating without interruption, accomplishing without the incessant demand to bill time, receiving mail deliveries, and using an agreeably familiar computer. 

             But it is more than that.  It is my attachment to what I am accustomed to, my hankering for routine that fuels me.  I take pride in demonstrating my commitment to my law practice.  And, if I am honest, I like setting a boundary between what I feel I must do and what I give myself permission to do – a boundary that involves geographic as well as emotional distance.

             Breaking a compulsion is not that easy, even if it seems like it should be.  Logically, I want to avoid warming up my car, pulling out of the garage, and driving into the city. I love my house and its access to furry animals, a well-stocked refrigerator, and a funny and lovable spouse.  But changing a deeply rooted habit requires a plan.  I found a quiet space in my house to create a home office, I bought a small desk, I surrounded it with visual arts that I loved.  I finally broke down and bought a new all-in-one desk top computer. 

             But even with all the necessities within the calming confines of my residence, I found myself still driving to the office.  Like swearing off a naughty junk food habit, I promised myself that I would hone my new software skills -- soon.  In the meantime, I kept going to work.

             Today I promised myself I would stay home.  I created new folders on my brand-new hardware.  I saved my blog post template that I had emailed to myself.  I experimented with the desk lighting.  I turned on the nearby fireplace to temper the spring chill.  I practiced sliding my keyboard tray and swiveling my desk chair.

             I put my fingers on the keyboard and begin to type. 

Take a Chance - and Dance

             The music starts, and I hesitantly slip out of my chair.  I glance around, wondering if I can rock out without onlookers taking notice.  I am pulled by the irresistible beat of a tune that mandates more motion than mere toe tapping.  I start to sway and bop, tentatively at first, and then with enthusiastic inhibition.  I pivot and twirl, the lure of the lyrics causing me to snap my fingers and sing.  My shoulders shake, my arms pump, my hips gyrate.  It is the perfect physical embodiment of how I feel.

             But I am not at a wedding reception or a middle-aged adult party trying to recapture the energy of my adolescent youth.  It is Wednesday morning, and I am at work.  I have just finished a quick breakfast, and I am ready to start my day.  Due to an oversight, I did not exit out of Facebook, and the song Get Ready by the Temptations blares from my cellphone.

             I look about, reminding myself that my windows are mirrored so that the drivers in the Starbucks line across the street cannot see in.  Social distancing pandemic mandates ensure that no one will walk in unannounced.

              Dancing for no reason is the ultimate form of liberation for me.  When I was in junior high school, I remember watching the popular girls line dancing at slumber parties.  I marveled at their unbridled skill and poise.  I could not fathom what it would be like to be the center of attention, moving fluidly and rhythmically, without caring who saw me or what they thought.  So much easier to sit on the sidelines, eating popcorn, flipping back my hair, and discussing cute boys.  In the background, People Got to be Free by the Rascals played over and over on the record player while I sneaked glances at the girls’ confident hip movements and footwork.

            All the world over, so easy to see.

          People everywhere just wanna be free.

            Listen, please listen, that’s the way it should be.

            There’s peace in the valley, people got to be free.

             I went to my first dance in seventh grade wearing a new vanilla-colored, smocked dress, dying to be asked to dance.  I spent the entire night anchored on the sidelines of the gym floor and went home disappointed but determined.  I pledged that next time it would be different.  And so, it was. At the school sock hop the following month, a shy boy asked me to dance right before the night was over, and I was thrilled. 

             In high school, my more sophisticated classmates discussed rock song lyrics and which bands had the most intricate guitar riffs, but I only cared about tunes that made me want to dance.  I felt bound by a cultural custom that prevented me from dancing unless I was asked to by a guy.  I had acquired a reliable roster of dates, and the occasional boyfriend, ensuring my attendance at school events.  But deference to the bidding of boys still cramped my style.  I envied the hippie girls prancing alone or with their friends, their long, flowing midi skirts twirling around them.  Their bravery in eschewing time-honored traditions astonished me. 

             Something changed with time.  I grew more coordinated with practice, but more importantly, my love of dancing outpaced my fear of ridicule.  I became that woman who is the first one on the floor when the music starts, often deserting her partner and her friends.  When I dance alone, I feel free, untethered to the rhythm and style of a partner but also released from social norms.

             The early Spring sunshine beams into my office.  The beat and the melody overtake me, eclipsing thoughts of who might be watching and what they might think of me.  Nowhere to hide, and I do not care.  Work can wait – for just a few minutes more.

             So, fee-fi-fo-fum
Look out baby, 'cause here I come.

            And I'm bringing you a love that's true
So get ready, so get ready
I'm gonna try to make you love me too
So get ready, so get ready 'cause here I come.

Horsing Around

              As a young girl, I used to wander up to a field at the edge of our suburban neighborhood and climb the fence to feed the horses grazing inside.  I knew that I was not supposed to go into the pasture, but the lure of those captivating animals was too compelling.  The horses were mostly inquisitive and friendly, ambling up to me to accept my proffered handful of grass.  But one day, a horse lowered its head, pinned back its ears, and barreled towards me.  I panicked and ran, but not before it turned and deftly kicked me in the head. 

             I hurried home and confessed to my mother that I was injured and bleeding.  My mother took one look behind my ear and quickly drove me to the emergency room.  A solemn doctor stitched the gaping wound and told me how lucky I was:  the blow could have damaged my inner ear and permanently affected my balance. 

            It was not the last time that my passion for these mostly gentle giants would result in injury.  My parents paid for me to take riding lessons when I was nine or ten and bought me my first horse soon after.  They were resigned to the knowledge that the sport carried an element of risk, but other than insisting I wear a helmet, they evidenced little concern for my safety. 

             I had only one serious fall, when I was about ten years old.  The mare I was riding sensed my ineptitude, took the bit in her mouth, and bolted back to the barn at breakneck speed.  I was terrified, and I bailed off, foolishly believing that it was safer hitting the hard-packed ground at a gallop than clinging on.  The fall knocked the wind out of me, and I was rushed to the hospital as I could not draw a breath.  It was a daunting experience, but it never entered my mind to stop riding. 

             I became an adept and self-assured equestrian with practice, but I was put through my paces along the way.  My first horse, a temperamental bay gelding, would test me by trying to throw me, but I learned to hang on gaining the aplomb of a rodeo rider.  Bucking, lunging, and shying away were techniques that challenged me, but they dissipated over time as my equine authority blossomed with trust and certainty.  Later, my mother bought me a chestnut filly less than a year old, and I broke her myself.  “Breaking” is a misnomer; it is a gradual and gentle process of building increasing levels of confidence between animal and human.

             I had my share of exciting escapades with horses other than my own.  One irritable equine tried to scrape me off his back by running underneath low-hanging tree limbs.  The most creative move came from a dappled gray mare that determined the only way to get rid of me was to drop down on all fours and roll over.  Luckily, I was able to kick free of the stirrups and jump out of the saddle onto the ground before the roll started.

             Horses rarely kick people they know and trust unless they are startled.  I took a solid strike to the outside of my knee as a teenager from a grumpy gelding that did not know me very well.  I drove home from the stable and limped into the house.  I told my mother that I had been kicked and that I thought I had a broken bone.  Mom looked up from her sewing project, shrugged her shoulders, and indicated that I should make my own decision about whether I needed medical care.  Instead of going to urgent care, I went to the drug store and rented some crutches.  I hobbled around for a few days, and then cast them aside.

             Horses are captivating but emotional creatures.  I have been thrown off, kicked at, stepped on, bitten a few times, and trampled once or twice.  I accepted the physical wounds with aplomb; it never dampened my enthusiasm.  Riding was the consummate activity for me; it was the only thing I knew I excelled at.  Looking into horses’ limpid eyes, kissing their velvety muzzles, and, occasionally, crying into their sleek necks was more emotionally rewarding than anything else I did. 

             My youthful devotion to horses has served me well throughout my life, at least metaphorically.  As the saying goes, when life tries to buck you off, just hold on tighter.     And if you get thrown off, you need to dust yourself off and get back up into the saddle again.

Ten

            Yesterday I cut out ten pieces of paper and numbered them sequentially.  I folded up the pieces, placed them in a bowl, and randomly drew out one piece of paper.

             I initially marveled that I had drawn the highest number in the container, 10, until I realized that the odds of drawing that digit were the same as drawing out any other.  Then I irritably considered why I could not have drawn a more interesting number, like three, my favorite? Or five, the members of my family? Or even seven, the supporting cast in Snow White? 

             My self-imposed creative writing challenge is to compose an essay about this arbitrarily drawn numeral.  I flounder around, searching for content.  Ten fingers and ten toes, making the Top Ten in a competition, attending public schools for ten months per year, the highlight of hitting ten years of exercising every single day, the British Prime Minister’s home at 10 Downing Street, the years I would turn the lights off at 10:00 p.m., the base of the decimal numeral system, the Ten Commandments, and a full baseball team roster plus one back-up player.

             None of these ideas stir me.  

             And then it hits me.  Ten years is the confluence of childhood and pre-teen years, that wistful period when parents catch their first glimpse that they will one day let go of their precious young person.  The “double digit” birthday is when we tease fathers that their daughters will soon want to go to school dances and warn mothers that their son’s sweetness is about to evaporate like a shallow puddle on a hot Arizona sidewalk.  The simplicity of single digit numerosity is replaced by the prospect of impending teenage years.

             My tenth year was the last year of my childhood, but it had nothing to do with numerics.   It was the end of my just-shy-of idyllic childhood, one that was untroubled and blissfully unremarkable.  My life was full of rhythmic certainty: that my mother would gently reprimand me for not practicing my flute, that my father would go to and from work with regularity, that my parents would endlessly discuss arcane subjects following Unitarian church Sunday gatherings, that my brilliant sister would continue her ballet, that my rambunctious brother would do everything with aplomb, and that I would rail against almost everything required of me other than hanging out at the stable with my horse.  The steady beat of our family’s culture was thoughtful, watchful, and joyful.

             The innocence of my youth vanished the next year with my father’s death and the following year with my sister’s.  Instability replaced reliability, and fragility supplanted security. I became untethered from parental expectations of success.  Routines ceased.  My mother no longer asked to see my report cards, or oversaw the condition of my bedroom, or cared about how I spent my afterschool hours.  I knew my mother loved me without reservation, but the effort of emotional survival extinguished her ability to attend to anything else. 

             My adulthood, or something akin to it, began immediately at age eleven, skipping over tumultuous pre-teen and adolescent years within the vigilant view of attentive parents.  I made plenty of mistakes and bad decisions.  At first, lack of accountability felt like a luxury. 

             Capricious tragedy is a cruel and heartless teacher, but an effective one. I grew, bit by bit, responsibility providing the foundation for maturity.  In time, I discovered that the beauty of not having a safety net is that you are forced to walk the high wire cautiously. I learned that the best way I could support my mother was by not troubling her.  I recognized that the only way to combat chaos was through discipline.  I realized that I was accountable for my own achievement.   

             Ten may have been the last year of a childhood characterized by blissful trustfulness, but it also equipped me for the swiftly searing events that came next.  Ten was the tranquil lull of a year before the unsettling and devastating storm that followed. 

Tick Tock Challenge

             It is 5:00 p.m. on a recent weeknight, and I am disappointed in how I have spent my day at the office.  I wrap up my timesheet, shoot a text message to my husband that I am heading home, and remind myself of the plot of my current Audible book (my drive-home luxury.)  Qualitatively, the day has been an enormous success.  My litigation efforts successfully located a client’s collateral, I agreed to take a contingent fee case for someone of modest means who was profoundly grateful, I successfully negotiated a settlement that exceeded everyone’s expectations, and I mentored an associate attorney who appeared grateful, or at least expertly feigned gratitude, for my feedback.

             But my timesheet only reflects 6.3 hours.  I have been at the office for nine hours, and I usually work through lunch.  In a typical day, I waste an hour or so chatting with my partners, fixing lunch, tidying up my desk, and watching a few Facebook happily-ever-after rescue dog videos.  But I am short 2.7 hours, and I honestly do not know how to account for them.  Capturing workday tasks has been a decades-long frustration.

             My relationship with time troubles me in ways other than office tasks.  I no longer clock my morning runs; I select a route and ignore my watch at both the start and the finish.  My pesky Fitbit still counts steps and minutes, of course, but I do not consciously acknowledge them.  I know that I am slower than I was a year ago, and unless I train hard, I will be even slower a year from now.  I used to check my watch at mile increments during races; now I am just grateful to finish.  Tracking time during exercise ruins the experience of it. 

             Intellectually I know that time travels at the same pace regardless of how I perceive it.  The start of a cold, dark, and damp run always converts to refreshing and stirring with the distant glow of an emerging sunrise; I just cannot predict exactly when.  I also know that the level of effort will dissipate at some point, which though not calculable with precision, occurs without fail.  It is a promise that is never broken, no matter how cynical my attitude is at the start.  The promise that running makes to me is that if I begin, I will be rewarded for it. 

             Time flies when you are having fun, and people say that it slows during unenjoyable activities.  That is not my perspective.  I do not enjoy lifting weights, sitting in the dentist chair, or reviewing and editing prebills.  But the clock moves predictably and painlessly during those activities.  But when I am bored, time passes so sluggishly that slugs look like sprinters in comparison.  Waiting in a parking lot after arriving early for an appointment; listening to boring Continuing Legal Education seminars and viewing professional sports commentary about a team I do not care about is torture.  I glance at the clock on my cell phone repeatedly, convinced that the software is aberrant.

             There are experiences when times passes too quickly, when it elusively slips through the grasp of my eager fingers – moments that I want to capture with photographic precision.  I remember seeing one of my adult children look at his partner with unblemished adoration.  I recall whispering to a beloved family pet in her last minutes and seeing gratitude and acceptance in her eyes.  I have instances of extreme physical effort while running where the world disappears and silences, wrapping me in a solitary bubble of self-perception.

             And then there are moments when my husband grabs my hand with intention for absolutely no reason.  Time stands still.

Potato Domino

             Last month, Hasbro Inc. announced that its Mr. Potato Head product would hereafter be gender neutral.  The toy, which consists of a plastic potato that serves as both a head and body, comes with body parts and accessories.  The manufacturer’s statement included the desire that kids “be their authentic selves outside of the pressure of traditional gender norms.”

             The cascading response from the public was the marketing equivalent of setting fire to a puddle of gasoline.  The most vocal retorts were not just negative, but surgically eviscerating, claiming that the product’s marketers are guilty of “cancel culture” and expressing outrage that a bastion of childhood toy had been transformed into a tool of political correctness.  Hasbro reversed its decision and declared that both Mr. Potato Head and Mrs. Potato Head would remain.  This fall, it will produce a Potato Head family line with diverse accessories.

             Years ago, we had two Mr. Potato Heads living at our house.   My kids identified them in a gender-neutral fashion due to lingual limitations as opposed to parental progressiveness.   “Tata Heads” were initially intriguing playthings, but my boys soon tired of assembling them in a fashion that replicated human anatomy; it was more fun to stick hands into their heads and put hats into the holes where the ears should go.  I convinced myself that this was a sign of creativity not psychological disturbance.   

             I had the temerity to ask a Facebook friend why he posted that our country had “gone off the deep end into the stupid pool.”  I wondered if he felt educated about gender fluidity or had spoken to a parent with a transgender child.  The responses from his friends to my queries were fierce.  I was accused of lacking patriotism, of trolling, of supporting child mutilation, and for reasons that I do not grasp, of staying at Holiday Inn Express when I traveled.  The commentators opined sadly about the younger “lost” generation, how non-binary individuals are sinners under religious doctrine, and how our country’s cultural values were being annihilated by progressive liberals.  The most vocal protestors disclaimed any anger, frustration, or fear in connection with their reactions, and yet their energy had a visceral quality to it.

             I am much more interested in people’s backlashes than I am about the reasons for the manufacturer’s decision.   In times of peril, uncertainty, and national discord, traditional values are comforting; challenges to those notions are disquieting.  As parents, we quietly hope our children will grow up healthy and strong, that they will find challenging and engaging careers, and that as adults they will couple up – preferably in a heterosexual way with gender binary partners.  We covet these things not just because it paves an easier social and economic path for our kids – we want them because it aligns with our society’s expectations, and that makes it easier for us.  Having a family that fits within accepted social norms grants us cultural currency. 

             I believe today’s parents are wiser than we were twenty years ago.  Many take their child to the toy store doll aisle and do not panic if he wants a Barbie doll.  They deliberately purchase baby clothes that are not pink or blue, and they smile when their daughters step into daddy’s work boots and strap on his tool belt.  They know that buying their son an Easy-Bake oven will not change his gender identification or his sexual orientation, but it just might improve the quality of family dinners once he is old enough to cook. 

            One of my high school friends lamented on social media that both the far political left and the extreme right dominated public discourse, leaving those in the middle without a voice.  My response to her is that children and adults who do not singularly identify with either male or female are in the middle of a complicated and misunderstood gender spectrum.  They probably feel left out and need to be heard, as well.  If having genderless toys validates and supports them, I am all for it. 

Curtail the Pail List

             The reader of my current Audible book, written by a clinical psychologist, declares that bucket lists are not only way to dream bigger and better, but for some, a way to avoid the reality of their impending death.  Afterall, planning the future is a convenient way to ignore its finiteness.

             I am disconcerted by the message.  I have always believed that bucket lists are created with the recognition that our earthly journeys will end, hopefully following a graceful, elongated life but sometimes shockingly truncated by happenstance.  The book is mostly cheerful, uplifting, and humorous, so I am unsettled by this pronouncement.  The book engaged me with the author’s honesty, experience, and vulnerability.  Her message was a mixture of professional opinion and understandings developed during her own psychotherapy. 

             I wonder what that means for me, a planner by intention and, I suspect, genetics. My passion for finishing tasks overshadows the bliss of almost anything else I do.  I spend much of my leisure time (and to be fair, an unacceptably large portion of each workday) thinking about what I want to accomplish, how I will complete a project, why it is off track, or when I will finish.  And even before I am done, I am restlessly scanning the horizon for the next goal.  I have dozens of pages of blog post ideas, notepads of household improvement inventories, and scores of future book outlines.  Every workday begins with to do reminders, though I hardly ever complete them.

             But I do not have a bucket list, and I am not sure why.  I love laying out vacation and project plans and documenting their progress.  I am acutely aware of what is important to me, as well as the quickening steps of the passage of time.  The fact that I am obsessed with chronicling my daily and monthly goals yet ignoring lifetime aspirations troubles me.  Perhaps I have a deep-seated worry that when I cross off the last bucket list item, I will kick the container it is rooted in.

             I pause and think how I would spend my day if I knew death was ten years away.  I would leave the office at my usual time and go home and dive knee-deep into an exhaustive outline encompassing active travels, elaborate family celebrations, and heartfelt talks with my husband.  If my demise is scheduled for five years in the future, I would email my partners that I am retiring in thirty days and race home and fervently plan five, annual out of town family adventures.

             If, on the other hand, I knew I was dying much sooner, I would simply call my children and remind them how much I love them and that from the moment they were born, their happiness became the center of my existence.  Then I would crawl into bed with my husband and alternatively cry and laugh, reflecting on the crazy, chaotic, and gratifying history we shared together, made all the more likely within the shadow of his ever-present protective wing.

             I shut down my computer.  Middle son Andy is busy this weekend with an apartment move, and our accommodating garage is an attractive alternative to temporary commercial storage.  Youngest son Evan is vacationing with friends in Texas, and I expect to see golf course photos.  Oldest son Eric is home alone while our daughter in law is visiting a friend on the east coast. Eric is busy managing a full-time job, several side businesses, a houseful of dogs, and cramming for a graduate school mid-term exam.  I text him:

 I miss you.  Can Dad and I bring dinner over tomorrow night?  We can drop dinner, walk the dogs, and give you a hug.  We won’t linger.

            I push the green arrow Send button, knowing Eric’s upbeat and affirmative response is mere moments away.  If the purpose of a bucket list is to remind us of life’s infinite possibilities for joy, I am not convinced I need one.

Pescatarian Pilgrimage

            At the grocery store last Sunday, I stared at the rotisserie chickens positioned in a heated kiosk, enticing me with their succulent fragrance.  I considered the cost and the number of ways a whole chicken could be consumed, sectioning portions for main dishes and slicing remainders for tacos and salads.  Pre-cooked meats are the working person’s dream; when you factor in the denomination of time, you cannot prepare raw meat at a lower cost.

             But something is amiss.  The salty and fatty aroma fails to summon me.  The reason, though I cannot quite put my finger on it, is that the chicken carcasses look vaguely like, well, animals.

             I am horrified at the revelation that my coveted, go-to weeknight dinner is remotely connected to barnyard fowl, creatures that strut around, heads darting, eyes brightly flashing, peering inquisitively at their surroundings.  I sigh with resignation and vague misgivings.  I do not know where this path is leading me.

             As an adolescent, I despised the idea of hunting wild animals, despite an intellectual understanding that predatory killing was essential to the survival of carnivorous species.  My aversion to products of domesticated livestock began in my college years.  I did not like the taste of lamb, so eliminating that from my eating habits was easy.  Veal was another matter; the taste was not objectionable, but the idea that young calves were being slaughtered for adult consumption was.  I resolved to not eat any meat unless the creature it sprang from had survived its adolescence.

             This simple carnivore algorithm governed my meat consumption for decades.  Then my daughter-in-law mentioned to me that pigs were smarter than dogs, and it caused me to reconsider.  I could not stomach the idea of eating an animal that forms psychological attachments and feels emotions such as optimism, depression, and stress.  I eliminated pork-based products from my meals.

             For several years, my all-but-pork carnivore diet chugged along without inhibition.  I slowly decreased eating beef for health reasons, though I still enjoyed the occasional hamburger.  But that, too, began to wear on me.

             I do not know whether to blame or thank social media.  My obsession with rescue dog videos blossomed into those featuring unlikely animal friendships.  Who knew that a misunderstood pit bull could befriend a grief-stricken mother cow who had lost her calf?  Animal relationships took on deeper meanings for me.  I confronted my disengagement of the reality that my palate cravings were satisfied through a process whereby limpid-eyed, living creatures were herded together, shuttled, and cued through lines culminating in their slaughter.  When you add in the industrial agriculture impacts on climate change, through increased greenhouse gases and deforestation, my beef disinclination averted to aversion.

             Giving up beef was relatively easy for me, as there was still fish and poultry.  Seasoned ground turkey is as delicious as ground beef in burgers and tacos.  And every good restaurant serves broiled fish, which tempts me more than meat ever will.  I assuaged my poultry predilection with the naïve belief that birds were inferior to other mammals.  Well, until I watched videos about baby ducks forming attachments with humans and roosters playing tag with their cat friends.

             My rotisserie chicken episode does not bode well for my penchant for poultry.  But even if I eventually give up fowl, there is still fish.  I console myself that pescatarians enjoy a diverse range of flavors and textures and a fish-only diet is widely promoted as healthy, full of essential fatty acids.  (Note to self:  do not click on any Facebook links about how salmon can form human friendships.) 

             I see an alarming blurb on the internet: pescatarians often become vegetarians, and vegetarians often convert to a vegan diet.  I shut down Google with the admonition that I am not giving up cheese and yogurt.  Well, at least until someone proves to me that dairy cows are miserable, and they yearn to wander grassy fields and laze in the sunshine.  I reopen my search engine and type in, what is the best non-dairy ice cream.

             Just in case.

Guilt by (Vaccination) Association

            During the noon hour on Wednesday this week, my husband and I pull up to the drive-through cue in a small town in eastern Washington.  Don rolls down the window and rests his t-shirted arm on the car’s window ledge.  I am mortified to hear him order a double cheeseburger and french fries.  I quickly apologize for my husband’s adolescent sense of humor.  The attendant, a burly, 30-something year old man, merely grins and motions for Don to extend his arm. 

              We are not at a fast-food restaurant; we are getting our first Moderna COVID vaccine.

             Afterwards we park in the lot outside the fire station for the mandated 15-minute reaction observation period.  We listen to a short lecture from a volunteer about using Tylenol for expected side effects and confirm our follow-up appointments.  We are released with inoculation certificates and a cheery admonishment to drive safely.

             Euphoria and relief at getting the vaccination is tempered by guilt.  Public demand for immunizations far exceeds supply. When the state of Washington launched its website, findyourphaseWA.com a month ago, securing an appointment was as likely as being the first caller to a radio show offering free Super Bowl tickets.  My initial goal was to get the vaccine; it was quickly substituted by the ancillary objective to secure a wait list spot.

             Family and friends assured me that I was entitled to be vaccinated.  Don and I waited out the state hierarchy tiers until we qualified.  I barely eked my way into Phase 1B Tier 1 – those 65 years of age and older, which my not-yet-65-year-old friends good naturedly teased me about.  But age group aside, the rational part of my brain felt that I deserved the vaccination.  My law practice is an essential business, and as managing member, I am the most essential worker.  I have gone to the office every business day since the governor-mandated shut down began.  In March 2020, when the stay-at-home order was issued, I was terrified to drive the highways, certain that I would be pulled over and cited for civil disobedience.  But someone had to come to the office or our clients’ rights would be compromised.  A core group of us donned masks, socially distanced, and carried out imperative tasks that could not be completed remotely.  We continue to do that today.

             I understand that I met eligibility requirements, but I am humbled and grateful to be vaccinated.  Unlike some people, I had the technology skills and internet access that drove my relentless search for an appointment.  I am privileged to have a job that allows me to take a day off on 24 hours’ notice.  My husband and I had reliable transportation, and accommodating winter weather, for the eight-hour round trip drive.  We had the support of family members for dog duty when a traffic delay hindered our trip home.  Most importantly, we had access to reliable information about the safety and efficacy of the vaccine.

             Just because you qualify for something does not necessarily mean that you feel entitled to acquire it.  It is a unique privilege to live in a country with the financial resources to develop vaccines in historic, record-setting fashion.  I am the beneficiary of scientific researchers, medical experts, dedicated volunteers, and delivery persons whose commitment and hard work culminated in me taking the first crucial step towards the lifestyle that I reluctantly relinquished almost a year ago.

             We left two boxes of bakery cookies at the fire station upon our departure, an insufficient and inadequate display of gratitude.  But other than my profound and almost tearful thank you, it was my best shot at showing my appreciation.

Proficiency by Tenacity

            One month ago, I sat down to write my 100th weekly blog post, startled by the number of essays as well as the speedy passage of the last two years. 

             I began blogging at the suggestion of a social media consultant to market my soon-to-be self-published fitness habit book, Daily.  She simultaneously introduced me to Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, social media platforms that made me more than a little uncomfortable.  I was aghast at the idea of drawing attention to myself even though my intention was to communicate my passion for exercise.  But writing blog posts felt different -- it was both a way to convey ideas as well as to reflect on experiences. 

             With time, my tone changed.  What I envisioned was no-nonsense explorations of exercise science and practical habit formation tips; what emerged was me grappling with middle-age musses, everyday disarrays, and, recently, pandemic confusion.  Through it all, exercise has been my patient compatriot.

             I flip through the pages of past posts, and I am surprised at not just the evolution of the content, but the progression of composition.  Writing has been a lifelong journey of mine, from elementary school storytelling, to adolescent angst journaling, to legal brief composing.  Like exercise, writing is foundational to my sense of well-being and central to self-expression.

             I rummage randomly through my essays.  Some make me chuckle, others seem trite.  A few make my eyes fill with tears, as I touch subjects that gently release quietly smothered and tucked-away emotions. 

             I think I am improving with practice.  I estimate that I have spent at least 2000 hours between writing and editing my book and my weekly posts.  Of course, that pales in comparison to Malcolm Gladwell’s belief that it takes approximately 10,000 hours of deliberate practice to master a skill.  If I quit my day job and write diligently full time, it will take four more years before I have writing prowess.

             Unfortunately, tenacity is not a substitute for facility, and diligence is not a substitute for aptitude.  I am astutely aware that 10,000 hours at the gym is not going to turn me into an NBA player.  My expository accomplishments will always be tempered by a talent limitation, but that knowledge does not discourage me.  Persistence is its own reward.  Pushing the boundaries of capability is a worthy endeavor, even if I remain perpetually dissatisfied with the outcome. 

             There is glory in aspiration and dignity in dedication.  I write because I am unable not to. The process keeps my troubles contained, preventing them from tumbling forth, tripping over themselves in their eagerness to be free. 

             If my legacy is becoming a pretty good and somewhat prolific writer, so be it.

Naming Proclaiming

            In early fall of 1983, I called my grandmother, who lived in a small farming community in central Iowa, with the happy news of my engagement.  I was about to start law school, and my boyfriend and I had just finished a two-week trip, which for us was a glorious extravagance.  Don had surprised me with a proposal while we were in St. Martin.  Though I had always envisioned waiting until after law school graduation to tie the knot, I was giddy at the suggestion that we get married sooner.

             My grandmother was thrilled for me.  I explained the basic parameters of our upcoming nuptials:  we would get married by a judge at home during spring break of my first year of law school; we would forgo a honeymoon due to academic demands; and, oh yes, I was not going to change my name. 

             There was silence at the other end of the line.  My grandmother was not concerned about the lack of a wedding trip, and she could live without me getting married in a church if it was a legal marriage.  But not taking my husband’s last name?  That was unforgiveable.   She chose her words carefully but expressed them firmly.  “If you do not take your husband’s name, I will never speak to you again.”  The conversation ended quickly.

             I was saddened by her comment, but I instantly forgave her for it.  She was in her early 90’s, and she was a product of a time when socioeconomic standing was tied to marital status.  For reasons of prestige and identification, my grandmother was hurt by my pronouncement.  But I knew she loved me, and I suspected that she would not carry out her threat.  And she did not.

             I kept my name when I married for reasons that were vaguely feminist.  I liked my name, I identified with it, and it surrounded me with comfortable familiarity.  I was not a chattel to be conveyed to my husband; I was my own person, imperfect but evolving.  I disliked the idea that I had to sacrifice something to legally enter an equalitarian partnership.

             After my children were born, a friend of mine suggested that I take my husband’s last name so that our kids would know we were married.  I bristled, but laughed, at the idea that doing so would instill greater emotional security in our sons than having them watch their parents work diligently, cohesively, and lovingly from dawn until dusk every day of their lives.  I declined to take her suggestion.

             To this day, I am often referred to as Mrs. Schweet during sales calls. I take time to explain to the caller that referring to me in a way that demonstrates knowledge of my marital status is sexist.  I am less patient to those who call and ask to speak to the head of the household; I relate that I am in a household where decision making is a shared responsibility.  In other words, the person who has been charged with the task makes the choice.

             But I am still learning, as well.  This week I was asked by a medical assistant what pronouns I wished to be referred to.  I was a little taken aback, but I quickly realized that wanting to be called and named in a way that resonates with your gender or non-binary identity is just as important as wanting to be called Ms.  I paused and replied that she/her will do just fine.  I also told her, with conviction and sincerity, that I appreciated her asking me that question.

             We all have the right to be referred to in a way that reflects our individuality.  Those who do not understand, like my sweet grandmother, will get there in time -- if we are gentle and patient with our promptings.

Friendship Amendment

            On Tuesday this week, I received notification from my email marketing platform that one of my readers had unsubscribed. I have a little, but loyal, band of followers, and I am grateful beyond words for their constant encouragement.  Unsubscribing is a deliberate act; if you are merely bored by my content, or too busy, you simply do not bother to open the email. 

             I had a hunch who the reader was that unfollowed me, as she had recently and mysteriously disappeared from Facebook.  My curiosity was easy to confirm on the platform, and the timing was immediately after my blog post about the Women’s March on Washington in 2017.  The piece was intended to promote the beauty and power of peaceful demonstration – and to compare it to the recent violent protest at the U.S. Capitol.  But my disappointment and distain for right-wing followers of President Trump were at the core of my article.

             I have written and disseminated more than one hundred blog posts in the last two years.  Though I have occasionally dabbled in peripheral issues such as racism and justice inequality, I have steered clear of politics.  I lack the expertise and partisan acumen to speak knowledgeably, and I do not want to parrot the thoughts of others.  My writings focus on my personal experiences, interests, and learnings.  My essays usually feel joyful to me, but at times, they are deeply cathartic or outright painful.

             Politics polarize friendships.  Most seasoned social media users refrain from posting about political beliefs because of the often-vehement discourse that ensues.  And yet, I do not want to hide behind a vanilla cloak of neutrality merely to avoid the loss of acolytes.  That feels unadventurous, at a minimum, and even cowardly.  I watch news channels with opposite viewpoints, and I regularly read articles praising politicians whose perspectives do not align with mine.  I feel it is my civic responsibility. 

             But remaining close to someone whose opinions are vastly different than mine takes effort that could be directed elsewhere.  Connection hinges on tenets more significant than time.  Emotional camaraderie is built more on philosophical leanings than having kids who are best buddies.  Parental allegiance that develops through parenting trials, neighborhood potlucks, and educational volunteerism is significant but ultimately inadequate in the face of weightier wrenches on our souls.

             If I am honest, the diminution of our kinship began long ago. Tiny fractures in the relationship deepened and widened with time without bonding events to close and shallow them.  I tried hard as our lives increasingly diverged, hers into retirement and travel, mine bolted to the routines of work and home.  I mailed newsy holiday letters and texted pictures of our adult children, still bound by their childhood friendships.  I reminded myself that our history together was stronger than current political divisiveness. 

             I was wrong.  The painful truth is that our lives have taken disparate trajectories, guided by irreconcilable philosophies and ideologies. 

             I will miss my friend, but I will remember what I love most about her: her energy and enthusiasm, her unbridled and effervescent sense of humor, her grounded and deep-rooted lifestyle, and her core belief in the goodness of every child.  We will never be close again, but my fondness for her, and my hope that her life continues to unfold with joy, will never end.