On faking it in really nice shoes and other things

Googling “how to get over feeling sorry for yourself,” and thought, “Why not share?” That’s the short answer to “Why are you writing this?”

 

Other things I have googled today: 

how to handle toxic people, calories in stroopwafels, toxic positivity, when to take a rest day, why do I keep doing this to myself. That last search item was more of a waste of time than anything, I think because the wording was too vague. I also played Wicked’s “Dancing through Life” at least five times because I like the song, am massively crushing on Jonathan Bailey, and hope to one day have the kind of personality where I am blithely comfortable with dancing through life because, “life’s more painless for the brainless,” per lyricist Stephen Schwartz, and who doesn’t want a painless life?

 

Me? I tend to RUN through life. In really nice shoes. That’s an Alexis from Schitt’s Creek reference and it’s somewhat true too. Yes. I’m referring to running in the sporting sense. But also. . . here’s where I just deleted everything I could write about but won’t at least right now. Buy the book. 

 

Yesterday I drove a small moving van for a couple of hours, with snow falling but thankfully not sticking on road. I love to drive, and snow usually doesn't bother me. But I’d never driven a vehicle this size or weight before. I was terrified. Took about an hour of singing to Wicked and Chappell Roan to calm down as I drove. Then I cleared out a 10x10 storage space: boxes and bags of clothing, home décor items, some furniture. The bags were light enough. But some of the boxes were close to one hundred pounds, shaped awkwardly. Took a ton of NOT dancing through life, NOT skimming the surface to load everything. No panic attacks, thankfully. But I certainly wasn’t keeping cool, like Stephen Schwartz’s lyrics recommend. God Jonathan Bailey is hot. 

 

Easy drive back with lots of singing to stay alert. I kept the windows closed so no living things were harmed by my croaking. Also, the singing kept me from delving too deeply into my own psyche. The feeling sorry for myself clouds were definitely gathering at this point. My arms ached, back ached, the “I’m too old for this” voices in my head were whining non-stop. 

 

Thank God for Chappell Roan. I sang a lot to Femininomenon. I’ve also decided to rename Fall 2024. Henceforth for me it’s Femininomenon Fall because I moved halfway across the country,  slogged a couple of marathons in far off lands, moved part-time back near home, and learned to take up space/ scream like my life depends upon it: “Did you hear me? Play the fucking beat!”

 

As I was in the process of making the 20 or so trips (not exaggerating, that number might even be a little low) from parked van to new to me condo, body aching, dying inside from self-pity, an elderly neighbor approached and said he wished he could help but he couldn’t. 

 

If I had a nickel for every empty offer over the last five, ten years, lifetime. . . 

 

Then he followed that up with some comment about how strong I am. If knowing how weak you are is a sign of strength, well yeah, I guess I win. Now must google “fake it ‘til you make it” songs. Ugh. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hi. I'm injured.

 Hello. Meet injured runner me. 

 

First. Never ever ever ever ever ever ever under any circumstances EVER tell an injured runner, or any runner for that matter, that running is bad and they shouldn’t do it. 

 

A few days back I had to set someone straight about some things. Okay. I didn’t have to. I could have walked away. I did walk away. Limped away. Eventually.  

 

I’d just run – yes it was a run, not a slog or jog or run/ walk. It was eleven miles of heaven. Fast too. For me I mean. Not Boston qualifying fast. Not place in the top half of a race fast. But fast enough to leave me feeling like my own hero. And who doesn’t want to be that? 

 

Granted, I can’t take full credit for this, my best run in years. I ran it with the help of an anti-gravity treadmill. 

 

I am an injured runner with a hugely important, once-in-a-lifetime-I-kid-you-not event on the horizon.  I need to be faster than my usual slow. I need to actually train.  I need all my body parts to work.  

 

Step by step, I’ve been working at getting faster. Also step by step I’ve been developing an injury. I’m at that point where I’ve tried all the things: rest, ice, compression, elevation, Advil, stretching, cross training, complaining. 

 

I’m at the bring in the big guns so I can keep training point. Found an Alter G and found a physical therapist.

 

Finding the Alter G was easy. 

 

The PT part? Complicated. 

 

I live in a constant state of Iowachusetts. Iowachusetts is what happens when your kids live in two particular, vastly different locations and you can’t stand being away from either of them for too long. 

 

There are insurance issues regarding who I can see where. My insurance only works in the state of the dropped R. My PT appointment there is soon but not as soon as I want. 

 

Ugh. No one ever said it would be easy. Or worth it. Or asked if I wanted fries with that. Don’t you hate when you know what you need and paperwork gets in the way of you getting it?  Why can’t people just give me what I need when I need it? 

 

So. After my eleven-mile fantasy run, awash in endorphins and renewed hope, I stopped into an Iowan orthopedic urgent care place, ready to pay out of pocket to get a diagnosis so that I could immediately start getting care for my heel that needs to heal.  

 

First thing out of the medical person’s mouth as I followed his blue clothed body down the corridor to the exam room was not “how are you,” or “my name is,” or “what do you think of the weather.” You know, normal pleasantries that you’d expect given the circumstances.  This person’s first words were, “Oh you’re a runner. You know you need to stop that.”  He laughed. 

 

Okay so I laughed politely for a half second, but thought, “what a jerk.” His next words – we’re still walking down a corridor: “Let’s get you to x-ray.”  I reminded? explained to him that, as it said on the paperwork he was holding, I was paying out of pocket and politely (barely) asked what that would cost and above all else how the heck did he know that I even needed an x-ray. He shrugged and said the x- ray was procedure, and he’d ask the doctor about cost and necessity. That’s how I found out this blue guy wasn’t the doctor. 

 

Still have no idea what his job was, other than to rub me the wrong way, because as soon as he left the room to get that info, I bolted to the front desk and said I wanted my money back. “Said” here means demanded. 

 

The reason (s): Fifty years a runner. Twenty-five years in and out of physical and other kinds of therapy. I’m an educated consumer. At least look at my foot first, flexibility, movement, etc. before asking me to spend another couple of hundred or more out of pocket. 

 

Blue guy comes out and asks why I’m leaving. 

 

I could have repeated what I told the desk person. But why would I do that?

 

Me: Let me give you some advice. Never EVER tell a marathoner to stop running. 

 

Him, laughing. Laughing!!! “I was just joking.” 

 

Oh yeah. He went there. He was just joking.

 

Think I blacked out from rage at that point. Think I barked out some choice words before limping out of that clinic in a self-righteous huff, the most satisfying of the huffs. 

 

On the Alter G yesterday, someone came up to me and asked what I was doing and why. I told her about my injury and my upcoming race. That’s the answer to the doing part. When I figure out the actual why, maybe someday I’ll tell someone. Until then: Why not?

 

I'm trying to talk about stickers but can't seem to get there

 New computer. More writing. 

 

Today I am determined to finish what I sort of started yesterday, a brief rundown on the meanings behind my laptop stickers. 

 

Never thought I’d become a sticker person, yet here I am. 

 

What exactly IS a sticker person? I have no idea. All I know is that for some time in my life, I saw people divided into two categories: sticker people and non-sticker people. This begs more exploration. But not today. I have places to be and physical therapists to see. 

 

When I turned in my computer a few days ago, I was a bit surprised at the weepiness that welled up inside me during what should have been a simple, bloodless act: transitioning from a dirty, dusty, sticker plastered, crunchy keyed mess filled to the brim with photos and writing to this sleek and almost empty metal box filled with all kinds of possibilities. 

 

My old computer had personality. This new one is a blank. The duality to me is clear: death and life, out with the old and in with the new. Yes, I know I’m over thinking. But am I? Really?

 

For me, tossing things I’ve had around for ages is hard. I could write books on saying goodbye to my kids’ baby clothes and toys. Could go into excruciating detail, stomach hurting stuff, about cleaning out my childhood home. In the grand scheme of things, trading in one computer for another is about as minor as it gets. 

 

Or is it? 

 

I’m at that point in my life where I’m starting to think about who I am, who I was, who I want to be, and what, if any, marks I will leave --intended or not, upon this world. In truth, I’ve thought this way almost my whole life and will likely one day write a longwinded explanation about that. 

“Almost” because a person’s got to live in the present once in a while, right? You can’t always be thinking about the meaningfulness or meaninglessness of your actions, can you? Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the spontaneity? 

 

Stickers for me represent spontaneity. They’re stupid little acts of rebellion against a society that wants me and others like me – women of a certain age maybe? to continue being the good little girls we were raised to be. 

 

Is that a stupid characterization? Maybe. Maybe not. And it’s too narrow. I could write more on that but don’t have time. 

 

My stickers make me smile. They remind me who I am and sometimes they remind me of who I aspire to be. And because they’re on things the public might see, like my laptop and my car, they let strangers know who I am too. 

 

That’s some scary shit, letting strangers know who you are. Especially in this day and age. Cue the web search on human psychology, fear, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, and so much more. 

 

Think I’m done writing for now. I’m wanting to veer off into topics on safety, protecting oneself through anonymity, politics, changes in society, the importance of holding some things close, and holding your enemies closer, being a force for good, rising up once more even when you know you’re going to get knocked down again. Which brings me back to reality. Gotta get to that physical therapy appointment and heal some overworked body parts. I only have a few months until the next big adventure. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I got a new computer

 I got a new computer.

 

Promised myself that as soon as I got the new computer, I would start writing. 

 

The new arrival entered my world yesterday, satiny finish, smooth keys. Not a cat hair or crumb in sight. I am not worthy. This thing is hot.  

 

Spent the last hour exploring social media in a way I have not been able to since the old guy gasped its last breath. Yes, I have a cell phone. But I have no patience for tiny screens and tinier keyboards. My one true love’s cause of death: age (damn you, built-in obsolescence), suffocation (cat fur), and drowning (an unfortunate wine spill – is there ever a fortunate wine spill?). 

 

Moving on. As we all must. 

 

Confession: I teared up as I bid au revoir to Mac 2018. Given the depth, breadth, and sheer number of losses the last few years, which I mostly handled dry-eyed, this was a bit of a shocker. Crying over a piece of hardware? That’s just weird. 

 

For me, sadness over the big things leaks out slowly and always when I’m least prepared. Yay for coping. Yay for trauma. Yay for emotional numbness. Yay for when the tears finally start to come. 

 

I love my new Mac. I love that the biggest problem in my very own tiny snow globe of a life the past month has been living without my old Mac. 

 

The other day I volunteered with a local refugee organization. A grownup woman cried in my arms. Now what do I do? 

 

This piece didn’t turn out as I’d hoped. And it’s not done. I’m glad. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 NANOWRIMO 24 Day 4

 

Prompt: Write a story that includes a reoccurring sound 

 

You’re a liar. 

The clerk frowned. “You okay?”

Looking up from my inky fingers, I nodded. Deep breath. “I will be. I hope.”

“You’ve got a little ink on your face. Here.” He pointed to my cheek. 

“It’s a bruise,” I said.  

The clerk winced. 

I had a bunch of matching ones on my inner thighs, but the clerk didn’t need to know that. 

 

You’re a liar. 

Clicking the pen, I scrawled my signature and handed over the paperwork. The restraining order was one page. One flimsy page. It weighed nothing but the words on it, crammed, tiny, splattered with tears, spilling into margins, carried universes of memories, some good once but overshadowed by anger, denial, acceptance, self-hate, which was the worst. That last one would take a while to recover from. 

 

“No one will believe you. You’re a liar.”  Him, my in-laws. He’d enlisted all of them:  father, mother, brothers, sisters. They all said it. Phone calls, voice mails, emails. As if repeating their words over and over would make them true. But I knew better. 

 

The clerk directed me to the courtroom, which was two flights up. The elevator was convenient, but I opted for the stairs. I ascended slowly, each painful step reminding me. 

I’m not a liar. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 NANOWRIMO 24  Day 3

Prompt: I awoke one morning, after uneasy dreams, and find myself transformed. 

 

The cotton sheets, comforter, pillows, rug, all the lovely trappings of the Killarney Royale Hotel are gone. There is only a pathetically small pile of straw, strewn over a hard, dirt floor. My legs are bare, bony. What happened to my calf muscles? Where are my leggings? I’m in a cotton nightshift too thin for warmth. My stomach cramps again. Again? 

 

The room is dark and silent, except for my sister, whose snuffles and sighs must have awoken me. She is on her side, curled up like a cat, shaking in her sleep. I cover her bare arms with handfuls of straw, then study my surroundings. 

 

As my eyes adjust, I see a crude wooden stool, a small table with spindly legs, a blackened hearth. Other than that, our cottage is empty. Well of course it is. We sold everything else for food -- stale bread, mugs of thin soup. How many days ago was that? Too many.  My stomach is on fire. I grimace.  

 

Stifling a groan, I rise onto stiff legs and limp toward the turf bucket. It’s still empty, just like yesterday and the day before and before that for weeks on end. There’ll be no remedy for the cold again today. 

 

The room spins and I lean against the crumbling mud wall to steady myself. Through our window, I see that outside, the sun is rising, shedding golden light over a land that has betrayed us: blighted potato fields, and shallow graves where the kitchen garden used to be, resting places for the parents, the grands, and some neighbors too. I’ll be next if God is kind, but it’s likely my sister won’t have the energy to bury me. It’s almost her time too. Our bones, picked clean by whatever animals still exist on this hellish plain, will stand as testament to our history, the cruelty of the land, the government, the so-called religious urging us to convert to Protestantism so then we can be fed. 

 

I recall my dream. Two sisters, bellies full, wandering our fields which are not decaying but flourishing, in strange men’s clothes, pantaloons tight to their legs, brogues laced halfway to their knees, and carrying packs that buckled at their considerable waists.  They were laughing. 

 

Yesterday, when my sister was resting, which is all we have energy for now, I sat among the graves, tore up handfuls of grass sprouting up from the dead, stuffed my mouth. Like a sheep, I was, chewing and swallowing as though my very future depended on this miserable meal. My belly cramps again. As I double over in pain liquid gushes from between my legs. I pray that it’s blood. I pray that it’s all that I am.  Jesus and Mary, the saints, and every holy thing, take my child. Take me too. 

 NANOWRIMO 24 Day 2

Needs some editing, but that's for another day.  

Prompt: The day the mirror shattered

 

 

The sounds: dings, beeps, groans, murmurs.

The locale: Intensive Care Unit

The characters: mom (dying), daughter (crying), assorted disinterested medical workers. 

 

The hand of the younger woman who was mid 50s? early 60s? -- grief, especially sudden grief, ages one quickly --  was soft and freckled,  pulsing with life. It clutched – if one can clutch desperately but gently too, the hand of the other, which was unnaturally white and punctured with needles, bandaged, bruised black and red, cold. Too cold. 

 

They were practically doppelgangers, obviously mother and child, separated by decades but connected in ways that couldn’t be seen, but even objective observers, like disinterested medical workers, could feel. Their hair, both recently shaped, chin-length bobs, was dyed the same brown, though the patient’s was tangled, wet with sweat. The daughter wore a pink cardigan over a paisley button down, Christmas presents from mom, who had laughed, delighted, when she opened her present that year, which was the same. In most ways, they were reflections. 

 

The mother’s green eyes were closed. The daughter’s green eyes were open and tear-filled. 

 

She nodded to the doctor. “We’re ready,” she said. 

 

While the nurses unplugged the dozens of tubes attached to the computers surrounding the hospital bed, swiftly, efficiently, too easily the doctor ripped off the medical tape on the patient’s lips, then coolly pulled out the ridged tube that coursed through her throat and down to her lungs, ignoring the gagging sounds that alarmed the daughter and made her jump, gasping and trembling, grabbing her own throat, from her chair.

 

“Stop! You’re hurting her! Please stop! This isn’t right.”  

 

A nurse put a calming hand to her shoulder. “It’s done,” she said. “The suffering. It’s done.” She pointed to the heart and blood pressure numbers, both dropping swiftly until within seconds they reached zero and the machinery stopped. “Her heart was too damaged. It was her time.”  

 

Shattered, the daughter sobbed and stroked her mother’s hand. “Take me with you, Mama,” she cried. “I can’t live without you.”

 

From far away, she heard the doctor’s words, calm and self-assured. “You’re still young. You still have years and years of living ahead of you. Do you truly think that’s what your mother would want? For you to die too?” he said. 

 

Gasping the daughter dropped her mother’s hand and rubbed at the sudden pain radiating from her jaw to her shoulders and arms. Wide-eyed and breathless, she said, “Yes. I think she would.”