SD Day 5: Running to stand still

I have now forced my children to run four times. Well, actually, only Jordan and I ran yesterday. India has run thrice.

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d. Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whined.

Yesterday, India absolutely, completely, unequivocally could not go because she had no running shoes and her regular sneakers hurt and that was that.

Then the ordered running shoes arrived and they were adorable and comfortable and she was utterly ungrateful about the whole thing.

The first day, Jordan complained the entire time, with India adding in her certainty of perishing from lack of water in the last 10 minutes.

His legs hurt. No, really, they hurt. His back hurt. His shoulder hurt. I didn't understand that they HURT.

The second day India complained that her feet hurt. The whole time. To be fair, her shoes are cute and gold but have no cushion. So when she said she was NOT running, I agreed.

Jordan only complained for about 25% of the time, and asked how many more minutes maybe 10 times. In the 30-minute time span.

But! We ran for 20 the first day, 21 the next, and 22 the third. We are very slow runners, but we keep moving.

Today my hope was 23 minutes of running but we ran for 20 under duress and it was fucking wretched the whole entire time.

We got to the top of a hill and a woman going by on a bike started laughing when she heard me say, "Now this is downhill! Stop whining!"

Like telling my kids not to whine has ever helped.

I have used encouragement. I have cajoled. I have lost my temper. I have stopped the timer and said, THIS 30 MINUTE RUN CAN TAKE TWO HOURS IF THIS IS HOW YOU'RE GOING TO BEHAVE.

I have never been fast at distance but I have always had strong legs and been stubborn. And to be honest, I like running. I like the motion.

But I don't like running so much that it's still a pleasure to drag two belligerent, complaining complainers along.

And still, I persist.

The first day India said she was going to run really fast and get there and be done. And I was like, that's not the point. The point is to run for 30 minutes.

Where?

Anywhere. Just...to run. For at least 20 minutes straight. We'll work up to 30.

We're not going somewhere? We're just...running?

(It sounds kind of stupid when you put it that way, doesn't it?)

Just wait till they encounter treadmills.

SD Day 4: Miss Truvy, I promise that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair

And it makes me smile, yeah it makes me smiiiile...

When I think about it, my life-and-death crises have been personal, not global.

When I was 11, and my mom and I found my dad unconscious in the shower, I knew it was an emergency. I didn't recognize it as a suicide attempt then, or even much later. But I knew we had to act quickly.

My mom froze, and I told her to call 911.

I was, she said later, good in a crisis. I was proud of knowing I could keep a cool head in an emergency.

I fell apart in quiet, unobtrusive ways after that--forgetting my homework day after day, for example. But I didn't get in trouble, because I was a good student, and a friendly, compliant one. I just couldn't remember anything.

Nobody thought that I might need help.

I had just started college when my dad attempted a second time. So I wasn't there to handle the crisis. We didn't even talk about it. I coped by crying a lot, gaining 40 pounds, and grinding my teeth.

We all thought we were fine. Moving to the US and starting college is hard. Girls all gain the freshman 15, don't they?

Thirteen years later, my mom called me at 7:00 am on a Sunday, and immediately I knew that Dad had disappeared. Had I subconsciously been waiting every day for this? I think probably.

I know every day after that I was. Every day until he died, a decade later.

But each time, I knew exactly what to do. I didn't cry, and I didn't freeze. I called the police, talked to them when they showed up, drove to the scene or to the ER. I got very cold, because that's what happens when I'm extremely upset. My body goes cold, sometimes to the point where I shake.

Does this happen to anyone else?

But I would deal with it and then fall apart later.

But chronicling my dad's numerous suicide attempts is not my point here. Or maybe it is. Clearly I've been thinking through it.

But I think what I'm doing is reassuring myself that if the worst happens, I will do a good job. Unless I'm the one who gets sick, and can't help my family, which is also a fear of mine.

I should probably burn my mortifying early-20s angst-ridden journals in case that happens.

BRB.

So, I just learned a new term: anticipatory anxiety.

My friend Kate, who works in a clinic and has comorbidities that put her at risk, mentioned anticipatory anxiety. She's fine when something bad actually happens. She's calm and functional in the moment.

But in the lead-up, anticipating the worst, she's extremely anxious.

And I would say this perfectly describes my reaction. I am so very anxious about us getting sick. As I said, I'm terrified of my mom getting C19.

(And when I say C19 out loud in my head I think of either Hey 19 by Steely Dan or 319 by Prince. Take off your clothes, C19!)

I know that we are in a lucky position, and I feel grateful for all we have. I feel fearful for so many who have no reserves, who are living out in the open, who are fleeing war and have their babies with them and are in crowded conditions with little to no access to care.

My heart hurts for so many people on a regular basis. And then when you slather the threat of C19 on top of that, it crushes me.

When I am upset for a sustained period of time, I get exhausted. Does this happen to you?

In fact, I gave myself a timeout because my kids were flattening me with the MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA. So while they're entertaining themselves and nobody is saying MAMA, I might just curl up and take a nap.

This triggers my Catholic guilt, even though we only went to Mass regularly for a couple years and I was never an actual Catholic, but I am so very tired.

Stay safe.

Love and hugs,

Lisa

Social Distancing, Day 2: O solitude! if I must with thee dwell...

Wanda firmly rejects Doodles with Mo Willems

In the immortal words of the Cure, "Whenever I'm alone with you/You make me feel like I am home again..."

And here we are, at home. We are alone together. Together alone. Together, so much together. So much not alone.

---

I am an introvert. Only other introverts believe me when I say this, so a minority of the population. But it is true. And I get peopled out and then I get crabby and kind of dysfunctional. Also, I'd be content to stay home forever.

The internet was made for people like me! I love interaction but it doesn't need to be face to face or in real time.

My son, too, could spend the rest of his life on the couch reading a book.

This is particularly hard on India and Nick. They, like other extroverts, need other people to recharge them.

---

Yesterday I felt very down on myself.

I'm in a WhatsApp group for second grate parents. And there are tons of amazing suggestions in that group. It's a terrific resource.

But what it mostly made me feel was that everyone else has an actual schedule that they're sticking to, and all these creative educational activities that they're actually making their kids do.

And then there's us.

We watched a lot of TV, to be honest. We took the dog out on some walks; this may be the most constructive thing we did. Oh, we also did Doodles with Mo Willems. But this was 30 minutes out of the whole day.

Me, I did some half-hearted laundry. I folded two sets of sheets, but since I now tend to just go straight to rolling the fitted sheets in a ball rather than actually trying to make them square, that hardly counts as much.

What I did most of was ratchet up my anxiety by obsessively reading the NYT and the Post.

---

Nick is going to the office, because there's almost nobody in the whole building.

While I'd rather have him safely at home and not worry that he won't wash his hands properly after entering the building, or maybe he'll forget and go ahead and lick the elevator buttons or something, it is better in so many ways that he's able to go to the office.

For one thing, he's so much more productive there. And he had to sign paychecks, which were there.

And also, when he is home for extended periods his stress washes into me and he tends to supervise me. Which causes me to feel all kinds of ill will towards him. Sometimes I walk around muttering under my breath and sometimes I have to just sit on my stabby hands.

I mean, we could all wind up being home together for weeks on end. And we are so lucky that we have a big house, and we are not packed in together.

Betty's floor is not self-contained, but she can be away from all of us.

Nick could shut himself into his office and be left in peace, assuming the kids would leave him be.

And I could be left to my unsupervised devices, watching Fuller House with the kids.

---

Actually, this afternoon the kids, Wanda, and I are going to go for a 30-minute run. We have bribed the children with cash money if they will go out for a run. I don't imagine them doing 30 minutes initially but we can jog for as long as they can, and walk the rest.

We all need the air.

I don't know how else to get them to exercise. They aren't interested in hikes in nature, and the last time we walked over to Rock Creek, one, the part we go to was full of other people, and two, India insisted on getting on the exercise equipment and frankly I will be apoplectic if that happens again.

---

My mom is the one I'm most anxious about. I mean, I have asthma, and that's not great in terms of this dread respiratory virus. But my mom is 82, with high blood pressure and COPD.

She's been sick for over two weeks, although she got an antibiotic last week and it's made a great difference. But when she gets sick she takes to bed and stays there.

This turns out to have been a blessing, because two weeks ago she canceled some non-urgent appointments. She hasn't been out and about in the world.

I'm very thankful for this. But I still fear that we will infect her.

At her age with two comorbidities (which autocorrect would really like to change to commodities), she is solidly in the group that does not tend to survive Covid19.

Autocorrect also likes to change any misspelling of "asshole" to "asshoke" on my phone and I am all, duck you very much. As it turns out, I write asshole on a regular basis. Who'd expect?

I had never given any thought to the word "comorbidity" before now. She has two comorbidities.

And on a side note, before the election of 2016, I had also never given any thought to the word indicted. Have I told you this before? I can't remember.

Nick asked me to google if someone had been indicted and I spelled it "endeighted" and said I couldn't find any information.

Now I know how to spell it.

---

Betty is a paper product enthusiast, so we are set for toilet paper and paper towels.

We have goods that will last, like beans. We always at least have lentils. We have rice because how do you live without rice? I just ordered some more peanut butter and a 10 pound bag of chocolate chips, because that seemed like it could come in handy.

---

Really, though, what I would like to know is how you are.

So, how are you? How is the situation in your neighborhood, state, country?

How are you feeling, physically and mentally? How is your anxiety level?

What are you doing with your time?

And perhaps most importantly, what are you doing that is good for you?

Stay safe, my friends.

Love and hugs,

Lisa

She turns herself 'round and she smiles and she says "This is it, that's the end of the joke"

As it turns out, I've spent much of my life growing out my hair.

I mean, obviously I'm living my life forward while the hair growing is just happening, but it's this annoying cycle where I grow it and then I think I just really need a change and cut it all of and often dye it as well and then spend the next year or two growing it out again.

I have had a bob, on and off, since I think the end of 10th grade.

Some people live their whole lives just having nice hair and living with it day to day and not fucking with it on a regular basis and perhaps you are one of those people, and why can't I be you?

At any rate, the growing it out is tedious and grim and I never know what to do with it to make it look cute in the in between times. And as Fleabag said, "HAIR IS EVERYTHING. ANTONY."

As such, I decided I needed something fun to make it feel less tedious and grim.

I also decided last time was the LAST time I'm lopping it all off, so I might as well take advantage of the short short and do something extreme.

So I bought a tube of Joico semi-permanent magenta dye, which a woman at the gym who has lovely purple streaks recommended.

And then I asked Nick if he would put it on for me.

I showed him some YouTube videos of people applying hair dye with a dye brush.

Because I like to have ideas but then fall down on the planning, I had to borrow a dye brush from a friend, because I couldn't find one for purchase without buying a box of dye.

Additionally, the only gloves we had that Nick could even squeeze his giant baseball-mitt sized hands into were dish gloves that as it turned out practically cut off his circulation.

Then yesterday morning I wondered if the color I'd chosen might be too strong, and Nick was all, "If you're going to do this, you might as well be really bold."

So then I asked him if he thought maybe he could just do the roots magenta, so my hair looked like it had dark pink roots and then the ends were white.

And he was like, "Uh, I don't think I have that level of skill."

So he put it on and when I voiced concern that he might not be getting it all he very firmly reminded me that he is rather detail oriented.

And this is true. RATHER. DETAIL. ORIENTED.

I learned years ago that any man I would ever love would be detail oriented and that detail oriented people do not like being called anal retentive.

So.
 
So I tried to just keep my mouth shut and then India took a picture of me so I could have some idea what it looked like. And then I washed it and was like holy cow is that, uh, bold!

I am not going to lie; I was wondering if I'd made a mistake in color and taken on more than I can carry off.

Although the fact is that with each wash more will come out. I don't know if it will get stuck in the bleached parts or not, but they'll have to be cut off eventually anyway.


India was like, "I love it so much, Mama. You look like Mal."

This warmed my heart. She loves Descendants.

But every time I catch my reflection in the mirror I'm a little surprised.

In any case, this morning I went to a core class. I love the instructor, who makes us do terrible, terrible things. It's amazing.

This is the class where I met the woman with the purple streaks. When I first asked her about the purple in her hair, she showed me a photo of her hair when she'd gotten it professionally done all pink and platinum and it was fabulous. (It had also taken 12 hours and cost $900, which made her sit down and cry. Or maybe she was already sitting. Anyway.)

I was stretching and chatting with another woman at the end of class and she told me she loved my hair, and the instructor agreed. I thanked them and said I was still getting used to it.

I said, "My husband did it for me yesterday!"

One of them said, "Wow! Is he a hairdresser?"

And I was all, "No, a lawyer. Very detail oriented."

Yah, so I might order some XL gloves and some purple dye and maybe next time he can just do the roots?

Cheese in the Bahamas with you...

Growing up, we didn't have family living nearby. We'd see them for a week or two in the summer time. And me, I have so little family as it is.

So our overseas friends became family. They were who we celebrated holidays and birthdays with, who we turned to for support, who we called in emergencies.

You already know Jane, Jane who was in my wedding and took credit for telling me to marry the man with the boat.

You don't know Sarah, but you might meet her sometime when she breezes through town. She lives in Cape Town and has been absolutely everywhere, and every once in a while I get a text asking if she can stay with us (of course) and she's on a bus down from NYC that very moment.

She's come to stay when I've been gone, and friends of mine have dropped in and had tea with her and then when I come home they're all best friends already.

Everyone loves Sarah. People who've met her once reminisce about times with Sarah.

We've known their family since the 80s in Delhi. Candy and my mom became instant friends. I have vivid memories of them giggling in the living room.

Jane and I lived together in San Diego. I'd only been driving a year when she arrived, and she said every since she gives directions like, "In one mile, you're going to need to be in the right lane..."

The photo above is of Jon and my dad at the Pushkar Camel Fair.

Anyway.

I don't know how it is now, because it seems like you can get everything everywhere, but when we were growing up, every time someone returned from the US or Europe, they were always laden with things you couldn't get in whatever country we lived in.

Peanut butter, deodorant, face cream. I think the weirdest thing my dad ever asked for was a tennis ball shooter machine. Or maybe car tires.

In any case, I grew up used to taking requests and carting weird and heavy things. It was just what you did for friends.

The beginning of January, Betty and I spent a few days visiting friends on a tiny, glorious little island in the Bahamas.

Was it as magical as it sounds? It was.

They live in South Africa, so when they said they'd be in the Bahamas for a bit, we jumped on the chance to visit them much closer to home.

We bought tickets last minute. I organized after school care for the kids. My friend Andrea, who happened to be in town and who I'd just had coffee with, offered to walk Wanda.

I asked Sarah if there was anything we could bring. Because I'd heard the stories of the things they cart to Spanish Wells when they go. Everything has to be brought by ship, so it's very expensive, and brands are limited.

Their only request was walnuts, cheese, and nice crackers.

By now it was Thursday night.  We were leaving for the airport at 5:00 the next morning. We searched the house.

Walnuts, we had. And a nice Manchego, almost two pounds. But no other cheese! And no lovely crackers!

I was home fixing the kids dinner, so Betty immediately headed out to the shops around the corner. The one that would definitely have the nicest cheese was closed. But she managed a brie and a couple blocks of cheddar and scads of crackers.

Lest a cheese enthusiast decide to snack on one, I put them all in a ziploc bag in the fridge with a note that said: TAKING TO BAHAMAS. DO NOT OPEN.

Nick came home during dinner and opened the fridge. He saw the sign. And then he said, "Are you allowed to take cheese to the Bahamas?"

Allowed to take cheese? What kind of question was that?

He looked it up and said, "No dairy products."

I said, "Cheese isn't really dairy dairy. It's packaged."

"Lisa. You could get in trouble. What if you wind up in Bahamian jail?"


"We'll just pretend we had a snack for the plane and forgot to take it out."

"You've got like 5 pounds."

My mom said, "It'll be fine."

So I messaged Sarah and told her Nick was nervous and she said to tell him it would be fine. So I told him it would be fine but he remained unconvinced.

I think of Nick as much bolder than me, but he's also a lawyer and gets all liability focused and rulesy which is often very helpful like when I was trying to pick a fight with the police but then other times seems more like a nuisance.

So.

We arrived. Nobody asked anything.

We got in a van that drove us to the water, whereupon the driver pulled all the bags out of the van and loaded them onto his boat and off we went.

As we neared the dock at Spanish Wells, people in the boat started pointing and asking what was going on.

Helloooooooo!

Because keeping pace with the boat were two golf carts full of people waving enthusiastically and tirelessly.

At us! Our friends were waving at us!

We laughed and waved and waved, all the way to shore.


As it turns out, there are cars but people mainly get around by golf cart, so we rented a golf cart. It was great fun, once I got past my twitchiness about a) driving a golf cart and b) driving on the left side.

We did almost lurch into the side of the house one day when I forgot to put it in reverse.

Oops!

But we didn't!

The visit was perfect. I wished I could stay a month.

We went for walks in the soft, soft sand. We watched a sea star scootch along the bottom.

Candy read us her poetry. Candy and Betty hugged and giggled like old times.

Jane and her son and I went exploring and wound up at an outdoor beach bar, where they played in the hammock and tossed coconuts and we enjoyed cocktails with our toes in the sand.

I was going to put this photo on FB and Jane said to caption it, "It's not better in the Bahamas." And to add the hashtag "big lie".

Since I don't tend to hashtag my FB photos, I wrote out the word "hashtag" instead of using a #. Later Jane very sweetly said, "Um, Lis, I don't know if you know about hashtags, but you use the # rather than the word..."

Then Sarah accused Jane of using dumb hashtags.

Hashtag verycontentioussubject

And then, just like that, it was time to go.

Three days is not so long, after all.

And no matter how many days, time is always too short with people you love.

We had a grand goodbye at the dock, and their golf carts followed the boat and waved and waved. We giggled through tears.

Coincidentally, the woman sitting next to us in the boat was also named Lisa. The sweetness of the goodbye brought her to tears as well.

And then my mom asked her if she was a Democrat.

Why, Betty, why? Hashtag why?

The kids sure were glad to have us back.

Nick has been calling us cheese mules ever since.