Addiction Affliction

                At a recent gathering with close friends, the conversation veered to addiction and recovery. I do not know how the subject came up, but someone mentioned that a family member, sober for many years, likened addiction to being without a cell phone and constantly wishing you had it. I suspect that the comment was made in jest, but it did make me think.

                 I can relate – just a bit – as I mistakenly left my phone at home a couple of weeks ago. I entered my office in Seattle and did the normal and predictable sequence: turning on the lights, hanging up my purse, and emptying the bag holding my lunch and a few personal papers that needed attention during the workday. I reached inside my satchel for my phone, but it was not there. I did not panic; I assumed that I had left it in the car. But no such luck.

                 I called my husband from my office landline, as he was working remotely from home. I asked him to see if my phone was charging at my nightstand in our bedroom, and it was. I briefly considered driving back to my house to retrieve it, but I sternly reminded myself that my phone was not that important. My sweet husband volunteered to bring it to me, but I cavalierly said it was not necessary; after all, I had a land line at work, as well as a desk top computer. I emailed my children and let them know how to reach me if something urgent came up.

                 I was slightly out of sorts without my cell during breakfast at my desk, as I usually spend 15 minutes catching up on social media. I consoled myself because I knew that reviewing work emails was more important. So, I resolutely plunged into absorbing and energizing client legal matters.

  It turns out that I was a bit naïve about my dependence on my device.

                 While I was editing dispositive motion pleadings for a court hearing, I reached for my phone to use the calculator app to confirm the math in the judgment summary. Oops, I don’t have access to that app. But no worries; I simply googled an on-line calculator and used that. During a morning break later in the day, it popped into my mind that I needed to put a message into my volunteer work schedule app, Homebase, to remind them that I would miss my shift that week as I would be out of town. Well, shoot, I am not going to be able to do that.

                 During a short lunch break, I intended to check the weather app to see how warm it would be in Bend, Oregon during our upcoming bike trip with friends. No such luck. Fortunately, I can google that information. And though I dislike using a work computer for personal matters, I allowed myself to do some quick internet research for Bend restaurants and biking routes.

                 I had a short meeting in the afternoon, and I reached, once again, for my phone. I wanted to use the camera to see if my hair was disheveled and if I had anything stuck in my teeth. Rats, I had to go to the bathroom and look in a mirror.

                 Things got worse when I wanted to send an email to a lawyer about a networking event. I could not get her address to auto complete in Outlook, but I recalled that I had her email address in my cell phone Contacts, and that would solve my problem. Or, it would have solved my problem if I had my device. Later, I remembered that I had promised a family member that I would take a picture of an amusing childhood photograph that I had in my office and text it to him. Oops, well, that would have to wait for another day. Throughout the day, I was miffed that I was missing the almost-daily pet pictures in our family WhatsApp group chat.

                 At the end of the day, I was relieved that I would soon be home with all the creature comforts of an iPhone 13 and excellent Wi-Fi. I automatically reached for my device to text Don to let him know that I was leaving the office, as I always do. Oh well, he will figure it out when I walk in the door.

                 I love my twenty-minute commute at the end of the workday, as traffic is usually manageable and because I listen to a book on Audible during the drive. Well, that is not happening today. It was not necessarily a terrible thing, as my current read is an austere account of what we, as a society, are doing wrong by placing the safety and security of the elderly above their desires and autonomy. I understand and respect the message; it is just a little tough to listen to. For once, the quiet drive home without a cellular device was just what I needed.

                 I just hoped that I did not have car trouble; I would have to stand on the shoulder of the road and flag down a sympathetic passerby to help, who would be mystified at why I did not have a cell phone with me.

Wrist Twist

                I am doing volunteer work at a livestock sanctuary on a recent Friday morning.  I am busy completing my chores, hurrying through them.  Today’s assignment is feeding and watering the small animals including bunnies, ducks, chickens, and guinea pigs.  It takes less exertion than caring for the larger animals, but it requires a lot of moving around, bending over, and hauling feed and hay.  I dump out and clean the plastic wading pools, which the ducks use as miniature ponds.

                 The sanctuary is brimming with activity: summer camp for kids is in full swing; the ducks are hungry and making a ruckus; and the volunteers are hustling around getting chores done.  I am clumping clumsily around in boots, dragging big hoses, and scurrying to complete tasks.  I want to finish faster than usual, as the list of things that I need to do at home before we leave on vacation next week is expanding not shrinking. I have mentally blocked out large chunks of time and roughly assessed whether everything can get done before we leave.  With luck, it can – just barely.

                 As I swivel and yank on a large hose, my foot catches on a coil, and I fall.  I break my tumble by dropping onto my right wrist, which bears the full brunt of my body weight. The pain is excruciating; I feel light-headed, and my periphery explodes with a vibrant cavalcade of stars.  I hop up quickly and make a joke about being clumsy. The teenaged camp leaders are a little stunned and more than a little worried about me.  My right hand is utterly unusable.  But I muddle through the rest of my responsibilities and then quit early.

                 I momentarily think about going home, taking Advil and waiting it out, but I know I have broken a bone in my wrist.  My wrist and hand are so sore and achy, I cannot even search for the nearest urgent care center on my cell phone because I cannot move the fingers on my right hand.  Luckily, son Andy responds rapidly to my texted plea for help finding a walk-in clinic. 

                 I drive to the clinic and sit in the waiting room after telling the receptionist that I am pretty sure that I have a broken wrist.  She is sympathetic but tells me to take a seat and wait my turn.  The next patient is summoned up front, and I hear her murmur, “I am SO glad I do not have a broken wrist.”  I clench my teeth, and feign light-heartedness, and say, “I heard that.” 

                 Finally, I am placed in an examination room, and a nurse takes my vital signs.  She assures me that the doctor will be with me soon.

                 I sit.  Pain, exhaustion, worry, and exasperation sweep over me.  In six days, we are scheduled to depart for Bend, Oregon, along with friends, and we planned to bike at least three days.  I briefly wonder if I can bike with my arm in a cast, and I feel ridiculous for even considering it.  I resign myself to sending Don and six friends off on their bikes each morning, while I trudge the perimeter of a golf course parking lot while listening to my latest Audible book, Being Mortal, a depressing, non-fiction exploration of getting old, becoming frail, falling down, and eventually dying. 

                 The physician finally shows up, and he examines my wrist and palpates it. He asks me to move my fingers and rotate my hand with my elbow positioned at my side.  By some miracle, he concludes that it is highly unlikely that I have a broken bone because I have decent range of motion and because I do not spew four-letter words at him when he presses on my wrist.  He is willing to take x-rays to confirm the diagnosis, but I assure him that I will keep an eye on the swelling and will come back if things get worse.  He gives me a professional spiel about resting and elevating my wrist, taking ibuprofen, and making sure that I periodically flex and gently rotate my hand. 

                 I hop in the car and drive home, a soft, breezy sense of gratitude quietly rustling around me.  I consider the role that vacation preparation stress played in my accident. I vow to slow down, practice deliberation, and ponder the knowledge that things get done even when approached with a measured pace.

  Well, at least when I have time, I will.

Obsessed by Chex

                 I push my shopping cart up to the checkout line at a high-brow, gourmet grocery store that I rarely go to. I make cheery conversation with the cashier to distract her from my purchases, as I feel slightly ashamed. She laughs at my silly prattle about how I keep my reusable shopping bags in the seat next to me in my car but can never remember to bring them with me. She consoles me when my credit card does not read when I insert it and says that they have been having trouble with that machine. I feel flushed and a little embarrassed.

  I am not worried about my card being declined; I am concerned that someone will call me out for buying four boxes of Wheat Chex.

                 I used to joke about running out of Wheat Chex, which is the only cereal I eat.  And cereal, embellished with nuts, dried cranberries, and assorted fruit, is all I eat for breakfast. Eating this concoction is by far the highlight of my workday.  The taste is spectacular, and though I suppose a nutritionist would steer me towards plain yogurt as a base instead, it is not going to happen. If I have room in my suitcase, I even pack it for travel.

                 There have been times when I have been low on Wheat Chex, either at home or at the office, but I never felt anxious about it. I would just stop at my usual store on the way to or from work, or simply add it to the weekly grocery list. But this was different.  I shopped for the product four separate times over four days without finding any. Chocolate, Apple Cinnamon, and Peanut Butter Wheat Chex were abundant, but not the plain ones.  On the fourth trip, I bought a box of Post miniature shredded wheat squares and one of Corn Chex, figuring that the toppings on the cereal would disguise the substitution.

                 I was not so lucky. The shredded wheat squares were bland and bordered on horrible.  The Corn Chex tasted as though I had poured unsalted Fritos into a bowl and drowned them in milk.

                 The next morning, I related my sad tale to an office buddy of mine, and he threatened to organize a cereal addiction intervention. In desperation, I negotiated with him for a somewhat-stale, half eaten box of Wheat Chex in return for my fresh, almost-full box of shredded wheat squares. I grabbed the Chex and ran furtively to the office kitchen, salivating in anticipation. I gobbled them down appreciatively, and when I finished, I once again began worrying about where I could get more.

                 I have always prided myself on not hoarding groceries.  In the early days of the pandemic, when toilet paper was low, I was never uneasy about running out.  There are only two of us in our household, and we do not go through it that quickly.  If stores placed a limit on TP, I never gamed the system by sending my husband back to buy more. I have always been thoughtful about not stockpiling goods to the detriment of others. If the supply seems low, I limit my procurement.

                 But this is different.  I wondered if there was a significant supply-chain shortage, and I confronted the reality that I could go weeks without my favorite staple. I considered alternatives like Cheerios but tossed the idea aside as they are flavorless. I like granola, but it is usually laden with sugar. Raisin Bran is readily available, but the flakes do not stand up well with milk.  Most everything else seemed to be aimed at children and brimmed with sugar and artificial colors.

                 Someone suggested I go to an upscale market that prides itself on organic and locally sourced foodstuffs. The thought had never occurred to me, since I did not think that it would buy from General Mills, a corporate producer. Despite my pessimism, I drove to the store, parked, and went inside. I toured different aisles and feigned interest in other products before going to the cereal aisle. I picked up a carton of blueberries and packaged shrimp, though they were over-priced, so that no one would think I was shopping for just cereal.

                 When I got to the cereal aisle, I was ecstatic to see a whole row of my brand.  I took two boxes, then a third, and I started to move towards check-out.  On an impulse, I scuttled back and grabbed a fourth box. I felt a bit ashamed, but I ­­­­­­­rationalized that I deserved to reward myself and that eating whole wheat cereal was healthy. Perhaps a donation to a food bank would absolve my guilt. 

                 Quitting cold turkey was not a possibility.

To Do Ta-Da!

                At a recent lunch with my brother, we reflected on the goal of simplifying our lifestyles. Both of us have a lot of moving parts in our personal and business lives. Those complications are what inspired me to prepare a financial “cheat sheet” for our kids that detailed assets, accounts, real estate, retirement plans, investments, buyout formulas, and insurance policies to ease their way through a probate in case Don and I died simultaneously. (Or, more likely, if we became useless to them as a source of information.)  I update the cheat sheet every year, and it always seems to get longer.

                 The cheat sheet is my life at the 30,000-foot level. As you get closer to the ground, it gets even messier. To combat chaos, I compiled a complex to-do list. I tried keeping reminders on the Notes app on my cell phone, but that started feeling too cumbersome. I also created electronic calendar events with daily repeats for urgent matters, but that began to overwhelm me. I finally resorted to an old-fashioned technique - a pen and small spiral note pad. I relished the thought of crossing items of the list. That worked for a while until the number of pages in my note pad became onerous: the items that needed to get done multiplied exponentially while the completed ones only decreased linearly.

                 Then I arrived at the brilliant idea of organizing my to-do list in a small, three-ring binder with tabs and a table of contents. I sorted my tasks into thoughtful categories, such as Finances, Volunteer Work, 2023 Remodel, Bike Trips, Hobbies, Home Maintenance, Vacation Cabin, and Miscellaneous Projects. I loved the tidiness and the all-in-one-place accessibility of my to-do list but creating an organized inventory for everything you need to do does not actually accomplish any of your tasks.

                 Some of the chores on my list are not time-consuming or even disagreeable, but I just cannot seem to complete them. For example, I should clean out the bathroom cabinet under the sink in our primary suite. As a reminder to do so, I placed my travel sized WaterPik on top of the counter after I returned from a recent vacation. The problem is that I came home from Portugal over a month ago, and the battery-operated gadget is still sitting next to the sink. Huge fail.

                 Similarly, I need to delete the GroupMe app from my cell phone, as my volunteer work schedule now uses a different app. I assumed deletion would be simple, and I blithely navigated to Settings on my phone and then selected GroupMe. So easy! Except I could not figure out how to delete the app. Googling instructions on how to delete it seems overwhelming, and I cannot complete this simple chore.

                 Some projects I start but I cannot get them across the finish line. I emailed a touring company about a credit discount for future travel, but I did not get a response. One would think I would follow up, but so far, I have not. I want to sign up for a half marathon in the fall, but I have not, though I have reviewed the website for the race. I cannot seem to get myself to clean underneath the produce drawers in my refrigerator even though they need it badly. To remove the drawers for cleaning, I must pull the refrigerator out from the wall so that the doors open all the way, and that is way too much work. One of our dogs is due for a senior health exam but she already goes to the oncologist veterinarian every month due to a melanoma that was removed several years ago. She is current on her vaccinations, and I just cannot pull the trigger for yet another physical exam.

                 But not everything is a failure. In a fit of exertion and discipline, I located the password for our children’s 529 College Plans at Fidelity. It has been on my list to close them out as our offspring graduated from college years ago. The accounts had small balances, but I could not figure out a way to close them on-line. So, I gritted my teeth and called Fidelity. After working my way through an onerous phone tree, I explained my request to the customer service representative. She gave me at least three warnings about the tax consequences of cashing out the accounts. I assured her that I understood that the IRS would be notified that I was receiving a check for $12.33, which was the liquidated value of the accounts.

                 I felt flush with success afterwards; at least I got one thing done. But instantaneously, I added four other to-dos, one of which was to buy a larger three-ring binder with more divider tabs. I am quite sure that the only thing standing in the way of getting everything done is better organization.

Relief Brief

                I read an interesting article today. Research psychologists have determined that human emotions fall into twenty-seven categories. I was surprised (emotional state number 27) because off-hand, I could only come up with about eight or ten feelings.  This explains why I only use half a dozen emojis in my text messages. Well, that and the fact that I live in horror (number 18) of using them incorrectly. I once read a social media post about a millennial correcting the emoji that her mother had used in connection with someone’s death. The well-intentioned mom used a crying emoji, but it was the one that reflects laughing so hard you are crying. She was mortified when she found out. (Note:  mortification is not on the list.) 

                 The research study participants viewed hundreds of evocative video clips and then reported their feelings afterwards. The data allowed psychologists to verify that there are 27 distinct categories, although most emotional states are a nuanced blend of moods, as opposed to singular, dominant states of mind.

                 On a whim, I decided to roll the dice and randomly choose one mood from the list and make it the subject of a blog post. I was intrigued with the assignment, but a little concerned. I am all about commitment, and I was not going to wimp out and discard an unpleasant emotion if I selected it. That is cheating, and I would be disgusted (number 13) with myself.

                 My husband may have thought I was buying a lottery ticket when I asked him to pick a number between one and twenty-seven. He considered the request thoughtfully, as though the answer would make a significant difference in our net worth, for better or worse.  He responded with “twenty-two,” and I counted through the series, and arrived at the emotion of “relief.” I was, well, relieved at the randomly chosen mood that I was bound to write about. It could have been number twenty-six, sexual desire. That would have been an awkward (number 8) blog post.

            I reflected on my day to decide if relief was present. I awoke at 4:20 am, and I could not get back to sleep, which was frustrating. (Why frustration is not on the roster, I have no idea.)  My morning run with Boomer the Dog supplied the first feeling of relief – at least when it was over. Running is a wonderful way to start the day, but it is exercise that requires effort, and I am always relieved when it is over. I also experience calm (number 10). Boomer has different emotions at the end of our outing, and they always amuse (number 4) me. He looks at me with awe (number 7) and adoration (number 2). He knows I am going to feed him breakfast, and he thinks staring at me will make it happen faster.

                 Next up was driving to my volunteer work at the Sammamish Animal Sanctuary in Renton, Washington. It is a pleasant, 25-minute drive with little traffic. But I am hard-wired to wait until the last minute to go anywhere, which means that I am always anxious (number 6) about being late. To be fair, I am a volunteer; it is not likely that I will be fired for intransigence if I am not on time.

                 It is the first day of summer camp at the Sanctuary, and the excitement (number 16) of the children and the teenaged counselors is beyond vibrant and a bit confusing (number 11) for some. The day campers are entranced (number 15) by the experience of feeding and petting the livestock. The farm animals at the rescue are mostly unperturbed by the unexpected energy, although the mini horses that are being groomed and ridden by the youngsters are interested (number 19) in whether that means they will be given extra treats.

                 My volunteer work today is rigorous: hauling hay, scooping poop, raking stall bedding, sweeping walkways, and shoveling out soiled sawdust from duck pens. But being around horses and barns fills me with nostalgia (number 21) as it reminds me of my youth and adolescence when trips to the stable and riding horses soothed my erratic soul. Completing barnyard tasks is satisfying (number 25) in an odd way; the farm animals are mildly bored (number 9) with my presence, and yet, I know my efforts are contributing to their well-being. One of the ducks, a sweet elderly girl with a gimpy leg, is always flustered by humans, and my heart goes out to her with empathy (number 14) because of her fear (number 17). I pick her up gently and murmur softly, as I place her on a clean nesting box filled with fragrant, fresh hay, and she settles in with relief.

  My three-hour stint passes quickly, and my fatigued body is blissfully relieved when I clamber into the car to drive back home. I have not eaten all day, and I crave (number 12) the taste, smell, and sensation of eating lunch.

                 After lunch, I drive to a local bank where my law firm has its accounts. It is a special occasion – the retirement party for an employee on the anniversary of his 34th year of employment. We are not close friends, of course, but a 20-year banking relationship is cemented in something more than just business. He gives me a warm hug when he sees me. I will miss him; I always admired (number 1) his steadfast calm and professionalism.

                 When I arrive back home, our lawn maintenance gardener is just finishing his work. It is the time of year when our yard is energetically bursting with blooms and blossoms – a simply joyful (number 20) exhibition of Mother Nature in her finest hour. I am aesthetically appreciative (number 3) of our gardener’s handiwork; he could have been a sculptor in another life.

                 Don comes home from work early at the very moment I am heading out for two afternoon dog walks. I am happily relieved that my dog walking time will be cut in half and that I will have company. It is a warm day, and I do not relish the prospect of too much time in the sun. It is a fitting end to good day, completely devoid of anger (number 5) and sadness (number 24).

                 Of the entire emotional list, the animals and I are only missing romance (number 23) today. I do not know about them, but for me, there is still time.

Land of the Midnight Dam

            On Tuesday night this week, Don packed for a trip to Alaska. In hindsight, I was amused at how many people asked me if it was for business or pleasure, even though they knew I was not going with him. You see, my husband does not take vacations without me. His idea of testing the limits of matrimonial devotion is having a beer with friends after work and missing dinner. Household routines, family pets, and the reliability and comforts of home are irresistible lures; well, unless I have dreamed up an adventuresome (aka expensive) vacation, in which case he is the first one to pack his bag.

             Don is traveling to an island near Kodiak, Alaska to look at a small, aging dam that creates the lake for the Kitoi Bay fish hatchery. These out-of-town projects are not particularly fun for me, as they require me to do twice the work at home. Our marriage has run smoothly for many years under a project management system, which is what happens when you are married to an engineer. We each oversee specific household tasks, chosen by ability – and, in some cases – on how much that task is loathed by the other person. So, when Don leaves town on business, my work at home is doubled. At this point, I’ve been known to mutter comments about him being a “dam” engineer.  But I digress.

             As he packs, Don relates the tale of his first business trip to Alaska in 1971 when he was 19 years old. He had just finished his freshman year as a civil engineering student at the University of Washington and was living in a fraternity house close to campus. He was thrilled to have gotten an internship for the summer at RW Beck & Associates, a large design engineering company. He was asked to travel to Petersburg, Alaska with hydroelectric power engineers who were assessing the condition of the Crystal Lake Dam for leakage or possible failure. Don’s fraternity brothers were impressed; what they didn’t know is that he was basically a human pack animal, summoned to haul equipment for the senior engineers.

             The trip was Don’s first travel to Alaska – and his first airplane ride. Once the group arrived in Petersburg, they took a short helicopter flight to the dam site. They completed their study within hours as the weather worsened ominously. Low clouds and heavy rain prevented a helicopter ride back down from the dam. Don and the company bigwigs realized they would need to walk back down to the town on foot.  Since Don was young and fit, the effort would be negligible.

  But then there were the bears.

             Don recalls a small band of black bears romping around the base of the dam, making a journey on the ground treacherous. There was an easy solution – sort of. Someone suggested walking back down on the top of the penstock, the large pipe that carried water from its source to the turbine in the power station. The penstock was less than two feet in diameter and was positioned 15-20 feet above ground. It was not envisioned, nor designed, as a conduit for humans; it is a steel, cylindrical conduit constructed for delivering water.

             Having no gymnastic, balance beam, nor tightrope walking training, Don was terrified of balancing on top of the penstock; he felt more comfortable walking on the ground. He asked the seasoned engineers if the bears were likely to attack if he did, and they assured him that they would be happy to do so.

             The crew began tiptoeing down the top of the structure. Don kept the bears in view, some of whom seem to salivate at the prospect of dining on a young college kid. Don was torn between the prospect of wimping out in front of company bigwigs, and the possibility of slipping and falling to the delight of the carnivores.  He was relieved when a couple of the engineers dropped to their bottoms to shimmy down the penstock, giving Don cover to do the same.

             The trip remains in Don’s mind as one of the highlights of his young life, though, as he relates now, “it was really great until the bears showed up.”

             I chuckled at his story. As an afterthought, I ask him whether there are bears in Kodiak. He said yes, of course, there were Kodiak bears there, and then he began mumbling about what time he needed to get up to catch a 7:00 am flight to Anchorage.

             My interest in his 1971 expedition is extinguished, and I run to my computer. I google, “are black bears or Kodiak bears more dangerous.” I am alarmed to learn the answer. It seems that Kodiak bears are second only to Polar bears in size and aggressiveness. 

             I can only hope that 60-something Don is less attractive fare to carnivores than a 19-year-old undergraduate.

Death Denial

            On a recent walk with a law school comrade, my friend mentioned that she was not afraid of dying. She is smart, vigorous, and healthy – and middle-aged. She has no reason to believe that her demise is on the horizon; it is just that you never know when the Grim Reaper is going to show up unannounced and casually beckon you with his forefinger.

             I was a bit dumbstruck by her comment, other than to be impressed that she had the courage to even consider the eventually. But ironically, I have been thinking about death quite a bit lately. Not in a gloomy, depressed manner, although to be fair, not in a cheerful, this-is-going-to-be-a-fabulous-spiritual-adventure sort of way, either. It is just that the signs are all around me that I am going to die. I fluctuate between denial and foreboding.

             Every doctor’s appointment fills me with dread. I am convinced that every new blemish is skin cancer, and I have told my dermatologist that I qualify for frequent flyer discounts for my constant visits. I breathe deeply and deliberately when my dentist is looking at x-rays or poking around my gums. The hand surgeon I consulted about the bony protrusion on my knuckle was confident that my ganglion cyst was not bone cancer, and testing bore that out. I apologized profusely to my primary care doctor during a recent visit for ignoring him for two years, and I complained that aging required too much health attentiveness. In a practiced, professional voice, he essentially told me that currently I had nothing to worry about, to keep up the good work, and to stop whining.

             I am reading a book by Arthur C. Brooks, From Strength to Strength, and it is not helping me ignore reality.  His hypothesis is that after middle age, ambitious “strivers” find it increasingly difficult to achieve success, and that even when they do, the feelings of satisfaction are fleeting. The second half of life is hallmarked by attempts to overcome natural age-related declines in physical capabilities and changes in intellect. His theory is that accepting and pondering death enhances the enjoyment and wonder of a mature life.

             I can embrace that premise, but my angst is dying younger than I want to. I am not apprehensive about the process; from what I have read, the act of perishing can be peaceful, and if it is not, at least the horror of it will not replay in my consciousness for decades afterwards. If I develop a terminal illness, I am confident that I can stay relatively pain free with medication. (Or alternatively, I can hoard it until I have compiled enough pills to take them in one fell swoop.)

             I am surrounded, and uplifted, by stories of elderly women who embraced their death with vibrant spirit and intellect. My aunt told me at her 100th birthday party that she was happy to go at any time, that she had had an extraordinary life, and that, “the world does not owe me anything.”  My maternal grandmother, who died at age 103, related to her pastor shortly before her death that she had no fear. One dear friend’s mother wondered, with humor, after hearing an ambulance siren whether it was coming for her, because she was “ready.”  And then there is the rockstar mom of a soul sister of mine who decided to take matters into her own hands at age 101, after a final visit to a beloved vacation home - she simply refused to eat or drink and lapsed into a coma and died eleven days later.

             It is not that I want to live forever – not at all. I just do not want to leave the earth too soon. A part of my brain wants to fight like hell and stay ambitious, successful, and accomplished for as long as I can and build a greater economic legacy. But the rational part of my mind understands that enjoying my remaining years with travel, connection with friends and family, and the joy of watching my kids’ lives unfold is far more imperative than material or professional achievement.

  I guess it is time to come to grips with descent and diminution. Or at least consider that I am not going to live forever.

Economic Workaholic

            It is my birthday, and I am rushing to get to the office.  I do not drive faster when I am in a hurry, but I shorten my stops at stop signs if I can, I accelerate quicker, and I spend more time changing lanes so that I do not have to slow down.

             The irony of worrying about getting to the office on time on my birthday is not lost on me.  I am the founding member of the firm and, thus, its most senior partner.  No one would bat an eye if I came in late.  I do not have a court hearing or an early morning conference call.  I just want to be on time.

             I recently pulled up a spreadsheet of my vacation days for the last ten years.  On average, I have taken 11.1 vacation days per year.  Two weeks of annual vacation is what I suspect most young people are given at their first full-time jobs.  In the legal profession, senior partners can easily take four to six weeks off per year and no one complains, assuming that they have important clients and regularly bring in new work that feeds less-senior staff. 

             But I have never felt comfortable taking very much time off.  I have always been the person with the biggest investment in my firm and the one most concerned with its viability.  Whether I need to be diligent to the point of anxious, I do not know – and I do not have the luxury of testing that hypothesis.

             A couple of times, people have referred to me as a workaholic, a term that irritates me to no end.  But to be certain, I pull up some internet research to help me understand the definition of workaholic.  Some distinguished psychologist surmises that it is a person who has an uncontrollable need to work incessantly.  That is not me.  Though I enjoy the anticipation of my workday, and certainly the drive into the office with fresh coffee, it is dwarfed by the feeling of driving home at the end of the day when my latest Audible book plays through the car speakers, and my agile little electric car practically prances with eagerness at hitting the highway.  I love thinking about sitting down to dinner with my husband, our happy hounds lying at our feet.

  My internet research also says that workaholics often have low self-esteem, are perfectionists, and are highly conscientiousness.  Okay, so maybe I have some of that, but what I do not have is an inability to set work and home life boundaries, a key characteristic of workaholism.  Other criteria include routinely taking work home, often staying late, continually checking emails while at home, and being mentally focused on work even when not there.  I do none of those things. 

  There have certainly been times when a major case – or business management – has stayed on my mind during non-business hours, particularly in the middle of the night. But it has been many years since I have brought files home at night.  Though I can work remotely from home, I do not because I do not want my law practice to intrude on my home life.  I do not give clients or opposing counsel my cell phone number, though if the stakes are high, I may check emails during the weekend or at night. But those situations are rare.

My belief about what it took to be professionally successful pivoted when I started my own law practice twenty years ago.  Though I had been a partner at a law Seattle law firm before that, and an associate attorney at two other laws firms, I was never responsible for the viability of an organization before.  It is different when your livelihood, and the financial realities of your life, is contingent on whether your business survives or not.  And the knowledge that your employees’ wellbeing is dependent on being employed by you is, at times, a crushing burden.  That fact drove me to be conscientious beyond reproach. 

  Law firm sustainability is based on many things: hiring the best people, pricing legal services competitively, marketing repeatedly, and developing a reputation for excellence in your area of expertise.  But underneath it all, humming incessantly in the background, is the demand for diligence, for watchfulness, and for consistency.  Call it what you want; those needs have kept me attentively drawn to every aspect of my business whether I am physically present or not.  

  An economic workaholic?  Maybe so …

Lyft Trip

            On a recent cross-country trip, I hired a Lyft ride to pick me up from the airport in Jacksonville, Florida and to take me to my hotel.  I was meeting family members for a life celebration, and taxis were in short supply.

             My Lyft operator was a cheerful and outgoing woman I judged to be in her late-30’s.  She drove a white, non-descript American-made car.  The Lyft app made it clear that I was required to wear a mask while in the vehicle, which suited me just fine. That the driver wore hers under her chin struck me as ironic.  But I was not going to make a fuss; I had read that it was hard to get ride shares in Florida, due to the age of the population and the fact that they like to drive their own cars. 

             I prefer to be silent when I am on ride-hailing trips, but I am polite if the motorist wants to talk. There is usually something to learn about the local community, and I always find something complimentary to say about the town.  In addition, riders are rated by the drivers, and I do not want to get a bad rating for seeming aloof.  This driver was particularly bubbly and, I thought, very interesting.  She told me that she owned a small ranch in a rural part of South America and that she was working in the United States to earn enough money to live there full-time.

             The conversation got a little odd when she told me that she had seven children and that she was in the process of adopting two more. Though I would ordinarily be taken by her generosity, I wondered how she could support nine children on a ride-share operator’s earnings.  I reminded myself to tip her lavishly as a tribute to her altruistic heart. She also related that she was retired from a career in the intelligence industry; I purposely did not ask her any questions about that occupation.

             Then she mentioned that she was divorced from a man who had cheated on her throughout her marriage.  The alarms in my head that I had silenced for most of the journey burst out loudly like ambulance sirens.  The last thing I wanted was to hear horrifying, intimate details of someone’s demised marriage.  I murmured sympathetic words and wished that the highway congestion would clear quickly.  I just wanted the ride to be over.

             I was relieved when the mostly one-sided conversation turned to the subject of cars.  She asked me what kind of car I drove, and I remarked that I gone all-electric with the purchase of a 2021 Mini Cooper.  She expressed surprise and asked how I liked it. I responded with polite and restrained enthusiasm that I loved not going to gas stations anymore, and that so far, the mileage limitation had not posed a problem.  My driver surmised that all-electric would probably not be workable for her as a Lyft driver, and I hastily agreed with her.

             As I had hoped, the dialog started to wane.  The traffic was now flowing smoothly, and my driver’s car-handling skills seemed steady and predictable – unlike the erratic conversational turns.   I had a growing sense that the rest of the ride would progress uneventfully.

             Then the driver turned her head towards me slightly, and said that she wondered why electric vehicles were created.  You know, she said, I think it is the government’s way of controlling how far we can drive.  She preferred gas-powered automobiles, so that she could fill up her tank anytime she wanted and drive as far as she desired.  She implied that the government could deliberately limit the installation of public charging stations, thereby restricting wide-range travel.

             I thought momentarily about her statement, my passenger rating, and the fact that she might be a lunatic conspiracy theorist.  As we were pulling up to the hotel, I said quietly and gently that I thought it had more to do with decreasing green house gases and the nation’s dependence on foreign oil.  When the car stopped, I hopped out quickly to avoid further dialog.  I pulled my bag from the trunk and said goodbye.

 I hope that my next driver will simply play intolerably loud and unappealing music on the radio, making conversation impossible.

Joyful Journey

            At approximately 10:00 am on May 11, 2022, our plane lifted off from SeaTac airport in Seattle on its way to San Francisco.  It was the start of a glorious, two-week vacation that was almost three years in the making.  I settled into my seat with nothing but gratitude that the logistical and organizational details were over.  Even the prospect of a nine-hour flight to Lisbon, Portugal from San Francisco did not deter me from delight. 

             Everything about the trip was wonderful.  We first spent a couple of days touring the Douro River Valley in northern Portugal, sauntering through wineries with views of brilliant landscapes and terraced vineyards.  The dazzling sunshine was a marked contrast with centuries-old brick work and shadowy, cool interiors.  I reflected on the luxury of not having to make decisions, of allowing someone else to decide where I went – and when. 

             Afterwards, we headed south from Porto to Lisbon, a vibrant and charming city inhabited by warm, gracious locals.  I practiced my very basic Portuguese, and I was proud that every person who heard me say, “Voce fala Ingles?” understood what I was asking.  The city was filled with magnificent architecture accented with Azulejo and geometric tilework.

             From Lisbon, we shuttled south to Monsaraz, Alentejo and began the first of six days of biking. Our days brimmed with dreamy scenery, stops for robust coffee, and flavorful and substantial lunches that made me contemplate being hauled out on a throne instead of barreling back out on a bicycle.  Throughout the days, we tasted olive oils and local cuisine, learned about cork production, and viewed Alquevada Lake.  We watched local pottery artisans, whitewashed houses, and verdant orchard groves on our way to the town of Evora, a world heritage site surrounded by ancient stone walls. 

             On the fourth day, we shuttled to the coastal Algarve region, and from there we churned through hilly terrain past flawless geography.  The rhythm of the pedaling complemented the sweet rustle of warm breezes.  There were times when the biking was effortless; for reasons unknown, my leg fatigue disappeared and was replaced with inexplicable liveliness.  The steep hills were a challenge, but they summoned me in a way that I could not decline.  I approached them with a steadfast resolve, and only once was I forced to get off and walk with my bike.

             On Day 5, we rode through Costa Vicentina National Park, starting at the southernmost tip of Portugal.  The ride alongside breathtaking coastlines to the town of Salema was almost surreal, an unfathomable beauty that I promised myself I would never forget.  Our final biking day was in the fishing village of Ferragudo, where I consoled myself that my sojourn was not yet over.

             Then it was onto Morocco, where we spent a couple of days in Casablanca, followed by a short visit to Marrakech.  The Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca was beyond spectacular, and I was filled with reverence for the meaning it held for Muslims.  Marrakech was colorful, lively, and busy, and shopping in the El Ksour district was almost overwhelming with the sights, sounds, and smells of local handcrafts and spices.

             It is hard to articulate how grateful I am that we were able to pack our suitcases and leave.  It was a privilege to be untethered from our residential and employment obligations.  While I was gone, I thought little of my work, though I diligently reviewed and responded to emails.  I missed our dogs, but I knew they were resilient in our absence and well cared for.  But to have the time, the resources, and the health to take an active vacation with like-minded friends is not something I take for granted.

             At one point while in Morocco, I tipped our cab driver the equivalent of the total cab fare.  I gave him an extra $10.00 for a $10.00 taxi ride, and he looked at me and placed his hand on his heart.  He paused, and his eyes softened as he thanked me. 

             But I was the one who was thankful. 

Residential Sentimental

            On a recent weekend morning, I drove past the house we raised our children in.  The location is on a side street off the thoroughfare I drive on to meet my Saturday morning running group.  I rarely go by the house, as I am usually late for a 7:00 start time.  But if I am honest, there is another reason I do not take that detour:  it hurts too much to know that it is no longer mine.

            As I drive by, I slow down, but not so much to alarm neighbors or passersby.  The house and yard look exactly as they did when we sold it in 2017.  Well, except that the landscaping is better maintained, the hillside foliage neatly trimmed with precision. It is the same roomy but not ostentatious structure that I always loved, a large daylight basement rambler with soft gray painted siding and white trim.

             My husband and I poured our hearts and souls into our home in the two decades we owned it:  multiple remodels to open up the kitchen, new staircase and hardwood flooring, bathroom renovations and laundry room upgrade.  The bedrooms were updated several times as our kids grew up and eventually moved out.

             As time went on, I confronted a growing realization that our house was starting to outgrow us.  The massive downstairs bonus room was quiet, and we rarely filled two bedrooms much less six.  The stunning guest bathroom with a luxurious walk-in shower and heated tile floors was never used.  Don seldom spent time in his large basement study, preferring to open up his laptop in a more vibrant area.  The laundry room was used less often over time, the days of washing sports uniforms and sweatpants long over.

             Our family was changing.  Joyful, but bittersweet, young-adult launchings occurred.  The yardwork was expensive to maintain.  We hardly used the beautiful living room or dining room, preferring the casual comfort of the kitchen island and family room.  Four thousand square feet was simply too much space, and I had a keen sense that our home needed a young family again, that it yearned for the bustle of children with their happy screeches and incessant busyness.

             We turned our beloved homestead over to just such a family five years ago.  It felt right that we did so, and though I still get misty-eyed when I drive past, I have a peaceful belief that my home is owned by people who are devoted to it. 

             Selling a house is not just about relinquishing a physical structure.  It is recognizing that your life has moved on to a new phase, one that requires something different.  I do not need the same property to remind myself of the chaotic happiness of raising our children.  I will always remember them charging through the hallway to their bedrooms, slamming doors, throwing things at each other, and hopping on barstools with hungry and appreciative expressions.  My kids played whiffle ball in the yard while our lazy little Labrador Retriever looked on.

              The house survived intact during our sons’ energetic and occasionally tumultuous adolescent years.  Sporting event preparation, loud music, parties, exams, and college applications all took place in various parts of the house.  Teenaged boys moved downstairs for privacy and, I suspect, easy access in and out in the middle of the night.  They went to college with predictable regularity, my angst at their departures assuaged by knowing they would be coming home during their breaks.

             And then their lives and their residences pivoted – for reasons of careers and independence.  It was just as it should be, though I felt a maternal tug of emotion about it. Knowing that they no longer needed a place to live felt like they no longer needed their parents.

             But I have found out that that is not true.  We are great at renting moving vans, handy at pressure washing decks, proficient at picture hanging, efficient at pulling weeds, and exemplary at walking dogs.  But at least now when we leave their homes, we do not worry about tasks that did not get completed.

              That is their problem now.

Television Disposition

            On Sunday afternoon this week, one of our two televisions went on strike. At first it was more of a partial protest: the audio worked but not the picture.  We assumed it was a Wi-Fi or cable box problem.  Don researched, re-booted, and remonstrated excessively.  We repetitively turned the TV in our bedroom suite on and off to assure ourselves that it was not a major cable company malfunction. 

             Don gnashed his teeth, and I offered consolatory words.  With upcoming travel that will last two weeks, I told him we should wait until we get back from vacation, and then deal with it.  In the meantime, this will be good.  Instead of listening to political commentary and news during meal preparation, we will turn on some music.  We can engage in warm conversation during dinnertime instead of commiserating about the Seattle Mariners leaving a runner in scoring position at the bottom of the eighth inning in a tie game.  This is an opportunity, I thought, for enhanced relationship connection and less reliance on televised entertainment. 

             It was a great plan.  But not having a second television in our house was unworkable after a mere four days – and three of those days, Don was away on a business trip.

             When Don was back in town on Thursday, Don resumed tinkering with the TV.  I unhelpfully mentioned that one of my co-workers had a similar problem, and that it only took 1 ½ hours on the phone with Comcast to figure out that it was a bad cable box.  Don looked at me as though I had suggested that he strap the 55-inch TV on his back and hike to a repair shop in the next town over.

             Then Don started discussing the age of the television and googled what its life expectancy should be.  I protested that the unit was not old, it could not possibly be dead.  Of course, I had no idea when we had purchased it; in fact, I did not even know what house we lived in when it joined the family.  Wi-Fi, televisions, computers, and all things mechanical are under the control and management of Don.  I am more of a big-picture person, like how we spent our time and money and whether it is time to clean the garage. 

             I knew Don’s path was diverging from mine when he started looking at TV’s on-line.  He was amazed to find out that we could buy an updated model for one-third of what we paid for our deceased TV.  Though he does not normally run errands on weeknights, I knew when Don made noises about Best Buy still being open and that it looked like they had what we wanted in stock, that he was headed out to buy a new one.

             A more supportive partner would have gone with him.  But my work day winddown was calling to me.  The dogs needed their final yard time potty break, and my nightly beauty ritual – which becomes more complicated every year – beckoned.  I made inadequate excuses about why I needed to stay home, which my husband accepted with his steadfast, ever-present sweetness.

             But the truth is that I had television shows to watch from the comfort of our bed.  HGTV summoned, and I was powerless to deny its command.

Vacation Vacillation

            My husband and I are scheduled to leave for a glorious, active, and long-anticipated vacation this week.  It was originally planned for spring, 2020.  I believed at the time that virus concerns would be behind us by the fall, but it became a global pandemic so that did not occur.  My optimistic nature thought we would take our trip in 2021, as we were heartened by the development of COVID-19 vaccinations.  But no such luck.  With trepidation, our biking group re-set plans for Portugal in May of this year.

             But I am not that invested in adventure travel right now, because, as they say, I am not a fool.  (“Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me.”)  There is a part of me that thinks the trip will not happen.    

             This is new for me because it is the flip side of what I usually think, which is that I might not come back.  That belief has simmered in the heat of my somewhat anxious subconscious for decades.  It does not hinder the anticipation and enjoyment of the trip, but even the wisp of that thought causes me to make lists that might seem merely organizational and tidy.  But again, I am no fool.  I make the bed before leaving town because I like to come back to an uncluttered and well-groomed bedroom suite.  But I also want it to look well-kept in case I do not come home.  I do not want my children entering my house, ambling through it, and shaking their heads sorrowfully at household neglect.  If they are going to be sad, I want it to be because I am maimed or deceased, not because my life was so chaotic that I left dirty dishes in the sink.

             So, I have approached vacation preparation completing the chores that we all do: paying bills (whether or not they come due while I am gone); taking the garbage can to the street; setting an out-of-office email alert; cleaning the house assiduously; and notifying those who need to know about our absence while making it seem like we are still at home for the rest of the population.  I updated a document called Financial Cheat Sheet in Case We Kick the Bucket, which contains everything my sons need to know in the event of my demise and reminded them seven times where it is hidden.  And, most importantly, I said “I love you,” to my children, family members, and close friends approximately 37 times in the last three days.

             But this time I am more worried about not being able to go than I am about not coming back.  I finished every pre-departure agenda item with exactitude.  I shopped for proper vacation attire, prepared detailed travel schedules, trained diligently for long-distance biking, meticulously reviewed office cases files, coordinated agendas with other group members, purchased a travel-sized WaterPik, and downloaded Audible books.  I completed obligatory beauty appointments and rituals.  (There is no point in taking photos in exotic destinations with a bad haircut and unpolished toenails.)  In any other era, I would be primed and ready to go.

             But that is not where I am at.  Don and I still need to pass pre-departure PCR COVID tests, a hurtle that seems daunting.  I have no illness symptoms, I am fully vaccinated and boosted, and I have been careful to avoid social gatherings for weeks now.  But to add to the uncertainty, a pilot strike may result in a cancelled flight to San Francisco so that we miss our flight to Lisbon.  There are just so many variables and moving parts.  I need the upcoming excursion immensely and it has been delayed so long, I just wonder whether karma will be on my side.  It is ironic that believing that the vacation will not occur is more concerning than wondering if I will come back. 

             Of course, until I find out that I cannot go, I will pretend I still am. This reminds me that I have blog posts to compose and schedule for while I am gone and a lot of laundry to do.  I have only three days left to apologize to the family dogs for leaving them behind.  I need to load up my Starbucks card in case my credit card company decides that I have been hacked and I need to eat a meal in an airport.

             Perhaps worrying about not being able to go is healthier emotionally than fearing I will not return.  If so, and my trip gets cancelled, I can console myself – while planning another sojourn.

Happy Mothers' Dismay

            I was volunteering at an animal rescue recently, wandering through pastures with a pitchfork in hand.  Two younger women, ages 17 and 21 were with me, the older of the two driving the “gater,” a motorized piece of farming equipment that hauls manure and soiled animal bedding.  The two of them were cheerfully discussing their complaints about their mothers.  They traded stories back and forth, verbally jousting to see whose mom had committed the most unforgiveable parenting act.  They alternatively shrieked and gasped at accounts of moms comparing them unfavorably to their siblings, disparaging them for dropping out of college, and generally denigrating them for their life decisions.

             I did not add to the conversation.  I just scanned the pasture for horse poop and hustled over to scoop it up, at times joking about manure imbedded in mud, which increases the weight and effort required by at least two-fold.

             It was tough to listen to their banter and harder still to avoid commenting.

             Some of their stories were disturbing, and some, I suspect, would be less so if I knew the context and possible youthful exaggeration.  But if their renditions were basically accurate, then my heart breaks for these young women – and for their mothers, as well.  These bright and rebellious young adults are finding footage in their lives socially, educationally, and vocationally, and missteps are inevitable.  From their parents’ perspective, it might be that their kids’ trajectories are disappointing and maybe even wrenching.  It is difficult to watch your children make choices that could have lifelong unpleasant repercussions. At least that is the fear we have as parents. 

             If my co-volunteers had asked my opinion, I am not sure how I would have responded.  I would have acknowledged their pain without commenting on their mothers’ conduct, I suppose.  Maternal angst is certainly not an excuse for hurtful and toxic behavior.  But at the heart of every unkind or abusive parental action is an adult who probably suffered at the hand of his or her own parents.  A wounded child can easily wind up being a damaged adult.

             What I might also have told these young women is that we are not trained in mothering, and the mistakes we make fill us with regret.  For most of us, raising our children is the single-most important task of our lifetimes.  It fills us with terror and dismay - and joy beyond articulation.  We think we know what is best for our children, but we are often wrong.  Fear prevents us from acknowledging that the growth of our offspring is dependent on letting go of the belief that we can shelter them from the repercussions of their decision making.  We spend years striving to be balanced, patient, thoughtful, and forgiving, but we often fall short, blundering our way through unknown terrain.  But our children’s happiness is at the core of everything we do.

             Parenting, and being parented, is a muddy, and sometimes poopy, pathway.   

Arms Up and Alarmed

            Like all first year law school students, we experienced the Socratic Method of teaching.  In theory, the Socratic Method is a technique of engaging students and promoting discussions.  The instructor asks questions and encourages students to explore concepts through dialogue.  The goal is to enhance learning by the student’s expression and participation – instead of simply listening to lectures and regurgitating information on exams.

             My first-year of law school was daunting.  It was not exactly harrowing, but it was not much fun, either.  I had classmates who loved the verbal interaction with law professors, zinging back and forth with them like analytical, but respectful, trolls.  Not me.  I was diligent about reading the materials, primarily case law, but when I was called upon, my heartbeat would quicken, and stress would practically obliterate every thought in my head. 

             I do not remember much about law school, as it was about forty years ago, other than my fear of flunking out.  But I recall the first question posed to me.  My Torts professor looked down at his roster, which he used to ensure that he evenly distributed his colloquy torment.  He scanned the room and called out my name.  His query was whether a tortfeasor could, by contract, absolve him/herself from complying with the standard of care.  In other words, if you sign a document that says you assume all the risk of, say, ziplining, and the company that operates the zipline is negligent, will the contract protect the zipline company if you are injured and sue for damages? 

             I answered no; I did not think you could contract away the standard of care.  I could tell it was the wrong response, but the professor simply asked me why not.  I said something artful like it just did not seem fair.  (A more gifted pupil would have discussed exculpatory clauses and the difference between negligence and wanton disregard.)  To be honest, I still do not know the answer to that question.  It is a good thing I did not become a personal injury lawyer.

             After my failed exchange in class, I sought out my professor during his open office hours.  I was on the verge of tears, but I wanted him to know that I was studying hard and preparing earnestly.  He was kind and sympathetic, and he told me you cannot predict who will become a good lawyer from how they answer questions in the first year of law school.  I left his office even more committed to my studies than I already was.

             The Socratic Method was not used when I was in junior high school.  Teachers would ask questions, and the students who knew the answer would raise their hands.  Most of the time, the instructor would call on someone with a raised arm.  Students usually only volunteered if they were confident of the answer, but some just liked to talk, and they seemed unperturbed if their response was incorrect.  A few classmates were brilliant but lazy; raising an arm was just too much work. If they were called on, they would respond correctly, and the teacher would move on to find another victim.  Answering incorrectly mortified me.

             As a young junior high student, I remember sitting in class and hearing my science teacher ask a question that I had no understanding of.  The teacher’s eyes roamed the room, skimming over the students with raised hands, and her eyes fixed on me.  She called on me, and I was certain I knew her intention, which was to embarrass me.  I could not fathom a reason otherwise.  In hindsight, I suppose it was possible that she wanted to engage me or improve my attentiveness, but I interpreted her questioning me as nothing other an attempt to punish me.

             There were only three possibilities in how I could respond.  I could hazard a guess, but I did not have a clue what to say.  I could also just admit that I did not know the answer, which in my young adolescent mind would be a win for her.  Or, I could stick up for myself.

             I paused, the silence around me more deafening than a rock concert.  I collected myself, and said, “if I knew the answer, I would have raised my hand.”  My classmates were stunned, and all eyes pivoted to see how the instructor would respond.  She turned on her heel and made a statement that was designed for everyone except for me.  “That is how Laurin demonstrates her lack of respect for education.”  The remark was intended to humiliate me, but for some reason it empowered me.

             I grew up a lot in the years following.  By the time I went to college, academic diligence was central to who I was.  Large seminars at a public university did not always allow for much discourse, but when they did, I was usually prepared.  More importantly, I understood that learning was my goal, and I did not ascribe professors’ intentions as malicious when they called on me.   

             I owe my seventh-grade science teacher an apology; my statement to her was profoundly disrespectful.  Perhaps she would respond by telling me that you cannot pick out successful adults by how they answer questions as young, rebellious adolescents.

Hunger Wonder

            I was eating dinner at a restaurant with friends the other night.  That event is remarkable in itself, since dining out is not what I do regularly, even more true since the pandemic.  But that is not the point.  While everyone else was admiring their selections with genteel commentary, I was trying hard to not devour my crab cakes in about three and a half gulps.  I was hungry, and they tasted spectacular.

             My dear friend sitting to my left remarked that she has been a finicky eater all her life. The comment gave me pause.  Who can be a picky eater?  Unfettered by decorum and social norms, I would be voracious.  It is hard to understand someone who is not.  I remember once devouring a left-over cold baked potato right out of the refrigerator and feeling like I had died and gone to heaven.  It is not as though I like all food – I am not a fan of olives, feta cheese, and those nasty, overly-seasoned chips and crackers found in the snack aisle of the grocery store.  But the list of what I will not eat is paltry when compared to what I will.  Gourmet food is mostly wasted on me, as the effort it takes to prepare does not deliver proportionally enhanced enjoyment.  Unless, of course, someone else cooks it.  Then the balance quicky tips in the other direction.

             I do not think I eat more than anyone else; what I consume is limited by my anatomy.  But the way I feel when I am hungry prevents me from being particular about what I put in my mouth.  Hunger can be almost animalistic for me, expanding into my consciousness and suppressing every other thought.  If hunger is a biological necessity, then I am gifted with a pleasurable and innate survival instinct.

             Boomer the dog and I do not have a much in common.  He is happy and carefree to the point of decadence.  He sleeps soundly without a care in the world.  He is insistent about being with his humans, and he shadows us around like the quintessential Velcro dog that he is.  But when it comes to appetite, he and I are hunger clones. 

             Walking or running with Boomer is an exercise adventure, mostly because he needs to keep his nose to the ground much of the time.  He would be horrified if he missed an imperative odor – or more importantly, a delicacy disguised as a leftover popsicle stick or an empty bag of Fritos.  I go on high alert when he sniffs for more than a couple of seconds, his snout circling and snuffling with increasing urgency.  That is the moment when I know he is about to gobble something inedible and possibly dangerous.  I always give a little yelp in a futile attempt to distract him from his mission.  But his sense of timing is perfect; he knows that when I do that, he must instantly gulp whatever it is that is enticing him.

             Then I grab his muzzle and try to pull his jaws apart, much like an alligator wrestler trying to save a baby animal that has inadvertently wandered into the swampland zoo.  Boomer locks his jaws and swallows as hard and as quickly as he can.  When I am finally able to open his mouth and reach inside, he looks smugly innocent, the delicacy half-way to his stomach by that point.  I am left to imagine how I will explain my dog-owner shortcomings to the veterinarian while she shows me x-rays of a leather glove lodged in Boomer’s small intestine.  Meanwhile, her staff works up an estimate of what surgery will cost.

             Our other dog, Bailey, is quite the opposite.  She will never eat anything remotely dirty off the ground.  Mealtime for Bailey is problematic; if the world is not aligned in quite the right way, she will take a pass.  We cater to her with a special mix of kibble and wet food, but even so, it must be put in a place of her choosing – a location that changes depending on her whim.  While she is nibbling on her meal, Don and I tiptoe around as though we are trying not to wake a fussy baby.  Any movement or sound can divert Bailey from her task.

             Giving a dog treat to a dog that is not food motivated is a challenge. Bailey will sniff it and look at us with suspicion as though we are evil predators trying to woo her away from her pack.  She often just walks away with disdain, her body language displaying her contempt for our ineffectual intentions.  We continually up the ante with her; right now, it is fresh sandwich turkey, but I suspect it will be grilled filet mignon at some point.

             Come to think of it, my friend and Bailey are just alike – at least as far as their refined palates are concerned.

Brain Dump

            I woke up Friday morning with a sore arm.  It was not unexpected, but it was aggravating, nonetheless.  The day before, I had gotten COVID booster shot #2 under my belt.  Well, technically, it was above my belt in my left arm.  I was not anticipating a significant reaction based on my experience with booster shot #1 last November.  After that vaccination, I felt tired and achy for about twelve hours, but luckily most of it was during my normal sleep hours.

             Despite my achy arm, I did my weekly volunteer work at an animal sanctuary, which is less about petting and cuddling livestock (although I sneak in some of that) than it is about cleaning up after them.  Suffice to say, it was a good workout.  I drove home afterwards feeling vaguely chilled and tired.

             After a routine doctor’s appointment in the afternoon, I came back home with the idea that I would work on a blog post.  But the allure of a nap was irresistible.  I woke up feeling okay, but not with my usual energy.  I felt a little fuzzy, and outdoor dog walks did not clear my head.

             But when it was time to write a blog post, I drew a blank.  I have dozens of ideas in my blog post file, but I could not seem to execute on any of them.  I toyed with the idea of just waiting until Saturday, but that day was already chock full of normal weekend busyness.  I did not want to add one more item on a to-do list that was already full. 

             Then I had an idea:  why not just type out whatever comes to mind for about the next 500 words, the writing equivalent of that weird brain wandering period right before you fall asleep?  It might be funny or revealing, and honestly, the idea of just being able to type without thinking about grammar, paragraph structure, or essay organization was compelling. 

             So, here it goes, I just need a trigger. Then, I look down at my arm as I am reaching for my water bottle, and I see a strand of hair on my sweater.

             Oh my god, I’m losing all my hair!  I did take the time to wash it before my appointment today for fear that the doctor notes afterward would reflect that, “the patient seems unable to care for herself.”  I have to say, it did not look bad.  While I was driving to Bellevue, my mouth felt dry, for Pete’s sakes, I have not had any water all day!  What is the matter with me?  I pull into a mini-mart and buy a big bottle of water, aggravated that I am spending money on a single-use plastic bottle.  The clerk says my hair looks beautiful, she is just so sweet, I tell her that I quit dyeing it at the start of the pandemic and decided to embrace my age, she says I don’t look old, I look elegant.

             Her remark makes me think about kindness, the type that comes out of nowhere, like the bursts of flower blossoms in April.  Our yard is gorgeous right now, full of color and life, and beauty and joyful awakenings.  I wonder when I will kill all those flowers.  Aren’t perennials really hardy?  Should I be doing something to them before they go dormant?  I know nothing about plants.  I have never had time.  But when I retire, I will need to start doing yard work.  It will be good exercise, and it will be consistent with frugality. 

             Frugality.  How did I become my mother?  She bought clothes at K-mart and then later, thrift stores and garage sales.  I go to a few department stores, but Target is up there, too.  I mend holes in sweaters if I love them. I eat leftovers with a vengeance; I can’t stand to throw food out.  Speaking of food, all we ever have in the refrigerator these days is produce by the bundles.  Our weekly dinner rotation that used to include a pasta dish, tacos, and burgers (beef for Don, salmon for me) seems to be falling by the wayside.  But we just love salads so much, and they are just so easy to prepare.  But I wonder if we are in a rut?  Maybe. 

             It is hard to know where routine overlaps with compulsion.  I cannot work or clean or relax or anything without some exercise first.  Well, but before I do that, I have to have coffee.  Coffee. What if someone told me I could not drink it anymore?  I anxiously scan news articles about health studies related to coffee.  So far, so good. But I am using single-use pods in my Keurig.  Not good.  Just like buying a plastic bottle of Dasani.  I consider whether I will start recycling pods.  It is a tedious process, and I am conscientious, but I do not think I am going there.

             Recycling at our house is annoying because the bin is in the garage.  We tried to keep in in the laundry room next to the kitchen, but Boomer the dog kept dragging things out to lick or sniff or chew.  The number one thing I want in my kitchen remodel is a recycling bin in a pull-out drawer.  I will put it right near the sink. I do not care about a fancy stove; I want convenient recycling.

             Speaking of remodeling, oh my god, I promised myself that I would do it 2023, but with contractor back-up, most of the planning will need to be done this year.  Ugh, it is tedious to think about, the endless planning, interminable meetings, and on-line searches for inspiration.  Maybe I just won’t do it?  No, I know I will, I just will not like it. 

             I am at my word limit.  Boy, was that easy!  Not pithy or insightful, or well-crafted or interesting.  But painless, uncomplicated, and simple.  And for me, today, that is good enough.

Slap Shock

            More than thirty years ago, my husband and I were hunting for a new house.  Our realtor suggested that we think about building one, and she sent us to a new, small development on a ridge overlooking the business district of our town.  There were two vacant lots for sale separated by a recently built house, which did not appear to be inhabited.

             We had our three-year-old son with us, who due to fatigue or more likely recalcitrance, decided he wanted to be carried.  Don went to survey the building site to the north of the new home.  I picked up Eric and walked the depth of the southern-most lot and then along its eastern boundary.  After a few minutes, Don called to me to come and look at the plat to the north.  To do so, I would have to either lug my sturdy child back up to the sidewalk, or I could scurry across the boundary line of the lot with the house on it, and within less than a minute, I would be off the property.

             I chose to go through the yard with the house on it.

             I hurried across the dirt yard, which was not yet cultivated with grass or landscaping.  I heard a shout, and to my horror, I realized that the house was occupied, and that a man and two little boys were sitting in a hot tub on the backyard deck.  The man yelled at me to get off his property.  I apologized profusely and hurried on my way.  Since I was more than half-way across his yard when he bellowed at me, it made more sense for me to continue forward than to backtrack. 

             My decision infuriated the homeowner.  He arose from the hot tub and berated me.  He was naked, and he stood tall and displayed his pelvis towards me in an act of masculine aggression. 

             I was terrified – and tearful.  I yelled for Don and ran up the hill to the sidewalk where he awaited, concern and confusion on his face.  After handing him our son, I told him what had happened.  Then I ran to the front door and rang the doorbell.  I do not know why I did that, but I was not going to disappear in a whimper at the hands, and genitals, of a toxic male.  A timid, bewildered woman came to the door, taken aback by my enraged demeanor.  The man appeared behind her, directing her to retreat.  I said to the woman, “your husband really upset me.  You ask him what he did to me.  Go ahead, ask him.”  And then I left.

             On the drive home, Don was quietly sympathetic, patting me on the shoulder, asking if I was okay. He did not get angry, at least not visibly.  He supported me silently, comforting me, and grumbling, “what a nut that guy is.”  He had my back, but he knew it was not his battle to fight.

             Will Smith could learn a thing or two from Don.

             Don understands what some men do not:  women are not damsels in distress.  We do not need men to fight our battles, nor avenge our honor.  I do not need a man to lay his cape on the ground so that I do not soil my high heels.  I do not need a male to challenge someone to a duel for insulting me.  If I have a beef with someone, I will let them know it myself.

             Men like Will Smith may be well-intentioned, but they are confused about what love and support look like.  When you “defend a woman’s honor,” as he did, you are implying that she needs a man to retaliate, that the female gender is weak.  Instead of kissing Pinkett Smith on her cheek and whispering something soothing to her, Smith chose to publicly affirm his physical masculinity.  Men who “honor” woman they care about with physical or verbal aggression defile the pure and beautiful strength implicit in womanhood. 

             If you are angry about how your partner or wife is being treated by a male, take cues from her – do not take power away from her. She is more than capable of asserting and exacting retribution of her own making.

             Do not get me wrong.  When it is all over, she might need a homemade dinner and a backrub.  At least I know I would.

Nighttime Spending Time

            Like most U.S. residents, I went to bed on Saturday, March 12th knowing that I was going to have a bad night’s sleep.  Unless you can sleep-in at will, in which case I deeply resent you, you will get an hour less of slumber when Daylight Savings Time begins. 

             I am the Queen of Insomnia, one of my most irritating, self-appointed titles.  It does not matter what is going on the next day; anything from a stressful conference call to hosting a simple backyard barbeque to taking a dog for a routine veterinary appointment will all interfere with my slumber.  But I consoled myself that the time change meant that my clock would register a normal waking time in the morning, even if I had to sacrifice an hour of repose to get there.

             But the night’s sleep was grimmer than I expected.

             I do not know when things started going badly.  Sometime after midnight, Boomer the Greatest Nighttime Sleeping Dog started booping me with his nose under my arm.  Usually, the boops start at about 5:20 am, unless I am foolish enough to stir at 5:00, in which case he decides that I am awake and ready to get up.  I scolded him, but he persisted. Clearly, something was wrong.  I crawled out of bed and remarked to my deeply slumbering spouse that my rest was over, that I would not be able to get back to sleep. Boomer bolted to the back door, and when I opened it, he raced outside and promptly threw up.

             At 4:00 am, I got a spam telephone call.  Though I try to turn off my cellphone at bedtime, I do not always remember to do so.  My frustration was boundless.  I cursed the originators of the spam call, the technology and analytics that routed the call to my phone, and myself for forgetting to turn the phone off.  Somehow, I managed to get back to sleep.

             But the worst was yet to come; I had a nightmare of mammoth proportions.

             I dreamed I was in federal bankruptcy court for a critical hearing on a high-profile Chapter 11 Reorganization case.  My law partner had filed a motion to convert the case to Chapter 7, but a personal emergency precluded him from arguing it.  The case was hotly contested: the debtor-in-possession was frantic about losing control through the appointment of a trustee and the unsecured creditors were angry about what conversion might mean for payment of their claims.

             I had assured my partner that I could handle the hearing with aplomb; after all, I was not a neophyte in this arena. But when I got to court, I had trouble finding the pleadings in my briefcase.  I fumbled around for them again and again, my anxiety spiking.  Though I knew the facts well, I needed the briefs for case citations during oral argument.  I regained my composure just enough to realize that I needed to leave the courtroom and spread out the contents of my briefcase.  I sauntered quietly up to the bailiff and asked that our matter be placed at the bottom of the calendar.  She glared at me but nodded almost imperceptively.  I scuttled out of the courtroom, breathing deeply to control my angst, convinced that my paperwork was in my briefcase.  I just needed to parse through my belongings carefully.

             But instead of finding myself in a quiet courthouse hallway, I entered a noisy gymnasium filled with cheerleaders practicing their routines, basketball players performing passing drills, and the sounds of a marching band in the background.  I dropped to my knees and emptied my briefcase, which was filled with paperwork I did not need.  I rifled through documents with increasing urgency, and as I did so, my belongings became mixed up with piles of binders, books, papers, and goods that were not mine, but which were overflowing all around me.  My panic knew no bounds.

             Then I woke up -- my relief was palpable beyond articulation.

             Ordinarily, I do not think about time-change controversies, but now I am a convert.  Let’s never do another one of those again.

One Right Decision

            I came home from the office on Monday, February 14th to a quiet house.  It was Valentine’s Day, and there were no flowers in a vase nor cards or gifts on the kitchen counter.  My spouse had not made restaurant reservations, nor had he bought groceries for a special dinner.  Don was working in his study, his ever-present sense of engineering duty consuming him.  We threw together our standard, almost-daily, dinner salads and chuckled at how unromantic we were.  We settled into our evening routine with practiced perfection and later crawled into bed with relief that our busy day was over.

             The way we spent Valentine’s Day says nothing about how I feel about my husband.

             I remember every mistake I have made in my life with exacting detail.  The things I have done well are harder to conjure up.  I now follow the advice of health-care professionals, and I am thoughtful about how I spend money.  I am a diligent homeowner, and dirty dishes never linger in the sink.  But those attributes only originated after a vast inventory of making bad choices, such as not going to the dentist for four years, or, in the early years of my marriage, landscaping the front yard and paying for it with a credit card thinking I could pay it off in a month.  I once booked an ocean cruise for our family when our children were young, and to save money, I reserved an interior cabin so small, it made an office cubicle feel roomy.  The list of bad decisions goes on interminably. 

             But I made one impeccable choice:  thirty-eight years ago, I married the right guy.

             Meeting Don was more happenstance than destiny.  We met in a stairwell landing in the office building where we both worked; Don was a young engineer, and I worked as a technical writer prior to going to law school.  Don was talking to a senior designer at the moment our paths crossed, and he told Don that he thought I might be single.  That conversation was the singular moment that started a trajectory that has lasted more than forty years.

             But more fortuitous than our meeting is how our core personalities align.  We view the world in fundamentally the same way.  We never question when the other person needs to work.    For both of us, hard work is a given, not an exception.  We agree on how to spend our money and our free time.  Loyalty is intrinsic to who we are.  We are stubborn to a fault about the things that matter, and we’ve got no quit.

             On the evening before our recent 38th wedding anniversary, my niece’s husband asked us the secret to a long and happy marriage.  Don paused, and said it was because he always has the last word in any discussion, which is, “yes, dear.”  I said it was because his jokes never get old, and he always makes me laugh.  If I ask him if he is getting a haircut and he doesn’t say, “no, I am getting them all cut,” then I will know it is time for us to seek relationship counseling.

             We took a vacation day this past week to celebrate our anniversary, and we spent two nights in a treehouse BNB.  At bedtime, we tiptoed our way to the communal bathrooms, the stillness of the night heightening my sense of peaceful gladness.  Don walked a step ahead of me, shining the flashlight on the trail so that it illuminated my pathway more brightly than his own.  He stood by patiently while I went through my thorough evening cleansing ritual.  Back at the treehouse, he waited for me to pick the side of the bed I wanted before slipping in beside me.  The million little things he does for me are more loving and meaningful than any gift or flowers he could ever purchase.

             I think next Valentine’s Day, we will celebrate exactly the way we did this year.  Except maybe we will go a little crazy and skip the salad and eat pizza, instead.  We may be comfortably mired in familiar routine after forty years of togetherness, but then again, we still have a few tricks up our sleeves.