Catching Up with the Law of Averages

            On a recent Friday night, my husband and I settle into a posh hotel suite in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. It has been a busy week – and herding our family of stray cats for a three-day weekend out of town is nothing short of a miracle. But happily, we have all arrived safely. Golf, hiking, and group dinners are before us, and son Andy and I are running races in Spokane on Sunday.

             Don and I snuggle into a ridiculously comfortable mattress with pillows fit for royalty. We drift off, dreaming of fun family togetherness that is mingled with the robust male humor that permeates every gathering that our kids are at – from potlucks to sporting events and even those where solemnity is encouraged.

  Unbeknownst to me, I am at the dawn of a very bad run. Around midnight, I am awakened by tsunami-like waves of nausea that bring me to my knees when I get out of bed. I yell for Don, and he carries me to the bathroom and deposits me while I howl for him to find a container so that I do not have to vomit on the floor. I spend forty-five minutes wishing I would die while intestinal contents flee my body confines. Afterwards, I gratefully crawl back to bed, muttering about food poisoning internet research. In the morning I feel fine, though I am unsettled by the memory.

             Maybe my body was warning me that I was embarking on a 14-day losing streak. I ought not complain, in fairness to those who are enduring real heartbreak, but I am a tad superstitious. When something lousy happens, I wonder what is going to occur next. I was not a math major in college, but I am proficient in life-moments statistics. Unpleasant events are not delivered at measured points in time because the God of Random Acts is not that considerate. When something goes wrong, it might not be an isolated event; you could be in for a rough spell.

             Sure enough, the next couple of weeks are not fun. The half marathon run was demanding to the point of harrowing, and I was disappointed in my finish time. A family misunderstanding occurred that caused hurt feelings. A few days after our trip, I received distressing news from a relative that brought me to tears. In the meantime, work was extraordinarily arduous. And to add to the pity party, though I am not a huge sports fan, four separate teams that I follow lost every single game they played within a five-day span.

             Through it all, I wait for a ruling on a dispositive motion in the most significant case that, at least from a monetary perspective, I have ever been involved in. I have told the client that the prospects of winning are less than five percent. I stand by, knowing we are not going to prevail. I am filled with dread, but a part of me wants to lose and get it over with so that we can strategize our next legal move.

             I wait, too, in the dentist chair two days ago, envisioning that a more-than-ten-year string of perfect dental checkups is ending. Bad luck comes in waves, not incidents, is my theory. The dentist reviews my x-rays, murmuring slightly, either to himself or the hygienist, in a language I do not understand. He pokes around my gums, and I expect bad news when he descales my teeth in one place longer than others.

  I hold my breath, while he straightens up and leans back. Your teeth look very good, he says, if you are not using a water pic, you probably should. But there is nothing that needs to be done today. Keep up the good work. I exhale and consciously focus on relaxing my clenched hands. Maybe the tide of crummy luck is shifting.

  Back in the office later that day, I wrestle with an annoying $1900 accounting discrepancy in a judgment payoff under a settlement, which is putting me at odds with my client. It takes all the strength I can muster to spend 45 minutes analyzing where the client’s math is in error - time that I cannot bill for due to the economics of the small case.

  I am standing at the copy machine, grumpy and frustrated, when I hear an associate attorney call out and ask if I am sitting down. No, I snap, I am standing at the copier, why do you ask? We won, he said, the judge signed our order. I replied that it was not possible, we could not have won that motion because the consequences for the wealthy defendant were so devastating that the court would surely rule that it was subject to the contract’s alternative dispute resolution process. My associate smiles, and he hands me a hard copy of the judge’s legal findings and conclusions and judgment. My legs turn to Jell-O, just as they did when I crossed the half marathon finish line less than two weeks ago. I read the document over and over and jump up and down and scream with excitement.  

  No cavities, and I won my motion? I should buy a lottery ticket tonight. I think I am about to start a very good run.

Culminating Journey

            I settle in at my office desk on Monday morning this week with a writing task before me. But despite my aspiration, words do not come. I wait patiently, with knowledge gleaned from a lifetime, that desire is only a snippet of the compositional formula. If all it required was motivation, legal briefs would be pounded out easily, books would unfold like wrapped presents, and heartfelt thank you notes would flow effortlessly.

             But I am not writing a legal brief, a book, or a thank you note. I am penning a card to Janice, someone who is dying and only has weeks to live.

             It is telling that Hallmark does not have a category of cards for this occasion. It would have been a relief to have grabbed one with a pre-scripted, perfectly formulated maxim for someone who is terminally ill. But no such luck. Instead, I reluctantly move into the Blank Card section, with only cover stock artwork to choose from. What design is appropriate for someone for whom life is soldiering on for such a short while? Pictures of bucolic cabins, peaceful flower arrangements, and serene sunsets all beckon but they taunt me with their inadequacy. I select a card with an elaborate, origami bird depicted on the front, the intricacy of which parallels the task at hand.

             I jot some notes on a piece of paper, waiting for inspiration. I refuse to search the internet for advice, believing that it would be a crutch for the honesty that is required of me. The recipient is a paralegal that I worked with more than thirty years ago when I was an associate attorney, a talented woman that I admired. Due to age differences, and those related to employment categories, we were never close friends. But I depended on her seasoned experience to guide me through the intricate and sometimes bureaucratic pathways of a large law firm. When I left the firm, we did not stay connected, although our paths would cross in conversations with mutual friends.

             I sit, trying to stifle a growing sense of anxiety at my limitations. I still the urgent voice in my head that tells me the exercise is beyond me. I have heard that Janice is on hospice care and does not want visitors and that she rebuffs grief-stricken outbursts. I sense that reliance on religious truisms or sentimental platitudes is inapt. I ponder what I would want to read if I were in her situation, what would make me smile or reminisce.

             I glance around the room, and my eyes focus on a large, hand-painted cup and saucer with an appealing bright blue and white design, sitting on a bookshelf. It was a present from Janice long ago for an occasion that I do not remember. I walk over and pick up the cup and take in the aroma of the wood chips that nestle within it. To my surprise, the chips’ distinct scent – earthy, almost citrusy – is still evident after all these years. My eyes soften as I return to my desk.

             I write about her gift, which has traveled with me through the decades of job changes and office relocations. A part of her has been with me and will remain so. I remind her, with a chuckle, of her patience with me - an inexperienced associate – and I thank her. I remark about how the journey she is on is one that we will all take, and I wish her serenity.

             I address and stamp the envelope and put it in the outgoing mail. Because today is a national holiday, it will not be picked up by the carrier until tomorrow. I feel a sense of urgency though I have just learned of Janice’s illness. But Thanksgiving, the prognosticated end date given to her by her physician, is still more than a month away.

             Three days later I receive an email from a friend that my card reached its destination that very afternoon. Unfortunately, Janice had died hours beforehand and was unable to read it.

             Janice passed away bounded by love and in the presence of her daughter as well as her life partner. My card will be opened and read when her grieving family has the resources to give it its due. My wish is that they will read it and smile and that my awkward sentiments will cause them to pause. I want to remind them of the person I knew in a memory about which they would otherwise not known.

             I hope your passage was peaceful, Janice.

Biking with My Buddies

            On the last sunny Friday in September, my husband and I took off on a three-day bike ride on the Palouse to Cascades trail in Washington state with three other couples. Though we had taken several bike trips with this group and other folks, we had never ridden this trail (nor on a crushed gravel and sand surface.) The adventure was not supported by a guide or outfitter, though we rented mountain bikes from a local company who picked us up for the start and agreed to meet us at the finish. Though I had planned the logistics carefully, we were on our own. We were a fit and resilient group. I joked that we all had health insurance, cell phones, and credit cards – what could go wrong?

             The first day’s plan was to bike from Rattlesnake Lake in North Bend to the top of Snoqualmie Pass, about twenty miles. My main concern when organizing the ride was that twenty miles would not be far enough. I assured everyone that we could fill in the afternoon with a hike or do a little mountain biking at the top of the Pass. It turned out that I need not have worried.

             We set off in the late morning, having spent over an hour at the launch spot swapping out punishingly rigid bike seats for more comfortable equipment, helping our outfitter change pedals, and switching in and out of various layers of clothing as the day warmed. After assembling for a pre-ride photo, we roll out – and spend the next twenty minutes biking around aimlessly, looking for the trail. Not an auspicious start.

             Once orientated in the right direction, we settle in to rhythmic pedaling, stopping often and congratulating ourselves for our vigor.  Ebike travelers cruise past us effortlessly. It soon becomes clear why we have, in the past, paid guides to haul our gear around for us:  the weight of our backpacks, which seemed piddling while walking around, quickly becomes burdensome. The composition of the trail created much more friction than pavement, a fact that an eight-year-old roller-skater could have told us. In addition, though the upward grade was barely noticeable, we were, of course, biking to the top of a mountain pass.

              We labored on, our carefree and enthusiastic chatter transitioning to earnest jokes about what a good workout we were getting and then to sullen silence as we churned our way up the mountain, tired and dehydrated. We had ditched excess water bottles in the naïve belief that we would be biking, at most, for three hours. Silly us. Fortunately, Warrior Ted biked ahead to the nearest water supply and returned with refreshed water bottles and cheerful conversation as we plodded forward. We biked through a 2.3-mile tunnel in the pitch black, with temperatures in the 40’s, and out onto the top of the mountain pass.

             After reaching our destination, we checked into our hotel. Actually, we threw our names at the receptionist and staggered into the restaurant. Cold drinks and bar food never tasted better. After toasting Day 1 of Old Slow Folks Biking Up a Mountain, we limped back to our hotel rooms. The mattresses were substandard, and in one case, sheets were missing entirely. We did not care.

             We were a jovial group assembling for breakfast in the morning, but only after spending an inordinate amount of private time applying butt butter. I grabbed Paul’s vegetarian omelet from the waiter by mistake, but Paul got my pancakes, so I figured he owed me the apology. I am still waiting. By brandishing $20 bills, we convinced the hotel clerk to store our backpacks for a couple of days, so we could travel lighter. We distilled our gear to bottles of water, wallets, sunscreen, and cell phones.

             Though Day 2’s ride was more than thirty miles, it was mostly flat or slightly downhill. Those of us without padded, cushioned bike seats tried to conceal our hostility from those who had them.  The start of the ride coincided with an out and back running race of various lengths:  ten kilometers, fifty kilometers, and fifty miles. The runners looked as exhausted and brain dead as we felt the day before, and we felt vigorous in comparison. Our ride took us past pine forests, colorful deciduous maple groves, over trestle bridges, and alongside Keechelus Lake and the Yakima River. We gratefully arrived at the South Cle Elum trailhead by mid-afternoon and ordered lunch at the local BBQ restaurant.

             After lunch, we lollygagged a bit before placing our sore bottoms back on our bikes to ride the remaining 5.5 miles to our cabin, where we planned to spend the night. Though the roads were paved, it turns out that, contrary to my recollection, they were all uphill. I ground my way through the last few miles by reminding myself of other painful exercises; grueling half marathons and the pain of childbirth seemed more tolerable in comparison.  We evaluated the theory that misery loves company but suffered in quiet isolation. Our joy at arriving at the cabin was just shy of euphoric.

             We regaled ourselves with stories of our athletic prowess while preparing dinner.  Our group feasted on Jeanne’s caprese-salad appetizers with homegrown tomatoes.  Jeff checked out the nearby putting green and critiqued the available golf clubs in lieu of disparaging his chip shots. Don disappeared for a bit; I finally found him taking a power nap on a dog bed in a walk-in closet. I cajoled him with Advil and diet Pepsi to fire up the barbeque grill to cook dinner. We retired for the evening but not before devouring Jean’s homemade cheesecake with fresh strawberries while sitting around the outdoor firepit.

             Since Day 3 was all downhill for the first five miles, we assured each other that the day’s biking would be leisurely.  But after getting back to the trail, we found that it was easy. We briefly flirted with the idea of biking on a paved road parallel to the trail, but like horses headed back to the barn, we gravitated to the lure of the gravel path.  Our moods were lifted by the beauty of our surroundings, as the landscape changed magically but subtly from forest to pasture. The ride was lovely and uneventful, although one of Dina’s tires lost traction while she circumvented a gate, and her bike slid out from under her. But no one wipes out with less of a whimper than she does. Ted inadvertently pitched a biking glove into an aromatic pit toilet, but considering that it could have been his wallet, it was not a bad outcome.  We arrived in Ellensburg after a 30-mile morning ride within a minute or two of our pick-up van pulling up to greet us, which took us back to the cabin in Cle Elum.

  I look back with gratitude at the magnificent, fun adventure:  friendship, comradery, exercise, and the bounty of the outdoors – it does not get any better than that.  Well, unless you add the best cheesecake in the world. 

Back (and Forward) to School

            The summer is beginning its quiet but determined transition to fall.  The leaves on the trees, having weathered the summer heat, start to change color, and they loosen their grip on branches.  The warm breezes silently convert to winds with a stealthy chilly undercurrent.  Parents anticipate their children’s return to the comforting routine of academia.  And recent high school graduates look forward to what a year ago seemed out of reach – moving out of family homes to college dormitories and apartments.

             Our next-door neighbor’s daughter is leaving for her freshman year in college, and I feel misty-eyed.  It is not that I know her well – or at all, really.  But she is the bright and socially conscious, only-child of our neighbors.  Her parents adore her, as is evidenced by the way they speak of her.  Her father calls her “the Princess” in a tone that reveals more about his devotion than any attribute of hers.  Her mother makes the familiar jokes that all moms do when their children leave home – complaints about how many suitcases they need to pack, how much they will spend at Target to furnish dorm rooms, and how they will probably eat better meals in the cafeteria than they do at home. 

             She doesn’t fool me.  The trip to deliver your child to college is the most exquisite, yet unbearable, travel of your life. 

             I distinctly remember the last hug I gave our oldest son when dropping him off at a small, private college in southern California.  I looked into his eyes and saw them soften – for just a minute.  Turning away and walking towards our rental car to drive to the airport was almost unendurable.  I could not grasp the void that his absence would create, although his younger brothers immediately – and enthusiastically - jousted to lay claim to his bedroom.  For a full two weeks, colors seemed somewhat muted, almost sorrowful, as perceived by my maternalistic eyes.  I felt an almost feral sense of loss.

             Four years later, we delivered our middle son to his southern California university.  We met his roommate, admired his fancy dorm room, and listened to speeches by professors and administrators, who had preached to thousands of parents before us, about opportunity and growth of their students.  When we left, Andy gave me a grateful hug, his warmth eclipsed, just a bit, by the excitement of a life unfettered by parental oversight.  He turned and jogged away with unbound anticipation.

             We were seasoned parents when we delivered our youngest son to yet-another pricey southern California school.  We walked the beautiful campus and watched dozens of other parents reading brochures, pointing out residence and academic halls, and trundling bags and boxes.  I saw mothers hold their daughters’ hands, their offspring switching roles and comforting their parents.  Evan was organized and resolute in executing enrollment logistics.  Such is the way of a third child, for whom self-sufficiency is a survival mechanism.  He was remarkably patient with my maternal ministrations, but he drew the line with me taking incessant cell phone videos of him.  At that point, I knew it was time to leave.

             Returning to an empty, quiet house after leaving our youngest child at college had a surreal, almost dreamlike quality to it.  The bedrooms stayed tidy, the bathroom sinks, impeccable.  I had moments when I thought I heard the refrigerator door opening and slamming shut, dishes clattering in the sink.  I was unapologetically sad for a time, just shy of bereft.  I knew our children were well-prepared for college; it was me that was unequipped for a life without them. 

  I soldiered on, gaining comfort from my offspring’s cheery messages and phone calls, heartened by the knowledge that they were where they were supposed to be at the time that was right for them.  I understood that as they moved into their new life phase, I had to move on, as well.  Launching a child is bittersweet, but I understood that if it doesn’t feel that way, then you have missed out on the joy the previous parenting chapter brought you.   My job transitioned from on-the-spot mentor, cheerleader, and occasional authoritarian to a remote, on-call consultant.  (“Yes, Eric, it is a good idea to separate light and dark clothes when you do laundry.”) 

  Well, that and I was remarkably adroit in paying tuition on-line and transferring monthly allowances into checking accounts.  It is good to be needed, all things considered.

Blinded by Inertia

             Many years ago, I travelled to visit an elderly relative at her cozy apartment in a small town.  I knocked at her door, and she greeted me with a hug, her fervent grasp evidencing how much she missed me.  I was a little misty-eyed, as well.

             We settled into her cheerful living room, cluttered with the accumulations of a life well-lived.  Our conversation flowed with the familiar warmth of people who have known and loved each other for decades.  Her spritely tone and vibrant humor shone through the gloom of the room.  Despite this, something was off.  Then it occurred to me:  though the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky, all the shades were drawn.  The window coverings sheltered my friend from the brilliant light and, I suspect, from a world that was becoming too complex for her frail self to grasp.

             I did not understand her desire to be protected from the outside world then, but I do now.  The pandemic required me to shutter socially.  For almost all of 2020, and a good part of 2021, outings with family were clumsy get-togethers at dog parks and outdoor venues.  Events with friends were almost completely out of the question due to rational – and irrational – health concerns.  When life began to re-open, I found myself reluctant to engage but I did not know why.  Once I was vaccinated, I did not feel frightened by the virus; instead, I felt moored to my home for reasons of lassitude.  Inertia felt safe and protective, like a warm down jacket zippered all the way up to my chin.

             But familiar nudges of optimism began to emerge, like a winter-blooming cherry tree, whose blossoms colorfully clash with a blinding snowfall.  Last month, when prodded, my husband and I went out to dinner with friends, timidly walking into a restaurant and removing our face masks like ungainly teenagers.  Several weeks later, we attended an outdoor concert and soon after, rallied at a college football game.  We recently dined at the home of good friends, relishing the warm and familiar camaraderie.  Lately I attended a retirement party for a client and gathered for an outdoor lunch with lawyer pals.  I flew to the east coast for the 100th birthday party of a beloved aunt, braving crowds of masked travelers who approached each other with hesitant timidity.    

             I am back in the social game now – well, at least as much as I ever have been.  I need to view my calendar to see if I am available for outings instead of immediately responding, “we’re free!”  And as crazy as it sounds, I have had to decline a few invitations due to prior commitments. 

             A couple of months ago, I began to research a bike ride along an abandoned rail trail in Washington state, now endowed as a state-owned park.  I felt a bit gutless and apprehensive about the task.  It is one thing to accept an invitation that will be completed in a couple of hours; it is quite another to plan a three-day trip with three other couples.  I inspected my reluctance with the precision that I usually reserve for searching out new wrinkles in my middle-aged face.  What I found was that the pandemic hibernation augmented my fundamentally introverted personality. 

             Once I knew that I was just wimping out on organizing a trip, I kicked into high gear.  I emailed rental bike outfitters, researched trails and points of interest, and fiddled with logistics and preparations.  Rounding up our active and well-travelled buddies, and aligning their calendars, made herding stray cats look like directing elderly tortoises. 

             Don and I spent this past weekend bustling around feverishly at our cabin, the site for night two of our adventure.  Planning for six guests to dine and spend the night seemed to require as much organization as preparing for a small army to winter in place.  My amiable and hard-working spouse accepted my to-do list with expected geniality.  We blew pine needles off patios, cleaned bathrooms, changed lightbulbs, replaced batteries in remotes, washed and freshened bedding, and bulked up on beer and soft drinks.  Don hung new blinds in the bedroom windows, which we stood and admired as though they were investitures installed in an art museum.

             We completed all our tasks; nothing but the passage of several days’ time stood between us and our three-day biking excursion.  We took one long and meticulous look at our vacation home and its wooded surroundings before walking to our car to drive home. 

             At the last minute, I ran back through the house and gently raised all the window blinds to let the light shine in.  Gratitude and radiance illuminated me.

Principal Principles

            I stare at the small, yellow post-it affixed to the bottom of my office computer monitor.  An axiom occurred to me in an insightful moment several years ago, fueled by fortitude and stimulated by caffeine.  Seized by epiphany, I wrote a reminder to myself: there are no shortcuts, only efficiencies.

These are words I live by.  From exercising, to saving money, to managing a law firm or a caseload, I understand that there is no getting around the hard work that worthy goals entail.  Seeing it in writing every workday reminds me that a structured, systematic approach to life makes it more productive and fulfilling. 

  I ponder what other rules influence me.  I consider, and cast aside, aphorisms about living in the moment, seeking peace within my soul, holding on by letting go, and radiating love so powerfully that it reflects back.  I am smitten with the sentiments contained in those sayings – to a point.  But I prefer no-nonsense, concrete directives that are practical, not spiritual.  I am grounded, which is to say that I wear sensible shoes while walking around instead of frolicking barefoot in a park.  But I have several beliefs that guide me, and I hear their insistent whispers frequently. 

             For the perfectionist in me, I prompt myself: don’t let perfect be the enemy of good.  I am relentless about achieving objectives, but I often cut myself some slack.  Just the other day, I eschewed a fancy-recipe side dish for a potluck and, instead, threw together a simple green salad.  Unless I have a very concrete, upcoming exercise goal, I substitute an easy exercise day for what I had planned -- if it feels right.  I regularly eye the morning’s work to-do list with dissatisfaction at day’s end – and recognize that the real world has elbowed the optimal one out of the way. 

             Finish what you begin was a phrase I often heard from my mother when I was a young girl.  Cleaning my room, finishing an art creation, or completing a sewing project – these tasks were easy to slip away from, like a disinterested attendee at an uninspiring lecture, when the lure of a book or a trip to the riding stable presented a more attractive alternative.  But as I matured and sprang away from parental oversight, I realized that, for me, if I do not set a deadline, it will not get done.  From writing legal briefs, to mapping out a half marathon training schedule, to cleaning the garage, to making doctor’s appointments, life is easier when there is a known endpoint.  Setting deadlines for goals is a mantra that is central to my personality. 

             When it seems impossible to start a project, I try to understand why delay is so attractive, using a simulated and psychological cost-benefit analysis.  I am aware that procrastination serves an emotional purpose, but you pay a hefty price for it. I look for the blockade that hinders the inception.  Confronting what is getting in the way of what I want to get done requires real soul-searching – but it is always worth investigating.  What usually tips the balance in favor of beginning a difficult task is considering how I will feel when it is done and comparing it to how I will feel if I bow out. 

             But life has unrelenting hardships, as well as tasks that are just disagreeable.  At those junctures, there are no forks in the road to consider, but a single, arduous path forward.  Retreat is not possible for reasons of circumstance or reality.  For these expeditions, I fall back on a heartfelt cliché:  if you must walk through broken glass in bare feet, make sure it is in a straight line.  Adversity is best faced with eyes wide open, jaws firmly clenched.  The most direct route, straight as a razor’s edge, gets you through in the least amount of time.

             Come to think of it, this is where I started when I glimpsed that yellow, and yellowed, post-it on my computer.  Begin something difficult today, not tomorrow.   Keep plowing forward, even when your steps shorten or falter.  Finishing what you begin in the least amount of time is its own reward. 

  And if you fall short, you can fashion a meaningful justification for it and post it someplace obvious:  my self-worth is based on more than what I achieve.

Bolstering by Quartering

            I settle into my car on Wednesday morning this week, wishing that my commute would last longer than it will.  I delay drinking coffee until I take the left-hand turn that positions me on the vertical thoroughfare of my little town.  I tell myself it is because driving becomes less complicated – and safer – when I head onto the straightaway but in truth it is simply because that is my habit. 

             I relish the residential street for its quiet suburban dignity nested in the early dawn light.  I travel as slowly as I can without irritating the driver behind me.  I consider the ways that I could cause the perception of the drive to lengthen.  I wonder if a mindfulness habit would help.

             I am not going to work; I am driving to the local middle school, and I arrive all too soon.  I sigh with resignation and submit myself to the activity that lies ahead – running quarter mile loops around the track.  I fantasize, for just a moment, about buying a fancy coffee drink and strolling through a park, instead.  Then I remind myself of a prophetic social media post I saw on Instagram this morning.  A woman, who if asked, would probably say she wanted to lose 60 or 80 pounds is running around a track.  Her mantra is, “suck it up so that someday I do not have to suck it in.”  I mentally bow down to her toughness and tell myself to suck it up, as well. 

             The first quarter run is uncomfortable, as my body resents moving with so much effort, muscles grumbling disagreeably.  The walkers using the inside lane bother me, too, as I move around them.  It is not their physical space that annoys me; it is their companionable discourse and their luxurious strides unfettered by obligation.  Worse still is the bicyclist leisurely pedaling around the track.  He is biking clockwise, unlike the rest of us, so I am forced to see his approach repeatedly.  Who rides a bike on a track anyhow?

             At the end of the first quarter, my relief is so palpable that I am filled with gratitude.  I reduce my movement to a sluggish jog for the next eighth of a mile.  Jogging is an exaggeration; a jogger would blow past me like a world class sprinter. 

             The next few quarters are easier.  My body has adjusted to the level of effort.  The first third of each split I feel a youthful joy, my legs hitting the synthetic rubber surface like petite, quick - twitch piledrivers.  At least that is my fantasy. During the second third, I try to maintain the rhythm of the start.  I approach the last third of each circumference with grim determination akin to soldiering my way through the final minutes of an unpleasant dental procedure.

             I keep track of the number of laps I have taken by holding fingers down against my palm so that distraction, effort, or compulsion do not cause me to question how many times I have circled the track.  I love the fourth rotation as it means I am at the half-way point.  The four fingers pressed into my sweaty palm of my left hand signal a hearty thumbs up.  During lap five, my hand is clenched into the form of a fist bump – the modern-day, pandemic figurative high five.

             The final couple of quarters are unpleasant, which is a charitable way of saying they suck.  I try to separate myself from exertion by assigning a pain factor on a scale of one to ten.  The formula is always the same:  a few spritely yards at a level one, followed by levels two through four around the first and second turns, then the drudgery of five through sevens until the final straightaway.  At that point, the mental effort of maintaining my form is almost as challenging as the physical exercise.  Everything hurts – from my calves and thighs to my core.  Even my triceps hurt for reasons I cannot fathom.  I approach the finish line of my miniature race like I do a real race: just leave it all out there.

             Intellectually I know that speedwork is good race preparation as it builds strength and increases oxygen uptake.  And I know that it will make my upcoming half marathon somewhat less dreadful.  But it will not make it comfortable; it is comparable to removing a pebble from a pair of too-small, spike high heels and trudging through a parking garage looking for your car.

             At the end of the eighth lap, I am blissfully happy.  I amble back to my car, nodding agreeably to the folks that irritated me just thirty minutes before.

  The drive back home with fresh air brushing my forearms and the anticipation of a hot shower takes forever – much to my joy. 

Trash to Treasure

            I sit at my desk that is tucked into a quiet corner of my house and lay out five pieces of paper.  None of them has so much as a wisp of individual importance.  I sort and arrange them on my horizontal worktop, chiding myself for my harebrained idea.  The litter is simply pieces of trash that I collected during runs this week.  My inspiration, fueled by caffeine and endorphins, is to write a short story using words from the debris.  The refuse messages are: (1) the number 950; (2) Michael London’s business card from a Bellevue Honda auto dealership; (3) a wrapper from a Gone Dilly dill pickle; (4) a corner from an American General Life Insurance ad; and (5) a blurry printout of something to do with providing marketing support for investment products.

             I sit at my computer and wait patiently for creativity to make an appearance.  Nothing happens.  I place my fingers on the keyboard and with irritated but disciplined purpose, I begin to type.

             Paul ambles up to the card table, and selects his usual seat directly across from Lilly, the dealer.  She smiles at him with practiced but genuine warmth, and he grins back. “Hey, Lilly, how’s my favorite Lilly Dilly the Silly the Card Dealer?”  Lilly scrunches up her nose in a show of feigned offense, her hands smoothly shuffling a deck of cards before glancing around to see how many players are coming in.  Paul and Lilly murmur chummy exchanges to each other, efficient and softened with time and familiarity.  Three or four other players join the single deck blackjack game.

             Paul pauses as the evening goes on.  He is winning – for a change.  Not that it matters.  He is not wealthy but his retirement as a marketing agent for a financial services company has left him economically comfortable.  The casino is a friendly escape from the relentless loneliness of his homelife, tediously quiet since the death of his wife.  He is reconciled to solitude, just as he became accustomed to her absence after almost four decades of her presence.  Their life together was more than happy; they had an affinity for each other, an allure based on companionable intimacy.  At times in bed at night, he would listen to her breathing, synchronized with his, never envisioning that life without his wife could exist.  When she drew her last breath, he knew with certainty that his would cease as well. 

             But he lived on – despite his wish that he would not. 

             Paul glances at Lilly and sees her differently tonight, wondering where she goes when the casino closes.  He knows that she is a single parent, struggling with a part-time job during the day at a drycleaner while her children are at school.  On nights that she is dealing cards at the casino, her children stay at their grandparents’ house, happily unaware of their mother’s financial sorrows.  He senses that she is selfless and kind from the way she deflects attention to the gentle care she shows to others.  He briefly wonders what it would feel like to push her dark hair off her cheek and fasten it behind her bejeweled ear and then tentatively draw a finger down the nape of her neck to the swell of her breasts. 

             Paul assesses his physical self and examines what the ravages of time has wrought.  His square jaw, once likened to that of actor Michael Landon, has softened.  The toughly attractive angles of his face - akin to the steely flash of stirrups and spurs - have become fleshy and subdued, just like the rest of him.  His muscular and thick carriage has diffused into a submissive slump, like the dwindling embers of a smoky wood fire.  He is not the man he used to be.

             Paul considers the ten $100 bills he received when cashing in his chips.  After paying his tab, and tipping Lilly, he is left with $950.  He muses what that money would buy him if he spent it on Lilly.  Loneliness suffocates his intrinsic decency, overwhelming his basic goodness.  He ponders whether the limits of her modesty would be tested by a sum that is almost half of her monthly income, money that could buy trinkets for her children – or more urgently, time away from work to spend it with them.  He suspects that her decorum would be taxed by his generosity but that she would give in, reluctantly but with eyes wide open, to whatever he asked of her.

             Paul sighs, gentility overtaking him, washing away dishonorable thoughts like waves engulfing sand crabs on a shore.  He moves to Lilly’s table, where she is tidying up for the evening.  She smiles at him and congratulates him on his winnings, telling him to come back to see her soon.   Her facial expression turns from bright to confused when he places $950 on the card table and turns to walk away.  “Paul,” she says, “Wait.  Are you sure?”  He knows she is wondering what she owes him in return.  “Lilly,” he says, wishing that his words will be received as confident and playful, but knowing that she will, instead, witness his pain. “You are a wonderful human and mother.  You make me happy to be here.  Do something special for your remarkable family.  You deserve it.” 

             Paul returns to his sturdy, loyal Honda sedan in the parking lot, its resolute steel form reminding him of responsible obligation.  Before starting the engine, he dials his life insurance agent, and leaves a professionally concise voicemail message.  “Hi Tom, Paul Winslet here.  Hey, give me a call on Monday.  I want to change the beneficiary of my American
General life insurance policy – the term policy that I took out a couple of years ago.  I have a friend that needs the money more than my family members will.  It will mean a lot to her.  Thanks Tom.”

             Paul guides his automobile home, hoping that solace will replace sadness as he walks in the front door. 

             I review my short story with dissatisfaction.  I allow myself a shadow of appreciation for my willingness to accept a challenge where I am forced to direct my story – instead of allowing creativity to forge its own path.  It is not too bad.  Not only did I create something out of garbage, but my running path is a bit tidier for the effort.   

Bosses Behaving Badly

            On a recent Saturday night, my husband and I were at the lovely, newly built vacation home of family friends.  Over the course of the evening, the conversation drifted to our jobs.  The host, an accomplished lawyer at a well-regarded law firm, swirled his fragrant malt in the bottom of his glass, shook his head, and commented, “I have worked for some real assholes.”  I smiled in solidarity and commiseration.  Both of us are managing attorneys at our respective companies, a choice influenced to some extent by frustration, and sometimes outright misery, with bosses.

             My list of disturbing supervisors goes back to my early employment days when I was a teenager.  One of my first jobs was at a fast-food restaurant, where the manager, a married man more than twice my age, flirted with his subordinates persistently and aggressively.  He made it clear to two of us that he was interested in a menage a trois.  I did not speak French, but I knew what that meant.  My co-worker, a student at a cross-town high school, and I repeatedly demurred, but gently enough so that we would not offend him.  We did not want to risk getting fired.

             When I was in college, I was thrilled to get a part-time position at an animal diagnostic laboratory.  My primary task was to run blood samples through spectrometry and chromatography equipment for toxicology analyses.  My immediate supervisor was a smart and capable woman who took a particular interest in mentoring me.  I soon learned, however, the reason why I was special to her:  she was an alcoholic, and she needed a mule to drive to the liquor store to buy wine for her.  She referred to her damaged liver affectionately with a pet name, and she sipped from an insulated thermos bottle all day long.  After establishing a sufficient buzz, she would occasionally regale me with stories of her and her boyfriend’s sexual escapades.  I suffered in silence.  It was, after all, an era when the term, “hostile work environment” was a fledgling legal concept.

             Law school ensued.  In hindsight, I should have chosen employment law as one of my elective courses. 

  I was thrilled to get my first legal job upon graduation, working for a solo practitioner who had a general business and estate planning practice. Soon after I started, my employer invited me to lunch to meet his wife.  We arrived at a small but quietly sophisticated restaurant and exchanged pleasantries after our orders were taken.  The conversation took a turn when my employer questioned his wife about a domestic matter involving their home.  Her answer was apparently inadequate, and he raised his voice and asked her again.  She murmured a more detailed answer, which for some reason enraged him.  He rebuked her while I sat in quiet mortification for her. 

  My boss was a monstrous man, but I was stuck.  I could not risk tarnishing my resume with a short-term position.  I vowed to stay at least one year.  He never spoke disrespectfully to me, but I saw through cracks in his polished veneer at his carious interior.  He was fit and healthy but would doze during conference calls with clients, forcing me to cover for him.  I once overheard his conversation about the IRS seizing his bank account.  I quit after twelve months, but not before seeing proof of his marital infidelity through a curtainless window as I left the office one evening. 

             I accepted an associate attorney position with a middle-sized firm which merged several years later with a large Seattle one.         It was there that I experienced sexual harassment by a junior partner, who treated me kindly and fairly – until we were alone together.  Then sexual innuendo jokes would tiptoe in.  I would stretch my lips over my teeth in a gesture that was more grimace than smile and try to change the subject to the case that he purportedly wanted to discuss.  The intentional distraction only fueled his desire, and the comments became blatant and explicit.  He joked about my physical relationship with my husband and what we did when we were alone together.  Becoming a partner quelled my fear of losing my job for not playing along and allowed me the freedom to walk out of the room before the verbal harassment began.

             I left the Big Law firm to work closer to home in a small creditor’s rights practice.  The owner of the firm was a hilarious, brilliant, and highly-regarded attorney – who was abusive to everyone in the office except for me.  He would berate paralegals for mistakes they made, yelling at them, his face purpled with rage.  I would sit in my office, shaken and humiliated for staff members, feeling helpless to confront him and face his wrath.  He systematically deprived employees of normal human dignities by not allowing them to eat at their desk and forcing them to relinquish their purses into his desk drawer every morning.  He installed a timeclock so that he could ensure they did not abuse their twice daily 15-minute breaks and lunch hours. 

             Starting my own law firm almost twenty years ago was an act of both trepidation and deliverance.  Though I had been occasionally mentored by superiors that were respectful, thoughtful, and considerate, I witnessed all too often the dark side of authority -- the need to control.  Becoming my own boss gave me the liberty to never submit to tyranny again.

             It is difficult for me to acknowledge that I played the acquiescent employee in the past, the nice young woman who did not want to cause trouble.  The hard truth is that there were times I traded my principles in exchange for employment security and career elevation.  But I forgive myself because I did not have the legal – or human resource – support to combat it.  And feeling shame for the appalling acts of others is acceding in a way that I will no longer tolerate.   

             A dark comedy that I have watched many times has a line that contains a still-present hard truth:

                          The key to success, and they will not teach you this in business school, is taking shit [from bosses.] – Horrible Bosses, 2011 a movie produced by New Line Cinema, directed by Seth Gordon.

Finishing the Finish

            It is a recent Saturday morning.  My brother, Rick, and I lean close to inspect our progress. We cast a critical eye over the varnished wood bench and run our hands over the surface of it.  We sand carefully, always in the direction of the grain.  We wipe the horizontal cedar planks with tacky cloth and clean the black metal bolts and fasteners.  My brother rolls on water-resistant stain while I use a brush to force the stain into small gaps.  I joke to Rick that he was always the one that got to roll paint onto bedroom walls as part of our teenage chores while I was allotted the painstaking task of edging.  Rick checks the texture of one of the planks, sighs, and admonishes himself when he spots shellac drips.  I warn him about the danger of perfect becoming the enemy of good.

             The city park trail is frequented with walkers and runners.  Of the several dozen people passing by, no one fails to acknowledge us.  Even the middle-aged couple, whose faces have an overlay of professed anonymity, nod in silent understanding of our undertaking. They know that what we are doing is not a chore; it is celebrating a life.

  A thirty-something male wearing headphones runs by and calls out, “looking good!”  We smile.  A slight, petite woman walks up and tells us that she sits on the bench every day. Minutes later, a spry and confident senior calls out that she is happy that we are refinishing “Shirley’s bench.”  Shirley’s bench?  A total stranger knows that Shirley has a bench.  Refinishing a wooden structure that is positioned above a rustling creek is how we demonstrate our love.  And an entire community passing by us joins in our connection.  Like us, loss is central to their humanity.

             Two elementary school-aged children flit by, followed by their mothers who stride with responsible, steadfast gaits.  The girls are curious about what we are doing.  I explain that we are sanding and refinishing a bench that we placed in the park to honor our deceased mother.  I tell them to come and sit on it some time, after it dries.  They murmur their intention to do so and then continue down the path to the creek.  I hear them remark to their mothers that our conversation was just so pleasant.  Pleasant?  Those girls have the eloquent vocabulary of a British matron serving afternoon tea while commenting on the weather.

             Another passerby wanders up and says that she knows from the bronze metal marker that our mother loved dogs.  A graceful, white-haired woman, whom I guess might refer to herself as ethnically Desi, engages us in conversation.  She tells us that she moved to our town to live with her daughter and granddaughter.  Our dialogue drifts into the importance of family, and we learn that though she lost her father when she was a child, she thinks about him every day.  She pauses and mentions that she hopes that when she dies, her daughter will scatter her ashes in a large body of water and buy her a bench in the park.  I tell her that I understand completely.

             We finish our task and stand back to photograph our project.  The wood glows, and our mother’s spirit beams.  I position the glass vase of cheerful flowers plucked from my backyard so that their brightness contrasts with the earthy timbered boards.   

  We rub the dust off the brass monument marker and reflect on the sentiment it expresses:

Shirley Schweet

Beloved family member

A dog’s best friend

Workday Wind Down

            On Monday night this week, my husband and I slip outside to sit on the patio.  The too-warm temperature has surrendered, dropping its pretense of hanging around.  Delightfully cool air is making an appearance. Our dogs gaze expectantly at us, convinced that telepathy will cause us to feed them (again), throw a ball for them, or pet them.  After a few fruitless minutes, they resign themselves to laying down at our feet, their loud exhalations signaling disappointment and disapproval.

             Don and I transition from workday weariness to end-of-day relaxation – a mysterious and somewhat magical process that we have practiced, in parallel, for decades.  We stretch just a bit, raise cold drinks to our lips, and gaze at the landscaping around us.  The foliage is just shy of robust, a bit weathered by late summer dehydration but cheerful in anticipation of fall rejuvenation.  Just like us, I think.

             We begin to talk.  At first, our discourse is truncated, cliched snippets of daily toils and duties.  We counter each other’s comments automatically with sympathetic murmurs and acknowledging nods.  We speak about the week’s calendar, and I remind Don of upcoming tasks that need completion.

             The tone begins to lighten, and I test the conversational waters by making a joke that Don does not respond to, whether due to distraction or intention, I cannot tell.  I repeat the joke and give him a playful shove, and he turns to me, sheepish at not responding and gives me a slight smile.  His body relaxes imperceptibly, as does mine.  We fall silent, once again.

             The quiet and stillness summon reflection.  I remark how peaceful the evening is.  Though our lives seem incessantly and frantically busy, we have time to sit – unlike the days when we had children at home.  Those years were wondrous and affirming, but we had too-few opportunities to reflect on their richness.  Gratitude begins to tiptoe towards us, hesitant in its approach.  We stay motionless, allowing gratefulness to become emboldened, rushing up to us with unfettered abandon.  We hold space and breathe in a sense of abundance.

             Our conversation becomes more thoughtful and introspective.  We speak with almost reverential solemnity about how hard we have worked – and for how long.  Career, family, financial, health, and relationships goals - those never-ending lifelong endeavors - seem almost incomprehensibly within reach.  We acknowledge that loss and adversity are always around the corner, and we cannot predict when our life paths will take that turn.  But even that awareness does not diminish the tangible, glimmering light that our earthly aspirations are, against all odds, capable of accomplishment.

             Boomer interrupts our reverie by getting up and pushing a wet snout under my knee to get attention.  Bailey remains several feet away, her back towards us conveying petulance for our inattentiveness.

             Don and I glance at each other with perfect understanding, honed by living more years together than we have apart.  We smile and sigh.  The pre-bedtime routine, timeworn with repetition and comforting in its familiarity, calls.

             Life beckons.

Puddles and Bubbles

            I take a few tentative steps forward and then launch myself headfirst, arms outward, my belly cushioning me from the hard surface.  I slide six or eight feet, the slippery coating facilitating my movement.  I giggle and squirm – and get up and do it again.  I do not wonder about the consequences of my actions – or when I will be called to quit.  I just concentrate on my form, trying to squeeze out longer and longer slides within the confines of my play space.

             I am not reveling outdoors on a rubberized water slide.  I am indoors on a linoleum kitchen floor with my older sister.

             Our mother was a woman raised with a mid-western farm girl upbringing, which included daily chores.  The family work ethic was founded on primarily household duties for the girls (though they also fed the chickens) and farm tasks for the boys.  My mother incorporated her family culture into ours. My childhood days included helping with dinner dishes, changing bed sheets, cleaning my room, sweeping, vacuuming, washing the concrete front porch, and setting the table for dinner.

             When I was about six years old, my mother decided that my nine-year-old sister and I should wash the kitchen floor.  She filled a bucket with water and liquid soap and gave us a mop.  After instructing us on how to squeeze the excess water out of the mop, she disappeared into another area of the house to complete other tasks.

             Lynn dutifully mopped for a while, and I washed the floor on my hands and knees using a dish rag.  Then we got sloppy and failed to wring the mop out thoroughly.  The extra water on the floor was slippery and a little intoxicating.  We decided that if a little extra water was entrancing, then more would be better.  We tipped the pail and deliberately spilled water on the linoleum, squeezing extra soap onto the floor for good measure. 

             We continued to go through the motions of cleaning, casually moving the mop and dish rag around with indifference to the outcome.  Then we discarded the pretense of cleaning and began sliding on the floor on foot, suppressing hysterical screeches when we fell.  More water and extra suds ensued, allowing us to fling ourselves onto the floor with full frontal abandon.  Laughing, gliding, skimming – we gave no thought to whether we were damaging the floor, the cabinets, or the appliances.  It was too much fun to be diminished by such considerations.  When we tired, we lay on the floor blowing soapy bubbles, my sister’s prowess resulting in orbs larger than her head. 

             My mother entered the room to check on the progress of our assignment and gaped at what she saw, her eyes blinking in disbelief.  The room was a puddly, bubbly mess.  We hopped up and feigned diligence, grabbing towels with a façade of wiping the floor.   She hurried from the room, presumably to find our father to help exact punishment on their miscreant progeny.  Lynn and I looked at each other with regret – but with less contrition than the situation called for.

             Our mom returned - not with the family taskmaster but with her ever-present 45 mm camera.  She feigned irritation but her exasperation was tempered by delight in watching the creative play of her children.  We went back to skimming and slipping around, our giggles unfettered by the fear of being caught, while she laughed quietly, her camera changing angles while the shutter clicked.    

             When we were done, she sighed the resigned exhalation of parental obligation.  She picked up a broom, opened the back door, and began sweeping volumes of water outside.  Lynn and I, relieved at evading retribution for our mischief, helped by wiping the floor with as many towels as we could find.

             When we finished, the kitchen floor shone with cleanliness, the linoleum buffed to perfection.  Lynn and I glanced at each with relief and solidarity, having dodged parental penalty for misbehavior once again.

25,000 Steps and Counting

            I took a twelve-mile run on a recent Saturday as I am training for a half marathon.  When I was done, I jogged over to my running group’s coffee gathering and sat down. I opened my Fitbit to confirm that I had run twelve miles, and I was surprised at what I saw.  The monitor showed that between my morning dog walk and my run, I had exactly 25,000 steps.

             I successfully completed high school math, which by today’s standards means I have the math prowess of a ten-year-old – okay, maybe an eight-year-old.  So, I know that the probability of reaching exactly 25,000 steps is the same as reaching 24,984 or 25,013.  But still, it gave me pause.  Perhaps it was a sign.  What was the universe trying to tell me?

             I converted 25,000 minutes into seconds, hours, and days and added them and then subtracted from the present.  Nothing clicked.  Those figures did not align with being born, getting married, having children, educational or professional milestones, or future retirement.  The possibility that I am going to die in 25,000 minutes or 25,000 hours was not one that I wanted to explore.

             I tried to think of some significance of the number 25,000, or 2500, or 250.  Maybe I will win the lottery with a payout of one of those sums.  But knowing my luck, I will probably find a quarter on the pavement, instead.  So much for the portend of financial fortuity. 

             My step count was drawing my attention to my run for reasons other than whether it felt hard or easy.  It made me think about the progress of the run and the experience of it.  These days, I eschew training schedules.  When I became a devout runner more than thirty years ago, I would print out training schedules in hard copy and follow them to the letter.  I logged my miles and jotted down whether they felt easy or hard. 

             I no longer do that because unlike an elite athlete, I never saw a correlation between religious adherence to a plan and how well I ran.  World class athletes would tell you otherwise; outcomes are incremental but measurable.  But for me, how hard I train does not seem to equate to how well I run a race.  But then again, if I do not train at all, it will be awful.  If I train, it might be awful, but it might not be.  I guess it is like playing the lottery: you have to play to win.

  As I have aged, the formula has become simplified.  I do nothing special for a race shorter than a half marathon because my basic conditioning will suffice.  For a half marathon, I start thinking about my mileage about four months beforehand.  During non-training periods, my longest runs during the week are about six miles.  When I am training, I add a mile to that distance every week and do shorter runs on other days.  I continue to add a mile every week until my long run feels like a grind.  At that point, I reduce my longest run by a couple of miles the following week.  Then the next week, I ramp it up again.

Two or three months before the race, I run quarter mile “quarters” at the track every week or so.  I alternate running hard and slow quarters, starting with four hard quarters.  Each week, I add another hard quarter.  It is not pleasant, but it seems to improve my race finish times, or at least I recover more quickly.

  Other than that, all I do is focus on how I feel during my runs.  For me, running long distances is not about how hard I am breathing because although my breaths deepen and quicken a bit, I never really huff and puff like a sprinter.  What happens instead is that overall body fatigue creeps up, and my muscles start to ache.  The limitations imposed on my middle-aged body are a result of muscle fatigue, not being out of breath. 

             When I am exhausted, I run with my head down.  Gazing at the horizon in the distance and observing its achingly slow arrival is agonizing.  Instead, I watch objects on the ground approach and disappear – leaves, chalk marks on the roadway, crushed pinecones, pieces of paper, pebbles, puddles of water.  The beauty of this process is that the more fatigued I am, the more I focus on objects closer and closer together.  That way, even when I slow down, the visual interest stays the same, as objects pass at approximately the same rate of speed as if I am moving more quickly.

             An added benefit of keeping my head down is that when I finally look up, I am always heartened by how much closer I am to the end point.  Well, that, and if there is a quarter somewhere on my route, I am likely to see it.

Retail Travail

            This week I went to a shopping center.  To be precise, I have been to three malls in the last seven days.  Prior to this week, I have not gone to anything remotely resembling a shopping center since the start of the pandemic.  Reentry into retail is a lot like being a couch potato for the last year and a half and then signing up for a daily CrossFit program, which you go to after running for 45 minutes.  It is grueling.  But with upcoming out-of-town travel, I had hostess presents to buy and a decrepit wardrobe that needed refreshing. 

             Last weekend, I ventured out to a familiar local mall, one that I have gone to countless times in the last three decades.  Things were going smoothly; I had a list of stores to go to and I had remembered to bring a small mountain of gift cards.  Then I somehow missed the highway turnoff and spent an extra fifteen minutes getting to the parking lot. 

             I passed the time people watching as I cruised around with feigned confidence that I knew where to park.  There were throngs of shoppers downtown, every one of whom had at least one bag or parcel.  And, I was startled to observe, they are all wearing shorts – like what we used to call short shorts.  I assumed that this was a millennial dress code mandate until I saw a snazzy, middled-aged woman in a knit shirt and short, floral shorts.  You go girl, I thought.

             I headed into one of my favorite department stores and checked the directory for the Petite section, but there was none.  Apparently petite women are now extinct.  Or maybe their purchasing power is so diminished that they are no longer recognized by retailers.  Everything that I tried on was either too big or too youthful.  To be clear, I am not horrified by the look of my stomach, but on the other hand, I am not going to display it by wearing a crop top.  I consoled myself that I could still purchase shoes, but my two trustworthy shoe stores had disappeared, victims of shoppers’ dwindling affection for brick-and-mortar spending.

             I returned home after three hours with exactly zero purchases.

             The next day I went to a big box, general merchandise store known for inexpensive prices.  I returned home triumphantly with two t-shirts (each costing $6.00) and a pair of blue jeans that

cost less than a good bottle of wine.  Plus, I picked up some laundry detergent and paper towels.  It was a good day.

             Friday night was the toughest challenge: after a long and demanding day at the office, I drove to the largest mall in Washington state.  I was terrified by the traffic enroute.  Drivers were whizzing around me either to get home quickly or because they were determined to get the last spot in the lot -- I did not know which.  After successfully parking my car in an extraordinarily inconvenient space, I headed into the mall. 

             I located my chosen shoe shop in the directory, but it had either changed locations, or I am the worst map reader in the world.  (My husband would tell you it is the latter.)  As a result, I spent almost half an hour getting to it.  I was tired and frustrated.  I vowed never to go to that store again, which made the decision to buy two pairs of shoes instead of one entirely logical.

              I passed by a Nike outlet on the way back to my car.  I can usually find athletic clothes that fit; though the sleeves are always too long, I pretend that rolled-up sleeves look cool.  To my dismay, everything was either too large, too long, or was a crop top.  On a whim, I browsed the kids’ section of the store, and voila!  I am apparently the exact size of a large child.  I snagged a running shirt for $12.50 and a hooded windbreaker for $24.99.  (Virtually identical items in women’s sizes were three times the price.)  Note to self:  one advantage to being small versus 271 disadvantages. 

             I am relieved to be done shopping.  The process was not agonizing, but it was not fun.  I do not know where the term “retail therapy” originated from; it is a misnomer.  I suspect it is a brilliant marketing ploy of merchandisers.  For me, clothes shopping is large part torment and small part necessity.  I will need counseling before I attempt it again.

Nighttime Pastime

             It is early in the morning – early enough to consider it the middle of the night.  I wake up for reasons unknown.  Then I realize that the fan has been moved so that the air is not sweeping over me.  The recent high temperatures in the Seattle area have challenged those of us without central air conditioning.  Portable fans are a saving grace.

             I roll out of bed, creating a mental checklist to ask my husband why he would move the fan in the early hours.  I harbor no ill will towards my partner – unless it is nighttime, in which case my sleep-deprived brain cultivates resentments.  I decide that a guest bedroom is my only hope for somnolence, even though our extra bedrooms do not have fans.  But to my midnight mind, it makes perfect sense.

             As I open the bedroom door, I smell a strong, citrusy scent, as though I am bathing in a bath full of oranges.  Instead of breathing deeply and pleasurably, I conclude that the odor is a natural gas leak and that our lives are in danger.

             I set aside my peevish attitude toward my husband and awaken him.  He good naturedly climbs out of bed and follows me to the kitchen.  With prodding, he admits that the air in the house smells of citrus.  To mollify me, he gestures toward the open kitchen window and suggests that the smell is coming from outside.  Though I am only semi-conscious, I snap that we do not live in an orchard, and there are no fruit trees in the yard. 

             We stagger through the house like middled-aged zombies, our stances wide to compensate for our lack of balance.  I open the door to the gas oven, certain that it has been left on without an ignited flame.  Boomer the dog is helpfully shadowing us, hoping that our dead-of-night escapade will end with a fumbled, late-night snack.  Bailey remains in her dog bed, her deep, resigned sighs signaling that her owners are pursuing an ill-conceived venture that does not require her allegiance.  Plus, she needs her beauty sleep.

             Then it occurs to me that Don may have left his gas-powered car running in the garage.  I send him on a mission to turn it off.  With practiced obedience nurtured over more than three decades of marriage, he stumbles off to the garage.  Lassitude notwithstanding, his sense of humor is intact.  He reports that the car’s engine is in fact running, do I want him to turn it off?  I am not amused.

             I glance out the window near the front door, and I catch a glimpse of a flashing red light.  I triumphantly call out that there is a leak in the gas line outside and that the utility company is repairing it.  I rush outdoors in my bare feet to depose the workers and determine whether we should vacate our house – only to find out that no one is there; the red light was the turn signal of a passing car.

             My husband hovers nearby, silently seeking permission to return to bed.  I reluctantly follow him back to the primary suite.  As I crawl in beside him, I murmur that the odor means something awful, that it is likely we are going to die in our sleep.  He rolls over, the depth of his breaths signaling a quick return to slumber.  He murmurs that gas leaks smell of rotten eggs, not citrus.

             What the heck?  If he had told me that earlier, I could have spared myself my nighttime wanderings.  His breathing slows and deepens.  He is sound asleep within seconds.  I add “ability to fall asleep” to my list of matrimonial disgruntlements – none of which I will remember when I wake up in the morning.  

Bona Fide Pride

            A recent Facebook query asked followers what they most wanted to be remembered for after they passed away.  The responses were enthusiastic, sincere, and fervent.  People spoke of their passions, their humanity, and their spirituality.  I was moved by the posts but mystified.  My bewilderment was based on my inability to identify a singular event or characteristic I wanted to be commemorated for.

             It was disquieting.  To quash my angst, I set out to pinpoint ten achievements in my lifetime, moments when I felt happy and proud.  The only filter was that I had to view those occasions unfettered by attribution to anyone other than myself. 

             I set off on this quest at the start of a morning run, the world borne anew by time but timeworn with routine.  I mentally sift through a checklist of my major life categories: family, work, friends, fitness, travel, hobbies, volunteerism.  I can arrive at certain feats, and I can measure identifiable milestones, but none of them was free from my belief that someone else could have done them better, faster, or cheaper.  I quelled my rising panic by limiting the list to five –a more realistic goal.

             I subjectively search and sort and come up blank.  I am a better-than-average mother to my children, but nothing notable.  I am a devoted wife, but my self-rating regresses towards the mean due to my impatient temperament.  The law firm I founded almost twenty years ago has a wonderful reputation, but that is due to the acumen and integrity of all the lawyers and staff, not just me.  I am reasonably fit, but I neglect important muscle groups and flexibility programs as fitness trainers would be quick to remind me.   It is true that I work out every single day, with some walking days built in, and I have done so for over a decade.  But the inevitability of exercise has reduced the accomplishment to the mundane. 

             I winnow through a hodgepodge of other qualities.  I am interested in concepts and ideas, but I am not the least bit intellectual.  The family dogs would give me a solid rating, but I care too much about their behavior and their waistlines to their liking.  I am relentlessly tidy without a trace of fanaticism, but it is not something that should be showcased as my legacy.  I am a devoted recycler, but I am probably not discriminating nor attentive enough as to what items are eligible.  I am diligent about setting deadlines and conscientious about their completion – though I have not transferred old family videos to electronic format despite my best intentions.

             And then an idea emerges, a personal feature that I love about myself.  I cannot attribute this quality to hard work or persistence or discipline or intelligence, but I have one characteristic that I adore:  I cannot wait to get out of bed in the morning.  I wake up early every day without an alarm.  Through practiced fortitude, I stay in bed until 5:30 a.m., impatient to begin my day.  The world beckons with potential, its allure indescribable.  I am akin to a suburban farmer, the cadence of my existence tethered to emerging daylight, natural beauty, and the beguiling fragrance of morning air.  The measured murmurs of dawn are intoxicating with possibility and inspiration.

             I suspect that I will need to write my own obituary, as I am not certain that there is a lot of content to convey.  If so, it will go something like this:

             She was humble, busy, and she adored her family.  One of her greatest joys was getting out of bed every day, an undertaking that she approached with irrepressible delight.

Another Week, Another Blog Post

            It is Saturday morning, and like every Saturday for the last two and half years, I am writing a blog post.  I do not question the commitment to this exercise, just as I do not protest the inevitability that I will be running tomorrow.  Yet there are times when the undertaking seems pointless.

             I had one of those moments on Wednesday night this week.  I was skimming through a lengthy article written years ago by a friend of mine, an accomplished oral surgeon living in an exclusive north-Seattle neighborhood.  My friend is a man of extraordinary abilities, though he would be quick to tell you that he is no better at computer programming than I.  This would be in a futile attempt to downplay his finesse at extracting impacted wisdom teeth and the professional accolades he receives as a result.

             I learned long ago to reconcile my envy of friends’ professional, financial, and athletic successes. I wish I could say it is because I have discovered and nourished my intrinsic self-worth.  The truth, however, is that I simply gave up comparing myself to others because if I did not, I would live a pathetic and socially isolated existence.  Besides, I like these folks, and I would miss them if I did not see them.  I console myself that living in the shadow of talented and charismatic friends grants me cachet.  It works for me.

             At least I thought it did. But it turns out that my comrade is an extraordinary writer, having composed an account of his 2007 Paris to Brest to Paris (PBP) bike ride, a 750-mile event that must be finished in ninety hours.  I admire both his bike riding prowess and his adventurous spirit.  His ability to whip out a tome that is partly autobiographical, historical, and literary and large portion hysterically funny amazes me.  His dismissal of his talent aggravates me. 

             It is easy to resent artistry and creativity – especially when the creator shrugs it off as though his brief infatuation was amusing to a point, but now he needs to move on to solving complex world hunger issues or tackling the mystery of quantum gravity.

             Writing is different for me.  It is an insatiable inner thirst that can never be quenched.  It is akin to launching a weight-lifting regime that you attack religiously with the understanding that Rome was not built in a day.  It turns out that not only can you not construct the Roman Colosseum, assembling a small espresso stand in a sleepy, midwestern town is almost impossible.  You return to the weight room, day after day, with the increasingly distant possibility that you might some day be able to bench your weight.  Well, maybe you can, but you would need to weigh what you did when you were five.

             This is not to say that I have not gained some writing skill after composing more than 130 blog posts; however, it is less about composition than it is about perception.  I have become a keen observer of both my internal and external environments, a perceptive stalker of my emotional landscape.  I also see the physical world differently now, my mind constantly scanning it for content, for context, for meaning.  Translating what I see and what I feel into the written word preoccupies me.

             I envy my PBP bike riding buddy.  His 2007 France cycling escapade had a distinct time and geographic start and finish, with thrilling, grueling, engaging, and memorable events along the way.  But for me, I just slog along at my computer, my fingers sometimes moving quickly over the keyboard, or sometimes glued to my furrowed brow, wondering, just wondering, what on earth I am doing and when it will end.

Humdrum History

            Years ago, a package was delivered to our house for one of our college-aged children.  I called my son and told him about it, and he sounded confused because he could not remember what it was.  I offered to open it up for him, and he said, no, that he would pick it up next time he was at our house.  Then he mentioned that, “you and dad would not want me opening packages of yours” with the inference that it would violate our privacy.

             Though he has known me his whole life, my son does not know me very well.  The truth is that my life, at least for the last forty years or so, is remarkably boring. 

  There are aspects of my life that I do not share with others, but what I buy on-line or what I am drawn to on the internet are open books.  Law enforcement and prosecutors routinely issue subpoenas for the internet history of suspected murderers to bolster cases against them.  I am astounded criminals use search terms such as, how to dispose of a body so that it cannot be found or how to poison someone with over-the-counter drugs without also looking up how to delete your internet search history.  But maybe I am missing something.

             On a whim, I reviewed my internet google history from my office computer recently.  I found that I stay pretty on-task while at work, at least as can be gleaned from internet research:

 KeyBank (reviewing law firm bank accounts)
Bank of American (ok, so who does not check their personal bank accounts each day at work?)
Seattle attorney (researching a new opposing counsel)
www.americanfunds/retiresponsor (I maintain and upload 401(k) contributions for the firm)
Seattle law firm (researching the website of an attorney I was making a referral to)
Revised Code of Washington
US Bankruptcy Court, Western District of Washington (reviewing a bankruptcy filing for a case)
What is legal malpractice tail coverage (a retired lawyer in our firm had a question)
Inglewood Golf Course (site of a lunch that my partner was attending; he needed directions)
Everett law firm (for a referral to someone)
Seattle law firm (website of a co-counsel on a major case)
Half-marathon training plans (oops, well maybe this was while I was eating lunch at my desk)
Tacoma law firms (researching an opposing counsel)
Seattle law firms (wow, I research opposing attorneys more than I thought!)

             For contrast, I reviewed the history of my home office computer, and it was more entertaining: 

 WordHippo.com
Biking in Portugal
Mailchimp login
Squarespace login
Covid vaccine reactions
CNN news Jeff Toomey (he is why I do not watch CNN anymore)
Walmart near me (no clue why I looked this up) 
What are sculpted brows (heard this term on a radio conversation but had no idea what this was)
What does somnolent mean (yes, I knew what it meant; I was trying to figure out the spelling)
What is the most expensive wood?
Can asphalt be laid in the rain?
Amazon login
Pixels.com login
Chewy.com login
Bank of America login
Porcellanato tile (looking to match our bathroom tile; discovered it is a needle in a haystack)
What does a sinus headache feel like?

             Out of curiosity, I surveyed my Amazon purchases since January 1, 2021.  I wondered if my buying record revealed anything about me.  Here is what I bought:

 Wood polish and conditioner
Calcium gummies
Desk stool for my home office
Stool cover
Utility mats for the garage
Lipliner (hey, it was pre-COVID vaccine; I did not want to go to the drugstore)
Art frame
Foam cushion (that desk stool seat was hard as a rock!)
Melatonin sleep aid (I wake up at 5:00 a.m.)
Blackout curtains (still waking up at 5:00 a.m.)
Outdoor dog bed (for some reason our dogs want to lie on the concrete patio instead)
Under Armour running shirt (used a birthday gift card)

             After reviewing this list, I realize that I might be the most boring shopper on the face of the planet.  I have never bought, and will never buy, exotic cookware, rock climbing crampons, designer high heels, or arial-camera drones.  I also realize that anyone is welcome to open our Amazon purchases; I will not give a hoot.

  Porch piracy is on the rise, so I suspect that at some point someone will steal an Amazon box from our front entry.  The chattel thieves will be thrilled that they got away with it, but when they get home and open the box, they will find nothing exotic or expensive in there.  And if they are hoping for something kinky or questionable for purposes of blackmail, I will have the last laugh: enjoy those Calcium gummies!

Grief Week

            On Friday morning this week, I randomly pull up a video about grief on social media.  A mother whose son died from a deadly form of brain cancer was being interviewed about her painful, two-year path of dealing with loss.  Everything she said resonated with me.  It feels odd that last week, the world emerged with joy and welcomed me with open arms, and that seven days later, sorrow is on my mind.  It is as though my somnolent heartbreak collection has been awakened and called to attendance.  

             In some ways, I am not surprised.  I am listening to a fictional Audible book about a twelve- year-old child who is the lone survivor of an airplane crash.  It is an odd selection as stories about accidental deaths are not my favorite genre.  I wonder if I choose books that allow me to process my emotional meanderings or whether my choice of literature initiates introspection.  Who knows?  But I am on that familiar, time-tested journey.

             I remember the last time I spoke to my father.  I was eleven years old, and we were in the basement of our family home talking about the new litter of kittens my cat had brought into the world.  (This was long before we were aware of how important it was to spay cats that were allowed outdoors.)  I was obsessed with the furry little nuggets, and my dad smiled at me fondly and acknowledged me warmly.  He turned and left to go to the airport for a short business trip, striding up the stairs as though it was simply another day of teaching and laboratory research.  I never saw him again.

             I am disconcerted by the fact that I had no warning or intuition about what was to come.  I was just like a little woodland fawn, watching the family buck wander off into the capricious target range of deer hunters.  You would have thought that the universe would have signaled me to run after my father for one last hug or to ask one more time when he would be back.  But no.  I just returned my attention to my baby kittens and rearranged the nursing line-up so that the runt was ensured of getting his fair share.

             Death devastates us.  Its cruelty is disproportionately significant when children lose a parent.  You do not just lose the person, and you do not just lose the life you had with that person; you lose the life you would have had with them in the future.  Your entire identity changes in the one explosive flash.  The structure of my family of origin disappeared in a heartbeat.  Everything I thought I could become, the possibilities and assumptions of my life disintegrated.  At least I believed they had.

             I wish for all of us that healing from sorrow and loss were linear events that could be counted down like days before stitches are removed or the plaster cast comes off your leg.  You could look back on every day of existence knowing that tomorrow will be incrementally easier.  But the heartbreak pathway is not a paved, level esplanade; it is a circuitous route over uncertain terrain, at least for a long time.

             Either by coincidence or providence, my brother and I receive a telephone call this week from a representative of a non-profit organization inquiring about whether we would be willing to sell real estate we own in Kentucky to the National Park Service.  We are stirred by the idea that the land might eventually become a national historic park.  I remember my mother telling me that my father loved the idea that it might become a place whose natural beauty would be accessible to the public. The remains of my father, my mother, and my sister are sprinkled throughout the lush and profuse acreage.

             I remember scattering my mother’s remains at the property years ago, on a sunny October afternoon bursting with autumn vigor.  I see the pictures of that day in my mind vividly, my brother and his family shuffling through fallen leaves, the circling of a lone raptor overhead, my unbridled sorrow barely constrained by the solemnity of the occasion.  I recall the long-sleeved fuchsia shirt I wore, its colorful warmth complementing the richness of the small, dark walnut box I cradled in my arms.

             As I email my brother about responding to the national park service inquiry, I glance down at my wrists on the computer keyboard.  I am startled to see that I am wearing that same shirt.  It is though the emotions of that day have been transported in time and touched down and docked today.  It is a tangible reminder that the physical world often manifests the intangible universe.

             I feel healed.  At least for now.

The Week the World Woke Up

            On Wednesday this week, I got a last-minute, impromptu text message from one of my sons wanting to know if Don and I were free for dinner.  It was my birthday, and though we had planned a family get-together for the weekend, it was a fun and spontaneous invitation.  I finished up at work and rushed from my office and drove to the selected restaurant.  The parking lot and the surroundings streets were overflowing, and the wait list was too long.  We changed venues and just barely grabbled the last available table. 

             The world has awakened.  The outdoor seating at Starbucks this morning was packed full of singles and families, kids and dogs.  People shuffled around with masks half off and half on, dangling from ears or wrists or being absentmindedly stuffed into pockets.  I listened to bright conversation, spirits sparkling with newfound life.  I recognized full frontal faces that revealed broad smiles. 

             Travel is back in our minds again.  Yesterday our biking buddy group settled on a date for a trip to Portugal in May 2022.  When we postponed the Spring 2020 event, I was certain we would be able to go in the fall.   A depressing reality settled in as the adventure got pushed further and further away.  We shouldered through disappointment with adult resignation, mollifying ourselves that our health was more important than a vacation.  But the unfortunate truth was that we did not have a choice. 

             The roadways are bustling once more.  Highway traffic has exploded, a fact that annoys me but also reminds me that people are going out – to work, to bars, to social events, to appointments.  The busy hum of transit has become a subtle, almost comforting, backdrop to a transformed consciousness.

             The biggest shift has been in my state of mind:  absolutely-not somehow changed to improbable and was replaced by maybe.   And today I feel like my pedestrian pandemic life has been given a booster shot of possibility.  Every cell seems freshly primed.  I look around my house and think of novel paint colors, different kitchen cabinets, and updated hardware.  For the first time in over a year, I think about buying new clothes, wondering what shoe styles are in vogue and what clothing racks and display cases showcase.

             This morning I hugged my sister-in-law for the first time in ages when we met at the animal rescue where she was picking up her newly adopted kitty.  She had lost her 20-year-old cat at the peak of the pandemic, and even after she emerged from grief, her world was not open to the prospect of another pet.  The weight of loss – layered on top of an existence constrained by a virus – enveloped her. 

  Something turned in the last couple of weeks, for her and for all of us.  Potential has displaced doubt, and confidence has ousted inaction.  The perfect little furry friend – the last in the litter – fortuitously became available.   An interminable wait of three weeks ensued for adoption application approval and veterinary care. 

  As the diminutive and frightened little gray tabby was placed in her eager arms, my sister-in-law’s heart opened and healed.  And for me, the budding possibility of a reborn world has restored my soul.