Exertion Education

            I watched a cell phone video of my Spokane half marathon finish last October, and I was stunned.  I looked like I was barely moving.  This was remarkable because the average runner, including me, tries to sprint at the end of a race to shave off a few seconds from a mediocre finish time.  Well, that and the fact that there are people watching you, and the announcer is calling out your name.  That means that dozens of folks are milling around, smiling kindly and murmuring, “well, bless her heart” as they watch me finish.  

            The fact that I won my gender and age division does not mollify me because my pace was abysmal.  However, runners are remarkably adroit at rationalizing their finish time.  “It was a hilly course,” “I was running into a headwind much of the way,” and “I had food poisoning two nights ago” were sentiments that I quickly conjured up to soften my disappointment.  

            Runners can be a competitive lot, regardless of their age and ability.  I am sure that is true of bicyclists, tennis players, weightlifters, swimmers, and ballroom dancers.  We compare ourselves to everyone - other than couch potatoes.  Measuring ourselves against people who do not work out is fundamentally flawed:  by doing so, we might actually feel good about ourselves, thus defeating the purpose of comparison.  We motivate ourselves by feeling bad about our outcomes and believing that anyone could have performed better. 

            But setting aside self-debasement, I have learned many life lessons from rigorous exercise.  First, exertion is not enjoyable – at least at the start.  Other than smelling fresh air, nothing feels particularly cheery when I start a run.  My muscles are a little tight, and I obsess about any tweaks or creaks from any body part below the waist.  My breathing is a bit irregular and slightly shallow. A part of my brain thinks about how wonderful walking would feel.  But that all changes as the minutes pass, and before long, there is a magical and mysterious energy that overtakes me.  

            I learned another exercise lesson from my mother.  She used to tell me, when she scooted me outdoors as a child to play in the rain (as long as there was no lightening), “body protein is not water soluble.”  She meant that getting a little wet was not going to hurt me nor make me sick.  I have confirmed that truism thousands of times because I live in the Seattle area.  I can also vouch that running in the dark, cold, and wind will not kill you, either.  Although, to be fair, it is helpful to wear a reflective windbreaker, a headlamp, and warm gloves.

             Third, get a workout in before you do anything remotely pleasant.  I know that working out is a nice mid-day break, but I do not understand how it is sustainable.  Given the choice between spending the noon hour eating a toasted cheese sandwich and researching my next vacation - or - grunting through a run on a busy side street near my office, is a no-brainer.  I head outdoors in the wee hours of the morning because I know that I can succumb to sloth-ism the rest of the day.  And delayed gratification, in the form of coffee and a hot shower, always inspires me.

             I have also learned that consistency is next to godliness when it comes to your health.  Eating a salad once in a while and occasionally giving up the French fries that are served with your hamburger is no substitute for regularly eating a healthy diet.  The same is true of exercise.  You may or may not see a difference in your physique after exercising for two month, and laser fat removal commercials suddenly become beguiling.  But that’s like opting for fancy new kitchen cabinets when your home needs a new furnace and an electrical upgrade.  Create the steady and unglamorous routine of regular exertion, and your internal body systems will thank you.

             Finally, don’t let perfect be the enemy of good.  I am quick to discredit myself for not lifting weights at least two times a week even though I am unfailingly persistent at aerobic workouts.  I try to be compassionate about my shortcomings because I understand that falling short of our self-set goals is part of the human condition.  I strive to be as kind to myself as I would be to anyone else.  

             So, what is the lesson to learn from a dispiriting half marathon time?  It could be that I am getting older and slower and that I will never outrun Father Time.  Or it might be that it is a privilege to still move through the world in a way that makes me feel grateful, joyful, and blessed.

             I think I will go with the latter.

Duties of the Day

            Driving into the office on Friday this week, I reflected on yet-another failure of my promise to work four, 10-hour days this year.  I could have stayed home, it is true, but I wanted easy access to file documents and emails, as well as the counsel of a law partner who understood a certain client’s peculiarities better than I.  I had hoped to stay home but I realized during Thursday night’s fitful sleep that my client’s interests were best served by me going to the office.

             I thought about what a demanding profession I work in.  A law firm’s sustainability is tied to attracting and keeping clients.  Lay people are drawn to attorneys they believe can obtain the best outcomes, but that is only part of the story.  Clients may hire you because of your reputation and ability, but they will not give you more cases, nor refer you to others, unless you are repeatedly available to them.  Setting boundaries on people’s expectations is difficult to carry out in the real world.

             I have made my share of sacrifices for clients or for firm management demands.  Some were merely irritating – like the time I left a family function in Bellevue on a Friday night and drove to Seattle for an after-hours meeting.  The client cancelled the moment I got to my Seattle office.  Another time, I took repeated telephone calls from my firm’s tax accountant while on a bike trip in Vermont, while my biking buddies sat and waited for me.

             But some incidents carry lingering regret.  I missed the first day of first grade for one of my kids due to a court appearance on an insignificant case.  The World’s Greatest Dad was happy to stand in for me, but I was not able to watch my son board the bus nor follow him to school to meet his teacher.  More painful was missing middle-son Andy’s culminating project speech his Senior year in high school.  I left work and arrived five minutes before he was scheduled to speak; however, the presentations were ahead of schedule.  When I got there, the door to the classroom was locked to prevent interruptions.  I watched Andy from the hallway while I peered through the small, rectangular window in the classroom door.  I could not hear him speak, but I saw his calm and confident demeanor as he presented with authority.  It was an oracle of what was to come: a young man, ready to graduate and take flight, leaving his parents on the sidelines. 

             The most poignant event was my mother’s death.  I missed being with her when she passed away by mere minutes.  Her nurse had called me at the office and reported that my mother had not eaten lunch and that they had taken her to her room and put her on oxygen because she was having trouble breathing.  The nurse’s words and tone seemed matter of fact but not alarming.  I wrapped up my work quickly and reported to my partners that I needed to leave the office.  I wish the nurse had said, “your mother might be dying.  You should come right away.”  But she didn’t, and I had no medical expertise that clued me to the message behind her words.  If I had, I would have dropped everything instantly to be at her bedside.  As it was, I arrived and met the ashen-faced caregivers who had been with her when she died minutes before. Such is the terrible, tiny tragedy of one small but very significant life.

             I am listening to the 1989 novel, The Remains of the Day, by Kazuo Ishiguro on Audible right now.  The book has a complex imbedded theme of an English butler who steadfastly attends to his aristocratic employer despite learning that he is a Nazi sympathizer.  In an odd way I relate to the commitment and professionalism of the butler.  Butler Stevens’s dignified restraint and diligent service are a source of self-pride but are also necessary for his employment survival.  He commands respect through his incessant attention to detail – the tidiness of the kitchen, the orderliness of the grounds, the organization of the staff, the cleanliness of wardrobes, and the neediness of the estate’s residents. Only with age does Mr. Stevens understand the sacrifices that his employment required.

             I have no remorse and I do not feel guilty about the commitment my law firm exacts.  Starting and building a business requires absolute diligence.  I remember talking to a federal bankruptcy judge about it once – someone who had seen countless business failures.  I told her it is not enough to staff your law firm with brilliant lawyers and accomplished staff.  You create sustainability by single-minded focus, reading emails, returning phone calls, scrutinizing bank accounts and financial statements, perusing the mail, reviewing invoices.  You listen to everything anyone says.  You process and respond to clients.  You plan relentlessly.  You watch endlessly.  Inevitably you make mistakes, and you learn from them.

             In another life, I think I could have been that diligent butler running an estate.  Well, except that four, 10-hour day thing would have been out of the question.   

Travel Travails

            On Wednesday morning last week, I woke after a terrible night’s sleep.  I knew it would be bad.  Afterall, it was a travel day, and fear of oversleeping was on my mind.  Of course, I could have set an alarm, but I haven’t set one in decades.  For some reason, I believe that my internal body clock is more trustworthy, and I don’t want to rely on an external device. 

             Don and I scurry around with the goal of leaving the house at 5:15 am.  We are mostly on track – until I realize that the bed is unmade.  I look at Don with confusion.  He makes the bed every day of the week, except on Sundays when I wash the sheets and replace them.  How could he leave the house without neatly tidying up the bedclothes?  What if, due to unforeseen calamity, I die, and we never return home?  I imagine my adult children walking through our primary suite, shaking their heads at my disappointing legacy.  Instead of seeing my life flashing before my eyes in my final moments, I am certain I will see our Queen-sized matrimonial bed with comforter askew, disheveled sheets, and pillows astray.

             I hurriedly make the bed and head for the garage.

             As I get into the car, I notice that the suitcases are in the back seat instead of the trunk. I look at Don, convinced that he has been replaced by a doppelganger who for some reason believes that bags should be placed in the back seat when there is a perfectly serviceable empty trunk full of helpful intentions.  I asked why our bags are in the back seat, and he replied, tersely, that it is because they are going to the airport with us.  I just had to let it go.

             We arrive at SeaTac airport on schedule, get out of the car, and I take the obligatory picture of our parking spot.  Don strides off at a near sprint, as though he has heard the gate agent make a final boarding call.  But we are earlier than we need to be by about 45 minutes.  I have learned through countless air travel with my husband not to complain.  Besides, I have not run today, so an airport jog can be part of my workout. 

             Airport security anxiety has increased.  I don’t mean for the security officers; I mean for the travelers, at least for me.  I just know that I am going to get barked at.  Don and I carefully pull up the screenshots of our boarding passes and pull out our driver’s licenses before entering the TSA pre-check line.  The officer summons me forward with what I am sure is a grimace underneath his mask.  He asks me to pull my mask off my face as he holds up my photo ID.  He looks back and forth several times.  It is clear to him that I do not remotely resemble the woman whose photograph is on my driver’s license, a picture taken at least fifteen years ago.  I offer a lame joke about the pandemic turning my hair gray, which is not well received. 

             I walk through the body scanner and scrutinize the faces of the agents reviewing the x-ray of my luggage.  I wait for them to summon me to the sideline for a pat down and to wipe my luggage for explosive residue.  I am worried that they might think my new travelling companion, my Waterpik, looks like a bomb.  But apparently, they do not.  I scurry to reclaim my suitcase from the conveyor belt before I can be admonished for taking too long.

             The real reason for arriving at the terminal early is to get Starbucks coffee, which has a customer line longer than the non-TSA pre-check security line.  I wait, doggedly, for twenty minutes before giving up and walking towards our departure gate.  On the way, I find a Peet’s Coffee shop with no line and more than equivalent coffee.

             Boarding the plane is mostly uneventful, although Don mistakenly pulls up a screenshot of a boarding pass for a past trip.  The gate attendant looks at him with pity and speaks to him in words of less than three syllables to tell him it is the wrong document.  Frustrated passengers behind Don shift their weight from foot to foot while he searches for the correct boarding pass.  Once on board, we put our carry-on bags in the overhead compartment, and slump gratefully into our seats.  Then Don remembers his headphones are in his suitcase above us. We wait until everyone is seated and jump up to retrieve them.  A flight attendant scowls at us as we delay departure by about 23 seconds.

             The plane takes off, and I try to relax.  Once we are at cruising altitude, the drink cart makes its way down the aisle.  By now it is 8:00 in the morning.  A woman in the row in front of us asks plaintively for wine and is told they do not serve it on this flight.

             Ordinarily, I would be horrified that anyone would want wine for breakfast; but somehow, at least today, I kind of get it.

Maturity Philosophy

            Last Saturday, I had coffee with my running and walking buddies after our morning exercise.  There are times when the coffee drinkers who have neither run nor walked that morning outnumber the rest of us.  The conversation, as usual, is a rich collection of the intellectual to the mundane.  You never know what you are going to get: stories of breaking news, workplace drama, humanitarian kindness, culinary expertise, family member accomplishments, and the like.  Sometimes I contribute to the conversation, and sometimes, I just zone out, listening to the rhythm and the cadence, the familiar communication among close friends.

             This Saturday, those of us of a certain age started talking about social security benefits, and for some reason it cracked me up.  How on earth, I wondered, did we get so old?  It is not that all of us are drawing social security, but a few do.  Several of us have created profiles on the social security website and have used the calculator to estimate our benefits.

             It is profound to think about someday being on the public dole.  But that is just the tip of the iceberg.  It is really about coming to grips with aging.  And honestly, I am firmly in the grasp of Father Time these days. 

             I remember when I first thought about getting old.  I was approaching my 40th birthday, a prospect that made me a bit sulky.  I was running on the Seattle waterfront with two of my law partner friends, and I mentioned that I felt that the expansion of life possibilities had ceased, and that they were contracting ever so slightly.   My family and marriage were well-established, as was my career.  I was a partner at a large Seattle law firm, the pinnacle of success for some.  But the idea that I would stay there another couple of decades made me hesitate. 

             But it was not just my family and my career that seemed anchored to predictability – it was every facet of my life.  I felt that the routines of my existence were engraved into concrete.  I imagined that I had run out of time to pursue passions and travel and adventures.  I recall that one of the two people running with me, who was about five years young than I, grunted sympathetically, but it was clear he could not relate to the way I was feeling.

             But I had no idea what was to come.  The next 25 years would be full of the most extraordinary happenings.  I would leave Big Law and start my own law firm and fill it with brilliant and hilarious folks.  I would make new friends that shared my sense of adventure for travel, running, and biking.  I would become so fascinated by the idea that the habit of exercise could be lifesaving, that I wrote a book about it.  I would find the resources to build a vacation home in the mountains that would become a haven for our entire family.  My life would continue to be vigorous, energetic, captivating, and, at times, challenging beyond comprehension.

             And most of all, I had no notion that watching my young children grow up and evolve into adulthood would be so entrancing.  I knew my kids were smart and capable, but I did not predict their confident intellect and their unbounded creativity.  They do not need me anymore.  If I died tomorrow, they would be angry and sad, but the compelling draw of their worlds would not lessen for one minute.

             And through it all, the mysterious beauty of my long-term marriage, silent in its complete and implicit understanding, occasionally frustrating, but comforting, steadfast, and absolute. 

             If I leave this earth tomorrow, I will have no regrets about how I have spent my time.  There are bike trails that I have yet to ride, an upcoming retirement to enjoy, and, just perhaps, a future grandchild to spoil.  But I know now, what I did not know when I was 40 years old, that life continues to unfold, forever, with potential and promise no matter what your age.

Test Stress

            The week had an annoying start but was not stressful.  But that was about to change.  I was waiting for results from a health screening, and my immediate future was dependent on the outcome.  It was not a medical test of mine that I was worried about.  Instead, it was Giardia parasite screenings for the family dogs.

             My husband and I had decided on short notice to attend the life celebration for my recently deceased aunt, which was being held near Jacksonville, Florida.  Booking kennel stays at the last minute is not easy, and we only found one available that we had used before and were comfortable with.  The kennel told us that they would not reserve a spot for our pets unless we had proof of current vaccinations and recent worm and parasite checks.  No problem!  We are diligent about our dogs’ healthcare; our human doctors probably wish we were as conscientious about our own.

             I blithely emailed all records to the kennel and waited for them to confirm receipt.  In return, I got an email saying they regretted to inform me that the parasite test results were inadequate because they did not include Giardia.  Giardia?  We single-handedly pay our local veterinarian enough money to ensure she can retire in financial luxury at age 37, and we approve every recommended procedure and analysis.  (Just ask me how much Bailey’s pearly white teeth cost me last month.)  But no one had ever told me the pups needed to be screened for Giardia.

             By now it was Wednesday, and we were leaving in less than a week.  I called the veterinarian to ask why the recent testing did not include Giardia, and I got a highly technical explanation about false positives due to antigen levels and how most boarding facilities do not require Giardia analyses.  But they assured me that if we brought in new fecal samples the next day, I would have the results in 24 hours.

             That night I researched Giardia symptoms to calm my nerves.  Our pups seemed hardy, fit, and active.  One of the symptoms of Giardia was diarrhea.  No problem; our dogs never have the runs.  But I panicked when I remembered Don remarking just yesterday that Bailey had a bout of diarrhea, out of the blue.   Just my luck.  I was convinced that Bailey had developed Giardia in the nick of time to prevent us from traveling.    

             I had a momentary thought that I could use a sample from Boomer (aka, “He of Shiny, Hard Poops”) for Bailey, and no one would be the wiser.  Even if Bailey had Giardia, it would not threaten the health of any other animal at the kennel.  Bailey is socially awkward, and she is diplomatically labeled a “one-on-one” guest.  This means that Bailey is only allowed to interact with Boomer during play time.  No other dog would be in contact with Bailey or would be exposed to Giardia.

             I was appalled that cheating had even entered my mind.  Apparently, my morals are aligned with twenty-something, weed-smoking young people who hope to pass an employment drug test using substitute urine.  I was no better than an elite endurance athlete blood doping for a competitive edge.  Fortunately, moments later the ethical part of my pre-frontal cortex overrode the disappointingly impulsive amygdala part of my brain.

             The next day, Don and I collected and delivered samples from both dogs to the animal hospital, and I resigned myself to traveling alone.  Don would stay home with the pets, both of whom I believed deliberately contracted Giardia as a ploy to avoid going to the kennel.

             On Friday morning, I logged into my personal email account and saw an email from a healthcare provider noting it contained important information.  My heart beat a little faster, as I opened the attachment to review the test results – both dogs were negative!

             I was humbled with gratitude, and I reminded myself, with more than a little shame, that integrity is its own reward – even when it comes to dog poop.

Objective Perspective

            On Monday morning this week, I bent over to blow-dry the underneath side of my wet hair.  I glanced at the base of the bathroom cabinets and was surprised to see a small, white sticker, something I have pulled off of countless green peppers.  I have no idea how it got there, and if I had not been upside down, I would not have seen it, as it was almost hidden behind the lip of the vanity.

             It made me think about seeing things from a different perspective.  I have struggled my whole life to see situations from other people’s viewpoints, so I took it as a sign.  No, not as a sign that I needed to buy more green peppers, but a signal that I should be less self-centered.

             My first challenge was on my morning run.  Boomer the dog loves cavorting outdoors with me, and cold, dark, and rainy weather suits him just fine.  We are a compatible duo.  I love running in the fresh air, at least after I resign myself to being chilly and damp.  Our only disagreement is how often we need to stop.  I have no objection to him stopping to relieve himself; after all, that is somewhat the point of our excursion.  It is just that he feels compelled to lift a leg on almost every vertical surface – power poles, street signs, fences, hedges, mailboxes, and even garbage bins.  I suspect that he makes his potty breaks as brief as possible, to ensure that he can stop 37 more times to piddle just a little bit more.  More irritating is that he often stops to just sniff, while I hover impatiently, thinking he is going to pee.  But no, he just wants to sniff. 

             I grit my teeth and resolve to see things from his point of view:  sniffing for him is as intoxicating as a warm, freshly-baked chocolate chip cookie is for me.  It fills him with incomparable pleasure.  I sigh and feel slightly less peeved.

             After arriving at my office, I read a form email from our law firm’s third-party 401(k) Plan administrator about how the annual census data I had provided “might be” lacking in one or more pieces of information, followed by a generic list of absolutely everything that the census required.  The email was useless; it did not tell me what was missing, it simply listed everything.  I dashed off a slightly antagonist response to the sender that he had not reviewed my submittal, he had just sent me a form, cover-my-rear-end, template message.

             I was filled with regret almost immediately.  I suspect he is a young assistant to our firm’s Plan advisor, and his job is to review dozens of submittals and quickly decide whether they are complete.  I reminded myself that I had no idea what his workload was, what he was paid, or whether his supervisor’s expectations were reasonable.  I guessed that he was probably a good friend to many, and it was likely that he was one of the brightest spots in his mother’s life.  As a result, my next communication to him was more kind.

             Later that morning, a client dropped by unexpectedly, not to lavish praise or pay a bill, but because we hadn’t responded to his two-day-old email quickly enough.  I had read his communication promptly and had forwarded it to the lawyer in charge of the case.  He, in turn, had scheduled a call with someone else to get the information that our client needed.  However, we did not tell the client that we would have a status update for him later in the week. 

             I was more than a little grumpy about him showing up.  I had sent him a detailed email before he stopped by, but he had not read it yet.  He interrupted my work on another matter, and though he was wearing a mask, he insisted on shaking hands.  But I reminded myself that his case was crucially important to him.  He had been defrauded while making an investment, and our pursuit of the bad guy was delayed by both a bankruptcy filing and a contested probate.  Our client has a long road ahead of him, though we are making progress, and it must feel interminable to him.  Our brief meeting concluded cordially; he was grateful that I met with him, and I felt remiss for my initial impatience.

             Towards the end of the evening, I made a phone call to a client who had a large, outstanding bill owed to our firm.  I had volunteered to my partners to reach out to her to see how we might resolve both her bill and the large judgment she had against someone in a way that would benefit us both.  She had not responded to our recent letter and emails.

             I could sense the client’s wariness when she answered the phone.  I knew she did not have the resources to pay her past-due balance.  I made it clear that we shared a goal in collecting the judgment for her, and we briefly discussed how that might be achieved without her incurring more legal fees.  Her relief was palpable even through the airwaves, and we set up a conference call for the following week to discuss it in more detail.  I know she felt lighter because of our talk.

             It is remarkable that a produce sticker reminded me that compassion is rewarding for both the giver and the recipient. I vowed to step out of my shoes into someone else’s more often.

             And it probably wouldn’t hurt to wash my hair more frequently, as well.  If nothing illuminating happens while I dry and style it, at least it would look better.   

Resolve Regret

            The new year felt distinctly poignant this year.  I was exhausted by continuous health monitoring and mandated behaviors.  Travel and discretionary spending had been bludgeoned into submission for almost two years.  Exasperation crept in surreptitiously, sitting silently and persistently, popping into my consciousness from time to time.  I felt vaguely like I was paying the price for a crime I didn’t commit. 

             But I was done with all of that.  I labeled 2022, My Year of Living Intentionally, and I threw myself into planning trips, projects, and resolutions with the vigor of a free-spirited zealot released from captivity.  My “must do this year” list had eleven items, which I immediately began discussing, researching, outlining and scheduling. 

             Number five on the list was visiting my Aunt Beverly, my mother’s only sister, and the sole surviving member of my maternal grandparents’ five offspring.  I had planned to visit her in 2020, as I had not seen her in many years, but the pandemic intervened.  Although our communications were limited to annual holiday cards and letters, she was one of my role-model heroes.  Along with my uncle, she raised a family of four, valued education and life-long learning, and lived a life of creativity and engagement.  She was in her mid-90’s and was witty, vigorous and vital. 

             I received her Christmas card in late December, and, as always, her hand-written note reminded me how much she enjoyed my annual family newsletter.  I mailed out my New Year’s photograph and newsletter to her several weeks later.   

             A get-together with her this year seemed destined.  I recently found my cousin on Facebook, and I asked her to give my aunt a big hug.  I perused my calendar, planning around a family wedding and other conflicts.  I wanted to travel during wintertime because my aunt lived in sunny Florida, but I did not want to schedule the trip when winter snowstorms could interfere.

             Mere weeks after connecting with my cousin, I received a direct message from her that my aunt passed away on January 17th, after a sudden cerebrovascular event.

             I was devastated.  My chance to see and talk to my Aunt Bev one more time disappeared in a heartbeat.  My sole remaining connection to my mother’s immediate family is gone.  Though it does no good to re-trace the what-ifs in life, I cannot help but review the past with remorse.  I wish I had made a greater effort to visit her.

             I believe that karmic gods routinely dispense luck and success to balance out misfortune and disappointment.  (Well, it is either that or the law of averages.)  And I know, with certainty, that happiness is just around the corner whenever I am heartbroken.  A disordered world regularly rights itself, as though Atlas is readjusting the weight of the globe on his broad shoulders. 

             But regret is a bitter pill, the taste of which lingers long after it dissolves.  Unlike disappointment or failure, there is no offsetting emotion or occurrence that can spontaneously spring up, supplanting it.  Remorse is never balanced out by happenstance.  The only solace is to learn from regret and fashion your life in a way to minimize it in the future.   

             And, so, I vow.  I will fly to Florida for my aunt’s life celebration.  I will search through boxes of old photographs to exchange with Beverly’s family.  I will re-connect with my cousins and share stories, and we will joke about how two strong women, born and raised as Iowa farmgirls, are rolling up their shirtsleeves and getting things done - together - in the hereafter.  

Here's a Review of My Favorite Things - Part 2

            Here’s the line-up of another five favorites from over 150 blog posts, in no particular order:

1.       Messages from Mom – October 25, 2020

            This was an almost surreal collection of events that occurred in connection with my mother’s passing in 2014:

My mom lost the power of speech about a year prior to her death due to cognitive decline, although her face would convey responses to my cheerful chatter.  [Two days before she died] … she smiled at me, and cheerfully asked, “how are the boys?” … We had a short but clear conversation… I did not know it, but she was saying goodbye.  … [Later], my brother and I cleared out her room at the assisted living center.  After donating what we could, and keeping what we loved, we dumped the rest at the local transfer station.  … The cashier … informed us we owed $23.00.  We searched my mother’s fanny pack … and opened her wallet.  It contained exactly $23.00 cash.  … [We knew], she left us the cash to pay her way.

[At her life celebration], I was touched that the devoted nursing home caregiver who was holding her as she gently slipped away attended.  … Later that night, my young adult children connected and celebrated with their cousins at a downtown Seattle bar.  … At the end of the evening, they summoned an Uber car.  [Shirley’s care giver who came to her life celebration was the driver.] … He drove for Uber at night to supplement his income.  The odds that my mother’s caregiver drove for Uber, that he was working on the night of her life celebration, that he was in the area where Shirley’s grandchildren were assembled, and that his car was randomly selected as one of the countless Saturday night Uber cars is infinitesimal.  Unless, of course, Shirley had a hand in it.   

 2.      The Power and the Promise of Self-Reliance – March 29, 2020

            This was a reflection on the power of independence against the social backdrop of my generation that assumed marriage would provide me the security that I needed:

The expectation of family stability, and the assurance of its continuity, is arbitrarily sprinkled onto the populace.  I grew up with the backdrop of capricious misfortune always hovering at the perimeter of my consciousness.  I shouldered obligations that were not asked of me; I assumed them while wearing the mantle of responsibility.  I developed persistence when aptitude failed me and pluck when misfortune befell me.  Where I lacked advantage, I substituted ambition.  Adversity is a heartless master, but I grew at its feet. 

 I’m proud of who I’ve become, though it’s not tied to net worth, professional reputation, or personal relationships.  For me, success is the knowledge that I am strong and capable.  I am blessed with the love and support of family and friends, but I am deeply aware that my survival is not tethered to the existence of anyone other than myself. …  In many ways, I became the person that society encouraged me to marry.

3.      Pet Pilgrimage – July 45, 2020

There is simply nothing more joyful than watching rescue dogs find their forever homes:

 … Each new dog is escorted out, one by one, with what feels like an interminable interval in between.  Audible gasps, cheers, and applause great each new arrival:  a large, white, long-haired mama dog, having recently separated from her litter; a black and white pit bull who is given a handsome new wide, leather collar; and an old stray with a look of stoic resignation in his eyes.  Two puppies come out, shaking with the stress and uncertainty of the unknown.  A one-eyed pug snuggles immediately into the arms of his adoptive mother, instantly knowing that he found his forever home. … Young women exhale high-pitched exclamations, and mature couples allow happiness to displace their customary emotional reserve.  A middled-aged tough guy glances downward to disguise the softening in his eyes as he pets and murmurs at an endearing mixed breed mutt. 

 .. The tedious expedition that began days earlier and the heartfelt quest to adopt a pet unite in a grateful confluence.  The rescued stray doggies do not know it yet, but their lives just took a permanent and happy pivot that began with the opening screech of the truck’s pull-up door.  … My husband and I look at each other in a moment of perfect understanding as our son cradles a resilient mixed breed puppy in his arms and heads to his car.  Our hearts are full as we are struck by his instant attachment and devotion.  Salvation for all of us can be as simple as adopting a lovable dog that needs a home.

4.       Marital Mismatch – December 26, 2021

            This essay received more commentary than anything I have ever written, and for some reason, it cracked me up: 

 [This new issue in my marriage] has not really created matrimonial discord.  It is more like a marital misunderstanding.  Don and I are not dissimilar in political or world viewpoints.  We are aligned in the most fundamental way when it comes to how we spend our time or our money and the level of effort we expend on our home and each other. But when it comes to cell phone technology, we have the 2020’s equivalent of a mixed marriage.

 I am on Team iPhone, and he is on some other team.  I do not even know what product or model it is.  For several years, he had been complaining about his phone – about not receiving text messages promptly, having trouble accessing and forwarding photos, and the like. I thought that meant he was tired of his Team Other device, so I assumed he was going to ditch it.  I had been promising myself a new iPhone for years, and the ribbing of family millennials finally got to me.  So, this year, Don and I covenanted to buy new phones as our Christmas presents. 

 Several days before going to our Verizon appointment, I asked Don how he felt about switching to an iPhone, and he gave me a blank stare as though I had mentioned, in passing, that I was divorcing him and moving to a secluded area in the Andes to raise alpacas.   He said that he was upgrading his phone, not switching product manufacturers.  … I felt a bit peeved that my husband was exercising free will. 

But the smartphone salesperson nodded agreeably when we told her that we wanted dissimilar products, as though it was a commonplace request.  She didn’t blink, nor did she think us odd. It was as though she was a restaurant server and we had simply ordered different entrees.  My iPhone13 Pro order was placed with dispatch.  I left the store soon after, leaving Don to buy his Team Other device, which, due its apparent unpopularity, they had in stock.

 Two and ½ hours later, Don called me from Data Transfer Hell, a little-known territory within Verizon.  He was 87% done with the process.  I commiserated with him in a superficial display of sympathy.  If, on the other hand, he had been transferring data to an iPhone 13, I probably would have driven back to Verizon with a bottle of water and a mid-morning snack and cheerily told him how much he was going to love his new phone.

 5.      Workday Wind Down – August 15, 2021

            The topic of this blog post was a simple conversation that my husband and I had sitting outdoors after a busy workday.  But I am struck by the clear expression of my gratitude:

 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.

             And that’s a wrap!  Next week, I will resume new content as I stumble towards the ambivalent promise of the new year.  

Here's a Review of My Favorite Things

            Exactly three years ago, I wrote my first blog, posted it to my website, and emailed it to a small cadre of family and friends.  At the time, my goal was to educate and encourage people to exercise.  I was in the final, painful year of writing my book, and my social media consultant urged me to spread the word.

             But my fitness-themed writings soon tapered off like exhausted, middled-aged long-distance runners.  It was not exactly due to insufficient content; it was just that I was pulled by unseen forces in uncontemplated directions.    

             More than 150 blog posts later, I no longer care where I go or where I will wind up because I just enjoy the journey.  Random topics flit through my mind, usually while running but sometimes while driving and occasionally while talking with someone.  I do not usually jot down the ideas; it they are going to stick, they will come back to me during days following, springing into the murky recesses of my brain again and again.

             On a whim, I recently browsed through my blog posts.  I was struck by the sheer volume of my writings as well as the variety of content – reminiscent, emotional, amusing or revealing.  I shed a few tears – usually from sentiment, but also occasionally due to exasperation at banal content. 

             For what it’s worth, this week and next, I am highlighting content from some of my favorite posts.

 1.      Finish Line – May 16, 2021

            This was an essay in homage to Joan Benoit, runner extraordinaire, on her birthday.  But it caused me to think about how much I love to run and contemplating when that would end:

             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.

 2.       Powder Poise – November 10, 2019

            This story was about a time in my life when I was new to Seattle.  I had few friends, but I was infatuated with skiing.  I would wake up on winter Saturday mornings, throw my skis into my trusty Opel Manta and head to Stevens Pass.  One day, I got hit by a blizzard as I was leaving the slopes:

             By the time I coaxed the cold engine of my car back to life, the snow was falling fast and furious, approaching a white-out.  With the reassuring thud of the thickly cabled tire chains in the background, I crept out of the parking lot and began a cautious descent. … By now the heavy snowfall was covering the earth as quickly as it was blanketing my composure.  I gripped the steering wheel and inched along, joining the cavalcade of cars crawling down the mountain.  The number of cars sidelined off the road, either by intention or by catastrophe, grew.  … I was keenly aware that I had to rely on myself as I began the final downhill descent of the day.  My Manta and I slipped and slid down the icy road.  We pivoted on the turns with the timidity of a neophyte skier on a bunny slope. On the steep stretches, I coaxed the car into the automotive equivalent of a snowplow. The trip that usually took two hours extended to six hours, but I arrived home oddly triumphant.

 3.      Downtrodden in the Untrodden – August 23, 2020

  This was my perspective on writer’s block:

             I quell the rising panic that emerges within me: I am done, there is no more, my enthralling creative journey has ended long before I contemplated.  … I sit, sullenly, shoulder to shoulder with tedium and frustration. 

             And then it comes to me:  this is not just where I am; it is exactly where I am supposed to be.  I breathe deeply and accept feelings of discouragement, disquietude, and indecision.  I allow myself to wonder, without judgment, of what has brought me to this point and without impatience about when it will end.  It is not about selecting a trail through a thicket or deciding on a route through the trees.  It is about occupying space while worries and burdens scurry past me, tripping in their eagerness to gain ground. … And so, I wait, watchful, soothed by a breathless forest.

 4.      What the Crash Journalists Accidentally Overlook – February 2, 2020

          I wrote this in the aftermath of the helicopter crash that killed nine people, including Kobe Bryant:

           Families who lose members at the capricious hand of fate are bound together; we’ve won the destiny death lottery where the outcome is based solely on random chance. … A tragic death by cancer, heart disease, overdose, or suicide is no less searing for those left behind than that which occurs by happenstance.  And yet, a death by any other cause than chance obviates the relentlessly repetitive knowledge that our existence is tenuously tied to circumstance.

            Our life trajectories are set in motion not just by intention but also by arbitrary occurrences beyond our control or anticipation.  We are all traumatized by loss; however, accidental deaths pose unique challenges for the survivors.  We are left to grapple with the inescapable understanding that life, or the absence of life, can be a fluke. 

             We try to reconcile the irreconcilable:  that horrible things happen to good people; that misfortune is heaped upon those that don’t deserve it; and that catastrophe is often dealt out in capricious coin tosses.  For those of us inducted into the random-chance fraternity, it is the hideous and incessant re-windings of what-ifs that can annihilate us – if we let them.

             Sorrow enhances empathy, and devastation creates strength.  Survivors of calamity grow, and even flourish, with the knowledge of life’s temporality.  If we know that existence is sometimes tethered to randomness it allows us to celebrate the fragile grace of presence.  We will eternally re-live the catastrophe in our memory, but it also accentuates our humanity for the misfortunes of others.

 5.      Heightened Sensitivity – September 29, 2019

             I am timid when it comes to public proclamations about anything, especially subjects that I could be criticized for.  But in the legal profession, being a petite woman is not exactly an asset for a litigator.  After (yet another) comment from a new client about my height, I wrote the following post: 

             When we articulate comments about any aspect of physical appearance, we, unintentionally or not, ascribe value to them.  Touting the “accomplishment” of size or height necessarily diminishes the value of someone who is lesser than that.  It is no more appropriate to herald someone’s stature than it is to commend them for the whiteness of their skin.  We should be more evolved than that.  … I’m reluctant to challenge people who make height remarks for a variety of reasons.  It feels unbecoming to complain about heightism while rampant systematic discrimination exists against racial, ethnic, religious, sexual orientation, physical abilities, age, and gender groups.  In addition, I don’t want to offend or embarrass anyone by addressing statements they may have meant no harm by.  I also want people to like me, which makes confrontation very uncomfortable. 

             But I’m pretty much done with all that.  I’m not going to allow others to dictate what I am entitled to care about.  So, let me be clear (cue the anthem music):  I don’t care.  I’m not interested in any physical aspect of your child, partner, spouse, sibling, parent, employer, or friend.  I don’t regard physical endowments established by genetics as praiseworthy or worthwhile.  I’m only impressed and enamored by characteristics that are acquired by hard work, perseverance, compassion, character, or resilience.

             If you think I’m strident or defensive, so be it.  I’m not going to sit at the back of the bus, especially if not-so-short people are sitting up front.

             So, there you have it.  Stay tuned next week for five more of my favorites!   

Resolution Complication

            I am sitting at my desk on Friday morning, and I have failed before I have even started.  The day began nicely:  I slept well, and my early run was inspiring despite the dark, wet, and windy backdrop.  I drove to my office and situated myself with a familiar bowl of cereal and skimmed through late night and early morning emails.  On any other weekday, this would be the perfect launch to my morning.

             The problem is that I had resolved to have a new work schedule this year, one that would be completed in four, 10-hour work days.  But this was Day 5.

             I planned meticulously for this new regime.  I came up with the idea a couple of months ago, after reading several news articles substantiating the efficacy of a shorter work week.  Businesses that have adopted a four-day week allow their employees to work fewer hours (32 instead of 40) and have found no reduction in productivity. Employees are reportedly happier and more committed to their jobs.

             Unfortunately, the legal industry largely generates revenue by billing by the hour, so a four-day week requires ten-hour days.  But I still thought it was doable.  I am fortunate that I can choose any schedule that I want – as long as I am available for hearings and client meetings.  I have no interest in working from home; I find that I have a better work-home life boundary if I do not.  So, though I did not need the permission of my partners, I alerted them to my new schedule and received their blessings.

             During November and December, I practiced working longer days.  I was vigilant about getting to the office by 8:00 in the morning, and I skipped social media scrolling while I ate breakfast.  I began capturing my time within 15 minutes of my arrival.  I kept my eye on the clock so that billable time roughly approximated the hours at my desk minus time spent at lunch or on personal tasks.  I consciously limited socializing, but I didn’t give it up completely.  Who wants to be an all-work-and-no-play kind of person?  Mingling and responding to amusing emails from folks takes little time out of my day. 

             To my surprise, with only minor adjustments, I was billing 10-20% more with little extra effort.  I was happy and confident that my shortened schedule was possible.

             On Monday this week, I kept with the plan, and followed it to the letter.  I came home only slightly later than normal and benefited from a shorter commute with less traffic. By Thursday night, I had met my billable goal for the entire week and realized that this new schedule was a keeper.

             Well, except for one thing.  I had a major case blow up on Thursday.  A seven-figure settlement for a client fell apart due to a last-minute ruling from a judge that changed our leverage. 

             So here I am, frustrated and a bit irritated, wondering if a four-day week is a foolish pipe dream.  My resolution for the New Year was to use Fridays to contemplate a future life when I am retired.  I had a list of projects – writing, volunteerism, hobbies, travel planning, and reading – that I had lined up for 2022, which I nicknamed My Year of Living Intentionally.  And Day 5 was going to be when I explored them.

             I spend the morning calling and emailing my disappointed client and the rest of her legal team to strategize next steps, and I leave the office at noon, somewhat sullen.  The anticipation of having a day away from the office, and my lineup of what I wanted to do, was foiled by the demands of my law practice.

             Then it occurs to me that living intentionally means thinking consciously about every feeling, the uncomfortable as well as the joyful.  I sit and consider the possibility that a four-day week might not be feasible, and I allow myself to ponder disappointment.  The logical part of my brain reminds me that cases do not blow up every week and that managing client expectations about when I am available is part of the process.

             Later that afternoon, I check my business emails, including one from a client asking if we could touch base before the weekend.  I pause and feel momentarily guilty.  He is in charge of litigation for his business, which is a new position for him, and he worries about rising to the challenge.  I suspect he is getting pressure from management. 

             I breathe deeply and respond that I am out of the office for the rest of the day, and that I will touch base on Monday morning.  Moments later, I receive a cheery email from him to have a great weekend. 

             I think I can do this.  It will just take practice.

No Alcohol Rationale

            New Year’s Eve is the biggest night of the calendar year for drinking, and I will not be ringing it in with alcohol.  Of course, it has been decades since I have stayed up until midnight on New Year’s Eve, but I won’t even be drinking at 9:00 pm, either.  Imbibing is just not my thing.  I do not have a substance abuse problem, nor even a proclivity towards one.  I support people who enjoy alcohol responsibly.  But for me, the negatives just outweigh the positives.

             The first time I drank, I was a teenager at a slumber party.  I became violently ill from bourbon whiskey, a Kentucky cultural favorite, that a girlfriend sneaked from her parents’ liquor cabinet.  To this day, I cannot bear the smell or taste of bourbon.  High school drinking was an important social activity, though it was mostly reserved for parties and prom.  The designated driver concept was in its infancy, but I remember driving my boyfriend and his friends around to parties while I abstained.  Other friends returned the favor for me.

             As a first year college student, weekends were all about fraternity keg parties and convincing upper class students to buy alcohol.  I did not like the taste of beer, but Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine, which you could buy for a dollar, was tolerable.  But wine made me itch, and one night I developed hives that were so severe I went to the emergency room.  The doctor gave me an antihistamine and told me that I was probably allergic to the sulfites in wine.  That allergy put a damper on my partying because I did not care for hard liquor unless it was smothered in juices or sodas.  But abstinence was not cool, so I persevered.

             My wine allergy went away with time, and when I entered the work force after graduation, a glass of wine at the end of the day was relaxing.  I felt vaguely sophisticated, and less shy, when sipping alcohol.  Conversation was easier and, if nothing else, you could always comment on how lovely the vintage was.  But every day drinking was out of the question: wine was expensive, and I would rather spend the calories on fried chicken and a Coke, given the choice.

             Three pregnancies and years of breastfeeding were convenient reasons not to imbibe.  When I stopped nursing my youngest son, the thought occurred to me that I could start drinking again.  But I did not miss alcohol, and I could not formulate a rationale why I should start again.  Don still enjoyed a beer or two while watching football on television, but a purchased six-pack started lasting longer and longer.  When our children were old enough to pay attention, I mentioned to Don that I did not want them to think that we needed alcohol to relax or to have fun.

             I remember with amusement my last drink of hard liquor.  Don and I and our two older sons surprised youngest son Evan for his birthday while he was in college in southern California.  At midnight, as Evan turned 21, one of his friends passed me a shot glass.  I drank it, and Evan laughed and shouted to his friends, “my mother never drinks!”  As mothers of under-age young adults can appreciate, it was a celebratory moment.

             These days, I might slip a little Bailey’s Irish Crème into my decaffeinated coffee while watching a late-night movie.  But it makes me sleepy, so those occasions are few and far between.  (I would hate to fall asleep and miss the ending of a show I have watched seven times.)  And I love cultural traditions, so I do not hesitate to toast newlyweds with a flute of champagne.  I just never feel the urge to polish off the glass.

             The practical reasons for not drinking – the cost and the sugar, not wanting to drive while impaired, and disliking a mini-hangover and wine breath – are outweighed by something more organic and honest.  I do not want to resort to something artificial to diminish social unease or to make me feel less inhibited.  My personality changes when I am a little tipsy, and my candid comments become blunter.  I want my discourse to be thoughtful – something that is not improved with cocktails.    

             As I age, I am committed to deep connections and conversations with people.  If I need alcohol to help me engage, I should improve my rapport and my listening skills, not rely on fermented substances.

             Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for drugs when it comes to caffeine, as my attitude and motivation improve with morning coffee.  When it comes to that, I can rationalize my addictive consumption without remorse. 

Marital Mismatch

            My husband and I assembled for our recent, weekday morning appointment.  I had confirmed his attendance the night before with a murmured, late-night reminder.  We drove in separate cars for logistical flexibility.  At least I told myself that was why.  The truth is that he was taking a leisurely shower at the time I felt we should leave the house, and I did not want to be late.  As it turned out, I was twenty minutes early, and he was right on time, a symbolic reminder to me that my high-strung, anxious approach to meetings does not give me an edge.

             I am slightly irritated with Don for a reason that in the scheme of things should not give me pause.  I console myself that we are far more alike than we are different, and that his life choices are those that he is free to make as an adult.  We had had a recent misunderstanding; I was surprised when I learned about it, because I thought we were on the same page.  We even briefly raised the subject with one of our sons, until I realized that we might need professional help.

             At 8:00, the doors opened, and we were ushered in.  I was disappointed that the woman who greeted us was a millennial, as I did not feel confident that she had the experience to help us navigate our path forward.  I was not heartened by her initial greetings; she seemed diffident to our dilemma, almost bored.  But then again, perhaps she was tired and didn’t really care about the problem that I sought her counsel on.     

             Our issue has not really created matrimonial discord.  It is more like a marital misunderstanding.  Don and I are not dissimilar in political or world viewpoints.  We are aligned in the most fundamental way when it comes to how we spend our time or our money and the level of effort we expend on our home and each other. But when it comes to cell phone technology, we have the 2020’s equivalent of a mixed marriage.

             I am on Team iPhone, and he is on some other team.  I do not even know what product or model it is.  For several years, he had been complaining about his phone – about not receiving text messages promptly, having trouble accessing and forwarding photos, and the like. I thought that meant he was tired of his Team Other device, so I assumed he was going to ditch it.  I had been promising myself a new iPhone for years, and the ribbing of family millennials finally got to me.  So, this year, Don and I covenanted to buy new phones as our Christmas presents. 

             I stopped by a local Verizon store a week before Christmas and found that they would open on Christmas Eve morning at 8:00.  This was perfect, since Don and I would be off work.  I mentioned to Don a couple of days beforehand that we could get there early and be done with it in a jiffy.  We could even get coffee beforehand and call it is a middle-aged, long-term- marriage kind of date.  Don agreed enthusiastically – at least what passes for enthusiasm from my low-key, engineer husband. 

             Several days before our appointment, I asked Don how he felt about switching to an iPhone, and he gave me a blank stare as though I had mentioned, in passing, that I was divorcing him and moving to a secluded area in the Andes to raise alpacas.   He said that he was upgrading his phone, not switching product manufacturers.  I reminded him of his frustration with the technology of his phone, and he said he felt those were just due to its age.  He muttered something about not liking Apple’s polished, proprietary marketing culture.  I felt a bit peeved that my husband was exercising free will. 

             But the smartphone salesperson nodded agreeably when we told her that we wanted dissimilar products, as though it was a commonplace request.  She didn’t blink, nor did she think us odd. It was as though she was a restaurant server and we had simply ordered different entrees.  My iPhone13 Pro order was placed with dispatch.  I left the store soon after, leaving Don to buy his Team Other device, which, due its apparent unpopularity, they had in stock.

             Two and ½ hours later, Don called me from Data Transfer Hell, a little-known territory within Verizon.  He was 87% done with the process.  I commiserated with him in a superficial display of sympathy. 

             If, on the other hand, he had been transferring data to an iPhone 13, I probably would have driven back to Verizon with a bottle of water and a mid-morning snack and cheerily told him how much he was going to love his new phone.    

Party Hardly - Not Hardy

            It is that time of year that introverts dread.  Even with COVID-variant uprisings, holiday functions are still being planned and carried out.  To be fair, some gatherings are outdoors.  Others are limited to smaller groups or those where proof of vaccination is required.  I recently went to a luncheon where all invitees had to take COVID-19 tests beforehand.

             The survival of social gatherings is generally bad news for closet recluses, like me.  But the silver lining is that I can decline invitations with no questions asked on grounds that I feel unusually tired, or I have been exposed to friends that have travelled recently.  When I bail, the party’s host is not just sympathetic; he or she thanks me for my thoughtfulness.  But outside of a pandemic, I feel compelled to accept invitations, and I am conscientious beyond reproach about attending.

             Showing up to social events is something I learned long ago.  As a freshman in college, I worked at a blue jeans store called, It’s the Levi’s Place.  It was a part-time retail store gig, unremarkable in all respects other than the fact that I learned to fold denim pants with military precision so that they would align neatly when stacked up on shelves.  We were a close and chummy employee group, and the store manager was a young woman only a couple of years older than I.  She made a point to invite the employees to a small party she was hosting at her apartment during the holiday season, and I readily accepted.

             The night of the party, I was invited to a different event that was more appealing, for reasons that I cannot remember.  I suspect it was because the group of attendees was more familiar, and perhaps the male prospects were more alluring than hanging out with co-workers.  So, I simply went somewhere else that night, and I did not tell my store manager that I was not coming over.  I was mortified when my boss called during the party to see if I was coming.  I stammered out an excuse and told her that I was not.  Her feelings were very hurt, I could tell, and I realized that her group of guests was small, and that she had worked hard to prepare for us.

  I have never forgotten, nor forgiven, my thoughtlessness.

             But going to parties as an introvert is not always fun, especially events that have business or marketing implications.  Entering a room filled with several hundred people, most of whom you do not know, is painful – but also necessary.  I stall for time by hanging up my coat and heading to the open bar, where I make a soft drink selection.  As I turn away from the server, the fun begins: trying to find a conversational group to join.

             But I know that there are people just like me at these events, standing around like unpopular wallflowers, wishing that someone would walk up and talk to them.  We worry that if we approach a group, the members will herd us out like human barbed-wire fences.  These social eccentrics are my people.

            These days, I seek out these misfits and toss them conversational volleys that are easy to lob back. When the chitchat wanes, I give them a smile and say, hey, let’s bust into that group over there, and see if we can mix things up.  If they hesitate to join me, I just grab their elbow and joke that that they must come with me and keep me out of trouble.  I often get a grateful grin in response. 

  There are still times when dressing up and driving to a large gathering in rainy day traffic is excruciating.  But once I am there, the experience often surprises me.  I brace myself for several hours of chatting about things that I care nothing about with people whose absence from my life would not give me pause.  But sometimes in a glitzy, frenzied, artificial environment, I talk with someone, and the dialog magically shifts from attorney gossip or new caselaw or superficial business chitchat to something more honest and earnest.  I listen to stories about interesting travel, emotional life journeys, or heartwarming family happenings. We find community in hardship and gratitude.

             Maturity is a blessing, and my social graces have improved.   But I am also better at setting boundaries on events that align with my energy – and my enthusiasm.  I still say yes to almost all invitations, though I might mention in advance that my stay will be short.  But I am grateful that people want me to come, and their willingness to host astounds me. 

  I am usually glad that I am not home in bed instead, eating popcorn and watching a Will Ferrell movie.  Although sometimes it is a close call.

Living a Life

            It has been a hard couple of weeks, with sad and sometimes wretched news from family and friends: anxious loved ones with fragile relationships; friends with health crises and devastating diagnoses; and former schoolmates with family deaths.  I never get used to bad news, and the ways it can now be communicated is proliferating.  It might be a late-night text message.  Or you might read about it on a social media post.  Out-of-the-blue personal phone calls during the workday are not usually auspicious.  

After settling into my office on Monday morning this week, I opened an email from the night before.  A law school buddy shared shattering news:  her young adult son had died tragically and suddenly.

             It had only been a couple of months since I had met with her and several other friends to celebrate the 35th anniversary of graduating law school.  Though our gatherings had been infrequent through the years, we quickly settled into that familiar and transparent conversation that close-knit confidants never lose.  Our rapport was sparked by the trying – and occasionally traumatic – experience of law school, which we processed while carpooling to and from our educational confinement.  My classmate reported that her son seemed to be in a good place, despite years of emotional and physical health hardships.

             The next day, I received a telephone call from a former neighbor, a soul mate, who reported a recent, potentially deadly health diagnosis.  I could not bear to hear my most-stoic-of-friend’s voice shake with fear. 

             And it has only been ten days since a high school classmate, the pillar of our class and its eternal reunion organizer, passed away.  Though he and I had often clashed over national politics, we had diplomatically mended the fence some time ago.  Days before he died, we exchanged cheery commentary about Civil War history in Kentucky.  My last words to him were, “Who knew that we shared this interest in common?” He and I both knew the deeper meaning of that comment: politics aside, we were more alike than we were different.

             My reaction to the inundation of bad news has taken spontaneous routes, much like paddling a kayak in rapids.  I have tossed and turned in bed at night, worried and fretted, delivered home-made chili, posted heartfelt condolences on social media, and left my cell phone turned on and accessible at all times. I have sent supportive emails and messages and mailed cards and hand-written notes.  I have committed myself to being present for the people I love; I want them to know I hear their pain and I am honored that they share it with me.

             Life brims with loss.  Our identity is formed, at least partially, by the pain we experience and witness.  No one is beyond the capricious grasp of fate, which is triggered by genetics, by lifestyle, and by happenstance. 

             But there is an odd beauty in sorrow and the compassion it promotes. These past weeks remind me of the exquisite fragility of a vibrant life.  I pause and consider the choices before me, decisions which seem more urgent than they did before.  I have an impatient yearning to grow and explore how I spend my time, and I am sharpening my focus on what used to be hazy possibilities.  The world feels ripe with potential, and I sense the pull of an earnest summons.

             The anthem chorus of Acicii’s song, The Nights, keeps marching in my mind:

  One day you’ll leave this world behind, so live a life you will remember.

Undampened Spirit

            I woke up this morning to the sound of rain, a frequent occurrence this time of year in Seattle.  Boomer the dog is ecstatic about his morning walk; trotting around in the dark, wet, and cold fills him with unfettered delight.  Perhaps it is it just the knowledge that breakfast follows the walk, but I think not.  I am convinced that it is the pure joy of being outside, sniffing out the nuances of his canine domain, feeling the breeze on his coat, exalting in his introduction to the new day.

             I should be more like Boomer; my attitude is not that great.  Driving to the spot to meet my Saturday morning running group goes all too quickly, though I try to concentrate on the warm seat and the dark but familiar streets.  I park my car at exactly 7:00, but I wait inside.  The weather is wretched, and I know that no one will start running for at least six or seven minutes.  I stay in the car, luxuriating in its comforting embrace. 

             All too soon, Running Buddy Jean pulls up beside me and gets out of her car.  I am shamed into stepping out of mine, even though the run will not start for a few more minutes.  We exchange comments about the weather in a subdued, somewhat resigned, tone.  We amble over to the outdoor fireplace at Starbucks and huddle while greeting the other runners.  Coincidentally, everyone has just come back from a Thanksgiving weekend at a warm and sunny locale.  Well, everyone except for me. Matt notes that this is the worst Saturday morning weather we have had in calendar year 2021.  Not an auspicious start.

             We move out, more like a shuffle than a jog.  I get to the end of the coffee shop roof overhang, and I pause – momentarily – and tell someone to give me a push.  I joke that my motivation stalled when I realized that I was going to get wet on this outing.  Really wet.

             We settle into a slow run, scanning the ground for slippery leaf piles and wayward tree branches.  We jump off and onto sidewalks depending on the terrain and on-coming cars.  We start to talk, knowing that conversation will help distract us from the unpleasant trifecta of gloomy, raining, and cold. 

             We are seasoned runners, and we know something magic will occur at about the twenty-minute mark.  Until then, we grumble about the darkness and how cold our hands are.  I remark that the rain seems to be letting up, but then I realize it is only wishful thinking.  Despite my firm belief in my puddle-dodging prowess, I hit one squarely; it is deeper and wider than I had anticipated.  My right foot is drenched in frigid water.  I grimace and gently berate myself for lacking the foresight to avoid it.

             Despite the overcast cloud coverage, the sky begins to lighten.  Daylight improves the visibility, and our perspectives brighten.  Our breathing lengthens as do our strides.  The rainfall mysteriously morphs into cooling dampness.  A wondrous transformation begins: our disgruntled opposition to the elements has mutated to an alignment with Mother Nature, who now cools and soothes us. 

             Jean turns up a trail to take a different path back to the starting point, as the other runners have, and I am alone.  The reassuring thud of my footsteps, and the rustle of my windbreaker, fills my consciousness.  For reasons incalculable, I begin to feel more energetic.  The turnover of my steps quickens, not due to intention but simply because my spirit is irrepressible.  I know I am not fast, but the joy of movement is unrestrained.  I breathe deeply, grateful for the ability to move through the world at a pace that lightens and aligns me.

             I arrive back at Starbucks an hour and ten minutes after leaving it, and my trusty running buddies – and a supporting cast of comrades – call out, and ask, how was it?  It was great, I reply.  I could not be happier.

             Boomer would be so proud.

Fiction Inclination

             In a fit of inspiration fueled by morning optimism and a cup of coffee, I recently signed up for an on-line fiction writing course.  The assignments seemed manageable (weekly writing projects due on eight consecutive Mondays) and could be completed on weekends.  The price was trifling – at least compared to our household dog food and vet bill budget.  I thought it would be an absorbing, and perhaps amusing, way to spend a few extra hours on Sunday afternoons.

             The truth is that it was humbling.  I was thrust into unfamiliar and unwelcome terrain filled with terminology and concepts I had never considered.  How many protagonists was I considering?  (Follow up comment by the instructor was that it appeared one of my two protagonists was more akin to an antagonist.)  Who were my secondary characters and what were their characteristics and motivations?  What perspective/point of view would my novel be written in?  (Forget about second person or omniscient; the recommendation was to stick with either first or second person.)

             I fumbled through drafting a plot summary, writing a chapter-by-chapter outline, stating my story’s theme considering characters, conflicts, and plot, my ineptitude eclipsed only by my embarrassment.

             As the coursework wound down, the students were given the assignment to create a scene from the novel – an incident that helps portray the protagonist’s character – in a 500 - word essay. My mind was filled with chaotic images and ideas and literary ramblings, but I forced myself to center on an event from my protagonist’s childhood.  I began to write.

                 I stand in the Juniors department dressing room at Macy’s, my jeans crumbled at my feet, my long-sleeve t-shirt thrown carelessly on top of them.  I glance in the mirror at what others would tell me is a petite, athletic body, but all I see is a flat chest, with breasts so small, they are almost inconsequential.

                 I pull on the first of two dresses, a perky cotton empire-waist number with a white bodice and a red and blue pin-striped skirt.  I blush as the middle-aged salesperson exclaims that I look like such a young lady.  She buttons up the back for me, the roughness of her hands demonstrating her fatigue.  I look at my mother, seated just outside the dressing room on a folding chair and try to read her expression.  Her square jaw is immobile, her face taciturn. 

                 I twirl slightly, watching the skirt wave gently at my knees.  I raise my heels, just a bit, as though I am wearing kitten-heeled pumps.  The effect gives me a momentary glimpse of someone older than my twelve years, perhaps a teenage girl who is not buying a dress for her first middle school dance. 

                 Getting no response from my mother, I signal to the salesperson that I would like to try on the other dress, an off-white, polyester garment with a full skirt and a smocked top.  I hold my arms up like a child wanting to be picked up, and she lifts the dress over my head and drops it onto my shoulders.  The three-quarter length sleeves grace my slender arms, and I envision pretty bracelets on my wrists. I imagine myself wearing this dress, standing on the edge of the school gymnasium floor, giggling with other girls, being accepted into their midst.

                 But still, which dress is the right one?  I look back at my mother, hoping to see a whisper of an expression, if not affection or approval, at least an indication of which dress she prefers.  My mother’s face is impassive, not due to intention, but due to boredom.   The salesperson waits, years of serving at the whim of customers counseling her to stand stilly quiet.

                 The piped-in music softens as the soundtrack changes.  The conversation in the next dressing room drops to a whisper. I stand and stare, my eyes darting from my image in the mirror to the reflection of my mother, the stern-faced matron behind me.  I lick my lips nervously, my cheeks flush.  I hear an almost imperceptible high-pitched whine from deep within my ears, a keening. 

                 I take a deep breath, and tentatively form the words, “I would like this dress,” as I motion towards the dress I have on. I turn around and watch my mother’s reaction, hoping for a flicker of a smile.  My mother shrugs her shoulders and stands up.

                 “It’s up to you,” she says, as she turns to leave.

                 I know, in that moment, I made the wrong decision.

                 When I was done, I fussed a bit with the verbiage, frustrated that I had to delete a few sentences to comply with the word limit. I spell-checked the essay and uploaded it to the Writers.com platform for review and critique.

                 But I did not need feedback from the instructor. For the first time in my life, I know that what I had written was good.

Lots of Shots

            I am in a Rite Aid drugstore on Monday night this week, and I hear howling.  It is coming from behind a closed door in the pharmacy area of the store.  At first, the sobs are intermittent and low pitched, and then they rise to crescendo shrieks.  After about a minute, the crying subsides to periodic gulps interspersed with heaves of relief.

             Afterwards, a young boy walks through the door, with his mother’s arm draped over his shoulders, positioned carefully.  I hear the maternal murmurings of whether he wants to go and get ice cream.  The boy’s father suggests that maybe ice cream would be better after dinner, as a dessert, and he gently teases that the whole store heard him yowl.  The youngster grins sheepishly at the strangers around him, his vaccination trauma soon to be forgotten.

             I used to hate shots.  When I was a child, my mother would take me to annual physical exams, and they often included vaccinations.  I loathed going to the doctor, and my mother knew it.  I think that is why she never told me about the appointments in advance but merely showed up at school and had me summoned from the classroom.  The pediatrician was kindly and professional, but having a stranger examine me filled me with terror.  My relief when the appointment was over was beyond articulation; the ice cream cone from Howard Johnson’s restaurant afterwards filled me with delight.

             One doctor’s appointment was different.  When I was six or seven years old, my parents noticed swollen lymph nodes on my neck and knew that they should be checked out.  The physician examined my neck carefully, palpating it with practiced expertise.  I heard him remark that he would like to have them removed, a comment that I did not quite understand but filled me with foreboding.  Several days later, my parents summoned me to their bedroom and told me that I needed to have surgery at the hospital.  I remember being annoyed that they spoke to me as if this was the first time I was hearing the news, as though the doctor’s words had been spoken in a foreign language.

             The surgery required an overnight stay at the hospital, and my mother spent the night with me there.  I do not remember being traumatized by the anesthesia or the procedure.  The morning after, my father came to visit me with the largest stuffed animal I had ever seen.  The enormous, light brown teddy bear wore a yellow vest and had large and compassionate eyes.  I knew in that moment, and in many others throughout my childhood, that my father adored me.

             But the worst was yet to come.  A couple of days afterwards, my father drove me to the University of Kentucky Medical Center.  I do not remember being told why I was there.   I was seated in a chair in a quiet room filled with medical accouterments.  My father chatted familiarly with the medical support staff, which I understood was because he was a professor at the medical school.  A nurse reached for one of my arms, pushed up my sleeve, and positioned it so that the palm of my hand was face up. She gently swabbed the length of my forearm, and I realized that I was about to get a shot. 

  I watched with grim fascination as the nurse slid the needle just under my skin creating a small bubble under it from the liquid in the needle.  She did this procedure two more times, while I grimaced, though I held as still as stone.  I was so relieved when she released my arm, that I almost sobbed with gratitude.  Well, that is, until she grabbed my other arm, and I endured two more injections.

  I heard my father report proudly to my mother later that night, that the nurses said they had never seen a child sit so still during shots.  I was not particularly gratified by the comment; it had simply never occurred to me that I had a choice other than to sit, immobile, and bear it.

  The results of the skin tests came in a week or so later:  my swollen lymph nodes were due to Cat Scratch Fever, a bacterial infection caused by being bitten or scratched by a cat.  No treatment was needed, nor follow-up protocols.  My relationship with the family felines remained unscathed.

  These days, vaccinations are more annoying than painful.  I am profoundly grateful for the scientific testing behind them.  I roll up my sleeve, listen to the friendly chatter of the person injecting me, and look elsewhere as the needle enters my shoulder.  The resulting pinch is more than made up for by the reassuring benefits and immunity it supplies.

  And then there are those fudgsicles waiting in the freezer at home, which I may or may not delay eating until after dinner.   

Lingering Ditherings

            It has been eight months since I planned a workday where I did nothing but tasks I had procrastinated on.  It was a painful, but ultimately triumphant, exercise.  You would think that I would have used that experience to tackle some personal tasks that I was delaying.  But no. Now I am wondering if I should schedule a vacation day and spend it doing absolutely nothing other than things I do not want to do.

             I am intrigued why the items on my to-do list have sat there for so long.  I pride myself on introspection.  I know that that there are often underlying emotional reasons why we delay projects, claiming that we are too busy to complete them.  Don’t get me wrong; there is no psychological barrier that prevents me from cleaning all the baseboards in my house.  I just do not want to do it. 

  But these items on my list do not require physical effort or exertion, so I’m interested in why I cannot get them done.  Some of the chores would take less than ten minutes to complete.  So, here is the line-up.

  First, my husband and I need to pull the trigger on tree trimming in our yard.  Don is waiting for me to approve the contract.  I want to walk the yard to understand what the arborist is recommending, but like I idiot, I dithered until daylight savings time ended.  Now the weekdays are too dark in the evening to see the trees, and for some reason, I cannot get myself to do it on the weekend.  Real reason: I think I do not want to spend the money, and until we sign a contract, I have not spent the money.

  Secondly, I have been thinking about setting up an index fund for a portion of my savings.  For a penny pincher like me, I am appalled at the money sitting in my savings account earning practically nothing.  The problem is that I have to take the time to research the best index fund and go through the process of setting it up and wiring the funds.  Ugh.  Real reason:  this is a weekday task, and I am so busy at work, I would rather be billing my time and getting paid for it.

  My third vacillating chore is scheduling a mammogram.  I have one regularly, but this year, I got a letter from the clinic that I should consult with my primary care doctor to discuss whether I should have one now or wait another year.  This flummoxed me.  What?  I am supposed to schedule an appointment to talk to a doctor about scheduling an appointment?  Real reason: there is no right answer, and it is ultimately my decision.  I might guess wrong, with the result that I either wait too long or I suffer the impacts of unnecessary radiation.

  Fourth, my dentist thinks that one area of my gums would benefit from using a Waterpik.  I have no problem deciding which product I want and no resistance to buying it, so why haven’t I done it?  Real reason: I have too many cards to choose from when checking out from Amazon. Although there is only one credit card, there are several gift cards sitting there that I need to use up.  The obstacle is that they have small balances, and I cannot figure out how to use more than one card at checkout.  It drives me crazy.  I need to watch a YouTube video on how to do it or have a chat with customer service.

My number five procrastination is ridiculous.  I need to purchase an Amazon gift card for a relative with a new baby.  I have the mother’s email address, so this is, at most, a ten-minute project.  Real reason: the baby is now nine months old.  I am so embarrassed at the delay; it seems easier to not do anything. 

  My sixth stalling event is reviewing subscriptions and culling out the ones I do not use.  Like everyone, I have automatic payments for many products and services.  I am keeping most of them: gym membership, Audible, Amazon Prime, Square Space, and Chewy.  But I need to cancel others.  Real reason: I know that I do not need Sound Machine, and I will cancel it.  But I am vacillating on Adobe, Spotify, and my annual Harry & David membership (which provides free shipping.)  I just need to decide and move on.

Finally, I need to upgrade my cell phone, but I keep postponing it.  To the horror of my children, I have a serviceable iPhone 6.  Every year, when Apple releases its new phone product, I announce that I am going to buy it. But then I do not.  Real reason: I must decide which iPhone 13 is best suited for me.  Then I have to determine whether I will order the phone and transfer the data myself or have someone hold my hand at the Apple store.  Sigh, so many decisions, so little time.

  During the time it took me to write this blog post, I could have completed three of the items on this list.  Time to stop typing and buy a gift card and send it to that little one before he becomes a toddler!

Paper Caper

             On Tuesday this week, I was out running with Boomer, the dog.  It is a typical November morning in the Pacific Northwest, which means it is dark, cold, and rainy.  Boomer and I do not mind; it is only the first few minutes that are unpleasant.  After that, it feels brisk and refreshing, and the optimism of the day creeps up on me with the growing light of dawn.

             An unidentifiable man in an old, burnt-orange colored Toyota sedan slinks up behind me.  I ignore him for a while, and he passes by slowly.  He reappears a couple of blocks later, and this time, the pace of his vehicle seems deliberate.  I start to feel uneasy.  But just before alarms go off in my head, he eases in front of me and turns up into a driveway.  I hear the muted thud of a newspaper hitting a porch.

             I breathe a sigh of relief: it is just our neighborhood newspaper guy, prowling around, quietly depositing papers to those still smitten with the printed word.  He is dependable and steady, his elderly, but spritely, car guided by Google Maps shining brightly from the cell phone attached to the dashboard.

             I used to be that guy.  Well, more accurately, I used to have a paper route.  It seemed like the perfect part-time job for me in my late teens: it offered independence, flexibility, and - most importantly - it would not interfere with my social life. 

             The reality was different than what I gazed at through rose-colored glasses.

             When I took that job, my morning routine was radically altered.  The newspapers would be dropped off at my house in a large bundle at an unearthly hour, a time of day reserved for misfits and insomniacs. My alarm would ring, and I would stumble out of bed and lurch down the driveway like a petite, modern-day Frankenstein. After hauling the stack into the garage, I would release the Velcro straps and fold the papers into thirds.  If it was raining, I had to stuff the papers into plastic bags.

             Then I would squeeze all the papers into wire baskets on the back of my trusty bike, who was more of an afternoon-park-and-picnic kind of vehicle than what she was being called on to do.  Then I would pedal around the neighborhood, hoping not to miss a house, and praying that I had enough papers. Carriers with better arms than mine would rubber band them and expertly throw them from the street.  But I had to ride up the driveway, reach back, pull out a paper, and with a flick of my wrist, launch it neatly onto the front porch.

             On Sundays, my brother, who also had a route, and I would join forces.  The Sunday paper arrived in bundles of sections, which had to be collated before they could be delivered.  The papers were too big to fit into bicycle baskets, so we transported them by car.  Rick would lower the tailgate of our large, station wagon-like car, and I would drive.  He could toss the papers with the prowess of an MLB starting pitcher, occasionally jumping off the tailgate to plant his feet.  Once, I intentionally hit the accelerator right before he leaped back on, and he landed on the street.  I laughed hysterically; he was not amused.

             Most days I would arrive back at the house in less than an hour, heartened by exercise and lightened by the knowledge that I was done.  That was on a good day.

             But some days were lousy.  We did not have a lot of snow in Kentucky where I grew up, but winters could be hazardous.  I remember times when my bicycle slid out from under me on black ice, the newspapers skidding across the roadway like liberated hockey pucks.  I would gather them up, grimacing with pain from a scraped elbow or knee and cursing my chosen vocation.   Occasionally I got yelled at by a homeowner for riding my bike across the lawn to deliver the paper onto the porch.  After that, instead of retaliating and leaving the newspaper at the foot of his driveway, I would bike up to his sidewalk, park my bike, get off, and walk it to the stoop.

             The worst part of the job was compensation.  For subscribers that did not pay, I was forced to collect from them. I would go to their house, ring the doorbell, and hope that someone would answer.  Mostly they did, and they would write me a check or pay cash.  Occasionally, they would ask me to come back later; apparently, a family conversation or a football game on TV was more important.

  The worst-paying customers lived in an apartment complex on my route, and they often moved out without paying me.  This meant that I would buy their newspapers and deliver them for free every single day for an entire month.  Depending on the number of people skipping out, some months I made virtually no money at all, as my out-of-pocket costs for product remained a constant.

  Another unattractive part of the job was that it was seven days a week, year ‘round. Unless you could coax a friend or family member to substitute for you, you never got a day off.  In my first year of college, my then-boyfriend decided that helping me on weekends exceeded the bounds of his affection for me and declined to take part any longer.  At that point, my days in the carrier trade were numbered.

  I learned a lot from this job: the rigors of working every day; the discipline of arising early; the beauty of delayed gratification; and the hazards of black ice.  I also learned the perils of selling goods in a market with a razor-thin profit margin and an unreliable customer base.

Dish Wish

            It is Sunday, August 1, 2021, and I am in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia at a family party. Relatives have gathered from California, New York, Maryland, and Colorado to celebrate the 100th birthday of a beloved family member. My husband and I, and my brother, fly in from Washington state to join the festivities.

             The day is filled with warm hugs, delicious food, champagne toasts, and an eloquent speech by my aunt. We reminisce about the past, laugh about the present, and admire the young offspring of three young mothers, who, despite the earnest efforts of their husbands and the willing aid of the rest of us, look tuckered out. Fatigue is etched into their young faces despite their parental joy.

             I remember that fatigue. Chasing kids, keeping a household, caring for my elderly mother, nurturing a spousal relationship, and trying to impress senior partners at a large Seattle law firm took Herculean efforts. Family social events were fun, but they were not relaxing. I had to corral three rambunctious boys while trying to both help the host and have coherent conversations with others.

             I recall one Thanksgiving dinner, years ago, at my husband’s parents’ house. We herded our kids, cajoled them into suitable attire, and drove 40 minutes to my in-laws’ house. Their home was, as always, clean and bright, filled with not just the aroma of turkey, stuffing, and sweet potatoes, but the sounds of guests exchanging pleasantries.  The Thanksgiving fare was predictably delicious – and filling.

             Afterwards, we settled onto the couch in the family room, and my two sisters-in-law jumped up to help their mother with the dishes. I felt the familiar tug of female guilt. Though I had cleared the dining room table, I had not joined the female-only team assembled to tackle the massive clean-up job. I was just so tired; I could not summon the strength or the will to join the brigade.

             I nudged my husband’s calf with my foot and murmured that he should join his sisters in the kitchen so that I did not have to. Don was watching football games on television with his father and had absolutely no misgivings about doing so. He assured me that his mother and sisters did not need help, that I would just get in the way, and that they wanted me to relax and enjoy myself. And so, I sat, exhaustion overcoming contrition. To my recollection that is the only time that I did not take part in a woman’s time-honored tradition following a family meal.

             My mother-in-law passed away in 2014; my father-in-law had died years before her. Kate’s final years were marked by increasingly distanced relationships with her children, although to my husband’s credit, and that of his easy-going personality, they were never estranged.

  My husband and I helped clear out Kate’s belongings, among them her handwritten journal. The diary did not have many entries, only a few each year, and it was easy to skim through them. Don and I read her diary, hoping to find closure – or at least understanding – for her deteriorated relationships. What we found instead was anger, the deeply rooted, visceral sort leveled in response to perceived injustices. It was clear she felt unappreciated and taken advantage of.

             To my relief, there were only a couple of entries where I was mentioned. But one of them was about how I did not help with Thanksgiving dishes that day, her disapproving tone bordering on disgust. I was stunned, and yet, on some level, I felt like I deserved it. Her last communication with me, through her written words, was atonement for a generations-old female transgression that I had committed.

             I have broken out of that mold, as have most women I know. When our children and their partners were at our house for a recent gathering, I protested when people tried to help with clean-up. Our youngest son has a newer relationship - at least in comparison to the rest of the pairings. When my son’s girlfriend finished her dinner, I smiled and leaned over to pick up her plate. We played a little tug of war game with it, and she was horrified that I insisted that she sit at the table while I cleared the dishes.

             Unlike my mother-in-law, I am grateful beyond description that my children’s partners are in our lives. Their willingness to come over and hang out with us is the greatest gift they could bestow. I live in fear, just shy of mortal terror, that I will annoy them and that they will shun us, though the rational part of my brain knows that I worry too much.

  I never want my kid’s partners’ visits to become a burden steeped in obligation, somewhat like the chore of doing dishes felt to me years ago.