Thanks

I'm propped up by several pillows in my bed and peeking out the blinds at what looks like mid-day.  It's not.  It's only morning, but when I'm alone, it feels later.  I had every intention on rising and rushing to another part of the city to do yoga with my favorite instructor, but part of me just wants to soak up this time to myself.  There will be a lot of that this weekend.  

Funny, I've had several people ask me how I feel about being alone. Some have a hard time doing things without company. Perhaps I have enough voices in my head to fill the empty space? Ha.  I am perfectly fine with dinner for one at a quiet restaurant or sitting in a movie by myself.  I've never had an issue with doing nothing or keeping busy. Both ends of the spectrum are comfortable places.  This little pocket of free time is a mini vacation for me. I had some rather hefty deadlines looming -- and I was able to get my class, my application submission, my legal data -- all the rather mundane details of my life in line and out of my hands, just in time for a long holiday weekend.

There will be no turkey this year.  That much has been decided.  Thanksgiving has become rather overplayed in our family.  I won't be missing it much. Instead, I'm driving north to a little riverside restaurant to have a luncheon with Mom, Dad, Bro and his family.  The kids will entertain their younger cousin. Then, after lunch, I'll be dropping the children off with their dad to be shuttled to some more traditional turkey affair with his family.  My sweet friend says she wants to meet for a cocktail later.  I think I just may have to do that.  

There's nothing to do and everything to be thankful for.  

I have a roof over my head.  I have less stress.  There are two smart, funny, healthy and beautiful children I call my own. I have loving, supportive friends and family.  I have managed to keep a rather positive outlook on life.  I am strong and healthy. I am happy with who I've become -- a happy, thoughtful, and introspective woman.  I am always learning and willing to grow.  All of those things trump the turkey and stuffing.  This may not be the "traditional holiday" this year, but I will continue to give thanks. 

Friday Levity

My Friday mornings have been hijacked by an intense back-to-back exercise class schedule. It's my own fault.  I figured if I was there teaching two classes already, I might as well do more. This is the fitness pendulum fully swinging towards insanity.  I question whether I am built to teach four consecutive classes.  So far so good.

This past Friday was a literal mess.  I made it just in time to gather up the Basic Fitness ladies and move them for thirty minutes of my simplified routines. Less hip circles. More toe tapping.  Less gesticulation of the body. More smile and sway.  It is my general gauge that I should not be making the seniors do the things that the youngsters do.  My classes are less twerky to begin with, but I've made even more adjustments as I watch the older generation's range of movement.  As we began the cooldown, I glanced toward the mirror to see an unusually dark sweat stain on my capris.  It wasn't in the typical crotch sweat triangulation.  It was dark and blooming in a strange circle. It wasn't sweat.

As a recent "graduate" of the Bloodbourne Pathogens online course, I was willing to bet that there'd be quite a mess on my hands if I didn't take care of this issue. Pull out the PPEs (personal protection equipment)..... on my own accident scene.  I pulled my shirt down as far as it could go. I ran to the front desk between classes to find someone, anyone who could teach while I drove my bloodstained ass home for a proper cleanup. No one.  My manager was out sick. My coordinator was out for her morning run.  I ran back to class assessing my pants.  My period looked literal a darkened period on the front of me. My personal hygiene products had completely failed me.

There was no other choice.  I positioned myself at such an angle that my crotch mess wasn't in plain view of my class and continued on.  Afterwards, I grabbed my keys and headed home to change during the 15 minute window between my abdominal class and Body Pump.

I've been teaching exercise since 2007 and never needed to do a wardrobe change. I've never had to handle a bloody situation on any members or myself.  As I drove home, I laughed at my good fortune to have made it that long without an incident.  Returning to the gym, freshly changed and cleaned up, class continued as if nothing had happened.  Other than embarrassment and some wicked stains, I survived.

The New York Girl with the Artist

I had an extraordinarily blissful weekend -- floating around for brunches and drinks with friends. Suddenly everyone is outside in their winter boots and leggings. Admittedly, I am one of them. I am reinventing my style from sweet summer casual to New York hip.  I unearthed a black floppy hat and would wear it with everything if people wouldn't stare so much. Why don't girls wear hats anymore?  I wore mine to dinner and again to a late luncheon knowing my friend would enjoy the sight.  White sangria in a tall glass looks better with a hat.  Nearly everything looks more interesting and alluring with a hat.  

I accompanied my friend over to a local art space.  They had just opened a new exhibition of mostly photographic works and I knew he would be interested. It's a place we'd tried to visit several times to network; it's always been closed.  Alas, the lights were on and we entered.  I watched the confidence slowly leak from his body -- arms and head slumping as he walked from one piece to the next.

"This is too good. There's no way" he muttered.

I gave him a hopeful look and reassured him that his work was phenomenal.  The artists exhibited here were from L.A., New York, Canada -- nothing local.  We walked around separate and then together -- in awe with most of it.  The gallery owner sat with legs propped up on his desk, talking to small Asian man.  

The owner glanced our direction, "Are you from New York?"

My friend replied, "She should be."

It was most certainly the hat. Maybe the hat coupled with tight jeans and a rock n roll, black on gray layered look.  Whatever it was, it became our "in" to make small talk.  I walked over and asked him about showing some local work.  He asked my friend if he was an artist.  My artist friend stammered and mumbled something.

I spoke up, "He's a photographer."

It was a good fifteen or twenty minutes of eye contact and connection. I became the PR girl.  The New York PR girl. My artist friend became quiet -- very, very out of character for him.

   

Since then, my artist friend booked several new shoots.  It seems he's rediscovered some vigor with his project.  I'm on the path to convincing him to give up nudes and start a series on bulbous fruits and autumn squash. He's unmovable.  He let me and his buddy into his studio after brunch and I began doing what I usually do when I'm in other people's spaces.  I began organizing. (why can't I do this with my own stuff???)

His coffee table is piled with various model photos strewn in several directions in varying sizes.  Then, there's this incredible heap of release forms (at least five hundred) in an overstuffed manila folder.  I carefully stacked them all in the same direction.  

"Look at that!" he said proudly. "I'm going to continue to shoot this series just so I can get more paper for that folder."

I tried not to look affected.  If nothing else, I am empathic; I can completely understand his concept of beauty and the art and angles of the female figure. Beauty. Youth. The play of shadow and light. 

I started in on reorganizing his series of sample model photos; there were ones printed on various papers or fabric or covered with wax or coated with some albumen mixture.  I arranged them by size -- strictly just focusing on the task -- as I watched my friend start to nervously twitch.

"Does this bother you?" I teased.

"No. Well, it's just I don't really know what you're going to find in there."

Little did he know I wasn't even paying much attention to the little girls in panties and underthings.  I was simply in process of making things look "calmer."  

Perhaps I am a quarter of a muse, one quarter housecleaner,  one quarter confidant, and the rest is just looks.....now in gray and black for the winter season.

Handy Girl

The french doors are open this morning on this start to a beautiful day.  It doesn't look like much, but it is quiet and it is my own beginning to Sunday.  This is the way every morning should start -- Mozart in violins, the soft nuzzle of my dog, the rumbling sound of my washer in the background.  It fills the senses.  Yes, the washer has become a romantic and triumphant sound to me.

 I've been living the past month in ninja washing mode, hurriedly collecting my dirtiest clothes and linens, stuffing them in the trunk of my car, and driving back to my old house for a mass washing (while others are conveniently out of the house).  It never works, of course.  The dryer at my old house only half dries things.  The timing is always awkward.  I'm loading things in back in my car and the ex thinks I'm home to swipe something really valuable, really functional, or really sentimental from our old house. I'm not.  I'm washing and folding goddamnit.

So Thursday I paid a used appliance dealer to deliver a stackable washer/dryer unit to me. Same day delivery and installation.  I paid a whole 20 extra bucks for that -- thinking it was the best deal ever.  You get what you pay for. He delivered, yes.  In fact, it took a total of 5 minutes from his flat bed trailer to the laundry room for him to complete the job.  There were hoses and cords dangling, dragging.  It made me rather anxious to see this unfold, so I gathered them up as he drove the dolly up the patio porch and over the various thresholds in the house.

Peter, the owner/dealer/driver/part-time handyman, took one look at my outlet and casually mentioned, "Oh, you need a new plug. Four wire one. Call me when you get it and I will finish the install."   What??
"You need a duct for the dryer exhaust, too."
What??  What happened to the installation? My heart sunk.

I tried to contain my frustration, but my body language must've tipped him off.  It had been a month without a convenient wash option.  Now I had to stare at this beast of a machine that was taking up space, taunting me.

"Listen," he said in a calming Jamaican dialect. "You could do it yourself.  Go to the store and buy a plug."  He borrowed a pen and wrote on a Post-it note a collection of circles and lines.
"Green is ground. White goes to the middle. Black and Red to the sides." He pointed to each and repeated several times, as if I'd never grasp the concept of electrical wiring. He stepped cautiously out of the laundry area, almost backing out as he could see I was rather pissed.  I was.  I was ready to smell fresh linen wafting through this musty old house. It became apparent that this is what you get for 20 bucks.

I stared at the plug configuration in the wall outlet and then hurriedly drove to Home Depot.  It was dark already and I knew this wouldn't  be a 5 minute project. Come to find out after 10 minutes in the electrical section of the store, plugs are in a separate aisle than the cords with plugs attached. I spent the first half of my trip trying to figure out how I'd fit a new plug on the end of my old cord.  The beefy short-haired lady in the orange apron calmly took me to the right aisle.  I started to leave, but something told me I needed something else. I shook off the thought, did the self-checkout line, and drove back.


I nudged the dryer to the side so I could peek at the back.  There was the cord.  There were some screws to unscrew.  I went to work removing the back panel.  Something about the whole exercise seemed empowering.  Screwdrivers and wires. Plugs and dryer vents --- OH! the dryer duct!  I glanced at the clock -- 8:47pm.  I had forgotten the duct and clamps.  Back to the Depot I drove.

As I swiftly walked to the help desk, the boy behind the counter said, "You know we close in 4 minutes, right?"
I tried my best to smile through gritted teeth, "That's why you're going to tell me exactly where to go."  I was THAT customer today. The one that looks desperate and on a mission.

Back at home, I installed the new plug. I crawled back into the space between the dryer and the wall and I was getting claustrophobic.  I attempted to clamp the new duct.  The clamps never worked the way they should -- or I am just completely inept. 20 minutes of pure frustration as the duct clipped and the clips shredded my palms.  Screw it.  I'm taping it. I asked my friend to look up online if I could use masking tape or duct tape.

"Don't do it, C.  It's flammable. Wait until tomorrow and get some foil tape" he cautioned. I gave in.  I would wait.

The last thing was to install the hoses for hot and cold.  Notice -- the hoses on the washer weren't labeled. They weren't even mentioned in the User Guide I googled online.  My friend said "heat rises, so let's just guess that the hot one is the hose on top."  It wasn't.  I let the load run and told myself I'd switch the hoses and be fine.



Yes, I'm handy.  I have tools and no fear.  I can read post-it note configurations.  It took 2 hours to do a 10 minute job, but I did it.  No fear.  I can do this.

Strangers

Any person in this situation would be conflicted.  That is what I tell myself.  When you build a relationship, a history with someone, there is bound to be an extended period of time, possibly years, that you hesitate making a split or decide whether it is necessary. It was a slow path to clarity that ultimately led me to this point: I am irrevocably heartbroken--not because of one singular event that caused a dramatic end to an otherwise solid marriage.  I am heartbroken because I realized that even with all of his great attributes -- like being a great father, being personable and affectionate -- I made too many exceptions to my personal needs and desires.  Too many times I discounted what ultimately is important for a lifetime long relationship.

Last night we met at our son's soccer game.  He was dressed to go out on the town. I was casual and bundled up in a sweatshirt and a hat.   We stood next to the field like strangers. He wanted me to spend the night at the house with him.  He made some excuse that we were going to see our son run at cross country in the morning, so we might as well.... insert failed logic here...  After all, the divorce papers are filed.  His response has been acknowledged.  The attorneys claiming stakes on a strange paper-filled battlefield. Ego. Words. Wit. Strategy.

I'm not expecting perfection at all.  Each one of us, especially me, is made up of a rather complex set of flaws.  As partners we tend to create some hierarchy of what's important to us, and if we listen close enough, we follow a kind of internal compass that can lead us to where we really should follow. Instead, I made a lot of exceptions and reinterpreted a lot of bad, bad situations.  It is what we do in our mind when we're hopeful for things to be ok.  Bandaids never work for very long.  Eventually the wound festers and it's all a mess.  I'm still heartbroken that he is who he is and I am who I am -- a combination that will, for all intensive purposes, not be good enough to last.

He is heartbroken too, of course, but for different reasons.

Hollow Night

Although last night was the official start to a weekend without the children, it was Halloween -- and therefore, an important holiday to spend canvasing the neighborhood with Spidey and the Vampiress. It was the perfect night for it.  There was only a slight chill in the air.  Our friendly neighborhood couple pulled a wagon full of adult beverages tucked inside. The children hit all of the important houses (the ones that've been known to give out the full-size candy bars).  They covered all but a small cluster of the 200 houses.

Afterwards, the neighbors seemed to be in a spirited mood.  Two doors down, Fred Flintstone handed me a bottle of cinnamon whisky.  It seemed like the right thing to drink when it's cool outside.  That warmed me up quite a bit.  Here it was only closing in on 9pm and the whole community seemed to be opening its doors.  Spidey and Vampiress dumped their respective pillowcases onto the dining room table and began sorting through their loot.  I took a photo of the Twizzler collection and sent it to my mother.  

It seemed like a good idea to text Fred's wife.  After all, we've got children the same age that hopscotch from house to house.  She had drifted into a neighbor's party.  I walked with a fellow neighborhood mom and my sweet Spidey across the neighborhood.  We heard bass and laughter in the distance and we followed the sounds of revelry.  Wilma and Fred were there on the dance floor along with a handful of other neighbors I'd never met in the decade I lived there.  I still feel like an outsider -- and now, I am the outsider. 

Fred waltzed over to the Radio Flyer chock full of premixed margaritas, bottles of beer and whisky. He handed me the Fireball and I took a few swigs.  It was the devil's hour. So while my son played with his little friends, I danced around the driveway with Wilma wishing I was somewhere else, somewhere quiet.  I wanted to be a ghost this Halloween, not some afro-wigged 70s girl. My costume was as mismatched as my emotions.  It was all wrong -- the whole thing.  It was the start of a very conflicted weekend.  

Fred mentioned, "I knew you were the cool one all along. You were one of the first people I met when I moved here and I could immediately tell."  

It was hard to take anything he said seriously.  After all, he was an oversized orange caveman with a blue tie using the light post to hold himself upright.  Something in the alcohol spoke truth though.  

"Good for you, C.  You deserve better." 

That seems to be a common thread.  Fred knew nothing of my marriage, and yet, he could surmise in the short bits and pieces of being two doors down that I had a challenging spouse.  I was the "cool" one.  

It was supposed to be quiet.  I was supposed to be a ghost in a quiet house with bedsheets and candles and soft music. I was, instead, in some disarray of obligations versus wants.  It was a hollow night that gave way to a hollow weekend.