Tag Archives: first world problems

It’s Not You, It’s Me.

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We fired our cleaning ladies this morning. It’s a little heartbreaking because we’ve had them for years.

The urge to do it wasn’t an urge at all, but a slowly moving snowball rolling down a 30˚ slope toward my face. I am at the bottom of the hill, lying in a pile of my own havoc and the havoc foisted upon me by my three wonderful and active boys, two dogs, busier than bananas husband and newly busy self.

It’s probably The Worst Time of The Year for me to do this, to let them go. Halloween candy wrappers everywhere. Dog hair is at an all-time high although I’m not sure why because don’t golden retrievers keep their hair in the fall? Tree leaves and those little sharp-as-frack seed pods from the tulip poplars are all over my front walk-up, they look like confetti in my front hall, and in other places they have assembled in neat little piles beneath my dusty furniture. They’re insulated by the dog hair; perhaps they will all commingle and create a small yet dense forest beneath the bench near the umbrella stand crammed into a darkened corner.

I can feel it in my gut: letting the Cleaning Ladies Go is The Wrongest Idea Ever.

The thing is: it’s me. I can’t do it all. I turn into a VIPER FROM HELL the day before they cleaning ladies come. I’ve written about it and I’ve also suppressed the hell out of my emotions regarding this situation.

“Three boy,” one says in her broken English. She’s a lovely person. “That mean hard works for ju. Ees a lawt.” Part of me realizes this is an affirmation on their part that I NEED them. That I can’t exist without them.

I can exist without them. I just won’t clean my microwave without them. When I see them, I want to fold into their ample bosoms and heave and cry because it IS A LAWT. Driving to soccer five times weekly, music lessons twice, therapy once, teaching yoga four times a week, taking yoga just once, grocery shopping, cooking, walking dogs, laundry (just mine and the youngest’s), using the bathroom, and wiping down a freaking countertop … We don’t really over-schedule our kids, but I’m wiped out by Friday and that’s when they come. Fridays. And peeps, having them come the same week as my Lady Time, IS A RECIPE FOR DISASTER.

don't eff with me.

the cleaning ladies are coming and I’ve been bleeding and sleepless for four days? don’t eff with me.

Prepping for the cleaning ladies and then having my kids NOT HELP AT ALL hits a very exposed nerve.

It taps the utterly most raw and deepest part of me: feeling invisible and unheard. That I don’t matter. That I’m replaceable.

It’s not the cleaning ladies who do this; they are amazing. They get that shit done in two hours and the house is presentable. It’s my team. My family. I honestly fantasize about taking off to Newark and finding a five-star hotel and crashing there, using all my yoga teacher money to stay one hour there and then get back in the car and drive to Trenton where I can find a diner and order a grilled cheese on rye and a bowl of tomato soup and I’ll use the VISA rebate gift card I got when I switched contact lenses last month. Then I’ll buy gas with the rest of the balance and drive back home to children who when they see me after my long, unexpected and restful journey, will say,

“Where are my cleats?”

So it’s not you, dear cleaning ladies, it’s me. I can’t handle the stress of prepping for you the night before. My kids don’t give a damn and having you show up just to stack the piles of their collective crap, and the crap I’ve not put away in time and the crap my husband hasn’t put away in time… It’s not worth it. Not this time of year. Not when Thanksgiving is three weeks away and then freakin’ Christmas. (“Mom, can we get a PlayStation 4??? Everyone says our PS3 sucks…” <– that. I want to take a sledgehammer to the PS3 and ask them if it really sucks then.)

When I say to people, my public, these things… these sort of quasi-deep yet revelatory (if you get where I’m really coming from) confessions about the State of my State, it’s because I’m tired. I’m tired of being The Answerer here.

The other night, we grilled the most fabulous pork chops. They were on the grill for 20 minutes after marinating in brown sugar and mustard at room temperature for about four hours. My husband, whom I love, cut into the chop and asked me, “Is this done?” as he showed me the cut loin.

Internally I SCREAMED, “WHO THE FUCK AM I? A HUMAN GRILL THERMOMETER? DO I LOOK LIKE WOLFGANG FREAKING PUCK??” but externally I coolly said, “Sure.” And returned to sharpening my knives.

I am not Everyone’s Mommy here. I am a human being too.  Everyone knows that when I’m sharpening knives, I’m NOT to be disturbed. That’s why I walk around with the sharpening steel at all times now.

So this morning, I did what I could. When he was getting ready for his escape from the house work this morning, my husband sensed my disposition. It couldn’t have been the knife-sharpening again…

“Ev-everything ok, hon?”

“No. Yes. No. It’s all FUBAR,” I said. “I can’t do this alone. There’s a hammer in the dining room and I don’t know why; my pruning shears are in the bathroom — I DIDN’T DO IT… and shit everywhere. A firewood log in the playroom?? Cleats, shin guards, soccer balls, those effing black rubber flecks from turf fields… I want to stab a phone book except THOSE don’t exist anymore…”

“Let’s just cancel them.” He said.

IT WAS LIKE THE SUN SHONE IN MY HOUSE. The angels were singing.

So he left and I did what I could.

I prepped the front walk-up. I swept the leaves and seed pods out of the way. I got rid of catalogs (OY! WITH THE CATALOGS!). What I really need to do is go out with the girls in my life. But we’re all so busy. I think this is why people plan adventures to far-flung places (Hoboken) and get impossibly drunk because when you’re on a schedule like the ones we endure, there’s no time for R&R.

I know I sound ungrateful. I’m not. I’m blessed like no one’s business. Three healthy boys, a great marriage, the dogs, the yoga teaching and so much shit that I lose my mind every fortnight to get it the hell out of the way. I get it; it’s just … that I’D LIKE SOME HELP for THE HELP.

I know they’ll be back. I’m no fool. The cleaning ladies are my heroin(es).

They just got here. No joke. Gotta get back to making little piles…

Bye.

Thank you.

On Writing … Muses … Bathrooms … Daffy Duck … Palms … and Order from Chaos

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My email box “ding!’ed” this morning with a message from WordPress telling me it was time to meet my blog’s weekly posting goal.

Would I like to write more often? Of course. Can I? Sure. Do I feel like I can do it whenever the moments strikes me? No. Oftentimes, I’m washing dishes or driving to a lesson or in the middle of sleep when inspiration strikes. I need to get better about writing things down.

I have a dear friend whose beloved gently mocks her for keeping a journal in their restroom because it’s often in the middle of the night when she gets an idea, which is so brilliant, that she also has to evacuate her bladder. This is the way it goes for some of us.

I am often roused from a brilliant dream or deep sleep with inventions or stories or insights and I SWEAR allegiance to the ideas, murmuring, “no, no, I’ve got it, the dusty suede shoes are a metaphor for Nnngngngnnzznznzngnggg growth along with the inner nnnnngngnngzzzng and then it’s all over, everyone thrives!” and it’s gone.

I may as well just bolt upright, point and laugh at my muses the thin air saying, “You’re wasting your time! Go tell Elizabeth Gilbert! Is Updike still alive? I won’t remember this at all!” and then flop back onto my down pillow, thrusting reluctant feathers into the air.

 

Feathers. Woo-woo people like me believe feathers are a sign that our angels are near. If they’re near when I have those nocturnal insights, they are legion, trust me. I found out two weeks ago that I have six angels or guides or whatever by my side, but is that a good thing? Maybe I’m totally lost and am a mess. Don’t go near Molly, she’s got SIX guides… she can’t find her way out of a paper bag much less an existential crisis…

What do I do with it all? All these ideas, these insights? I can change: I can allow myself to wake up, just for a moment, write down what’s going on and hope to the chocolate gods I can read it in the morning and go with it. I can do what others do: wake up completely in the middle of the night. Go with it, set my fanny on my yoga ball chair and put my laptop on dim and start tapping away. I’ve never tried it. It’s spring break, I could try. I don’t want to disturb my husband or kids though.

Thus, it’s occurred to me that famous writers must *have* to be total narcissists. I mean, how else can you decide to wake in the middle of the night, put on a robe, pour yourself a scotch, light a cigarette, shuffle off to where your perch is and start tapping or scribbling away without a care in the world about whether you wake someone. Just you, and your method, and your muses.

Children need to eat, to be seen and embraced. Dogs need to be let out, groomed, fed, talked to.

On the advice of my therapist last year, I read a New Yorker column, “Sins of the Father” by James Wood about a modest collection of memoirs written by the children of famous father writers, William Styron, Saul Bellow and someone else I can’t recall (sorry!) and how these now-adult children are faring in the long shadows of their dads. Being a child of a writerly father, I could identify with a good amount of the column. The need for quiet, the temperamental (I’m being nice) personalities and their “I CAN’T WORK LIKE THIS, PEOPLE!” tendencies. It’s not that my father is a famous writer; it’s that he is a serious writer and a serious personality. I don’t write about him much here because I do feel it’s necessary to keep the boundaries clear. I will say this however: being the child of a dedicated writer / artist / scholar / any interest the adult has of its own that doesn’t involve family time, can be very challenging.

Buuuuut …. we WANT people to have lives. We WANT people to continue their pursuits. It’s very important for people of all ages and stages to have SOMETHING of their own that is truly separate and nourishing to their spirit. Does it matter if it doesn’t earn an income? Eventually, yes, to the practitioner, it does.

At first, it’s something the avocationist pursues for mental growth, but after a while, the question of “purpose” comes walking into the room, gently standing over you while you type, paint, read, hum… nudging you, “say… what are you going to DO with all of this?” and then your sense of value / your ego comes into play, “yeah… what AM I going to do with all this?” and before too long, you’re Daffy Duck arguing with yourself after being outsmarted by Bugs Bunny.

Or …  you start to percolate and wonder clearly as yourself, “there should be something bigger, right?”

That’s human nature.

I’m in Good Hands.

About four years ago, I met a woman who is now a very good friend. She is a “non-predictive palm reader”; she’s not the gypsy with the magic glitter and finger cymbals. She’s a math-y, skeptic, scientific, hard data person. She runs successful businesses and she’s not at all a flake. She’s also one of the funniest people I know and that’s saying a lot because I know some really funny people.

She read my palms. I have the prints upstairs in my bedroom. I remember her saying, but I forgot it after several years, when she first met me, and looked at my hands, just for an instant, and searched in me asking, “What if it could be easier? What if it didn’t have to be so hard?” That moment haunted me then, and reading it again last night, it swept me away again. Indeed, ‘what if it could be easier.’ I sit here wondering just that. Still. I fight myself all the time.

I audio recorded our first and only full palm-reading session. I transcribed the recording and I went back last night, for the first time in several years, and read what she had to say. This time, I believe I am ready to really hear her and hear what my hands had to say about me then and look at how my prints have changed since then.

I am left handed. I have strong Mercury lines on each of my hands. Mercury is the communication / messenger god in palmistry. I also have on my left pinkie my purpose marker, a “whorl” which looks like a swirl. Quoting directly from our session, this is what Peggie had to say,

My purpose is on my left pinkie: the whorl – it stands out: my purpose is to help other people transform. I hold the safe spaces – I’m the healer and I have healer gift markings. Healer is life purpose and markings – I’m to clear out my own stuff and do my own thing and then help other people. Here’s where you are and here’s where I am, here’s my life story and I’m telling you this so that you can learn too. That’s my life purpose. To inspire to others that if I can do it, they can do it too. That’s where the healing comes from. Inspiring to others.

What have I done since that reading? I put it away. I thought about it and put it away. I thought I’d moved on, that I wasn’t doing anything with the information. But as we say, “you can’t un-ring a bell” and I heard the peal, even though I thought I hadn’t.

Well, it turns out I heard her, I just still need to keep hearing her.

I started this blog about four months later. I remember consciously thinking, “this is me stepping into my purpose a bit. This is me taking a chance, telling my story (somewhat) and trying it out.”

I find, when I let me out, I can hold that space for others. But I can’t let that be my only space. I need to step into my space too, which requires that I get out of my own way.

Order from the Chaos.

It’s been quite a month for me. I’ve taken over three yoga classes from people who were over-scheduled, started a new one from scratch, ended an eight-week session, got fingerprinted and background checked, filed for insurance, filed for yoga alliance registry, created lesson plans, taken in checks, accounted for students, shifted pick-up and drop-off of my kids for various lessons, school dismissals, practices and the like, attended my yoga classes where I get to be told what to do, gutted a freezer, folded laundry, made dinners (sometimes woefully), walked the dogs, volunteered at school for other stuff, blown out my hair, colored my roots, gone to angel healers, eaten and slept, attended a children’s book signing, put on make-up and have done my best to maintain a level head. I’ve done more downward facing dogs and triangle poses in the last month than I’ve done in one year, I’m sure of it.

My friend from high school is an airline pilot. He has a blog in which he shares amazing photos from the cockpit and writes a little bit (juuuust enough to keep the gears turning after you finish) about each photo and the impression it leaves on him. I have always thought highly of this friend. He would boldly wear bow ties in high school. He’s an old soul and he’s very bright and clever. When my freezer died about three weeks ago, I pretty much lost my mind for a few hours. The timing simply and ineloquetly “sucked.” It was totally in the throes of this new yoga teaching I was beginning and it was one of those moments when I was certain, I just didn’t have the time, or the mental bandwidth to deal with it. But deal with these things we must, yes?

The freezer died because one of my sons left it open ALL NIGHT. We had just stocked it with our hunt at Costco. I wrote about it and my ensuing thrust into reflection here.

This friend wrote to me about my chaos in that moment. He posted his comments on the blog post itself.

In retrospect (and two days later) I let soak in what he had to say and it made sense. I even paraphrased it as a quote to be read at the end of my yoga classes:

Chaos and disorder are the natural order of a mind seeking an enlightened path and reason. Chaos, and the sense of hope it can eventually yield, show us that there is a path for everything and it rarely begins with perfection.

Those who would have us believe the opposite, that everything is “wireable” don’t help us to understand and grow from the wisdom of chaos.

However at the time, I saw what he said and at the moment I was all defiant, “piffle” I thought; “so insightful of you from your 30,000 feet view to see the serendipity of this moment of total eff-upedness in my life.” I laugh about my reaction now. I wasn’t nasty internally about it, I just couldn’t deal at the time with his compassion. I was still caught up in the moment of it, so angry about it all: the loss of food, the tossing of food into the trash, and of course the re-spending of funds for both a new freezer and the restocking of the food. Ugh.

These are the things we do to ourselves: these first-world problems and I know it’s exactly what that is, and I caught a little bit of flack for bitching about the truth of that, but you know: stress is stress and I was literally in a fit to be tied at that moment. “That’s a nice problem to have” is a phrase that can OFTEN be heard streaming from my lips and people reluctantly nod; that’s how I see the world: there’s silver in every cloud, but sometimes it takes longer than others to see it.

While I don’t have “money issues” per sé, I grew up with parents who really did (it was nuts) and so naturally, there’s a tape that runs through my head whenever a big purchase occurs or something of monetary value is inherited, or lost. Here’s how I see money: it’s constantly in flow, but I feel there must be a purpose to it: I would rather give away $100 to someone in need than set $100 on fire. So at the time, I saw all of that: the whole shebang, as setting $100 on fire.

But there is order now, the lesson in that chaos that my friend so eloquently shared and taught me.

And I am not a little humbled by the events which have unfolded in my life in recent weeks that have brought me to this realization now: that looking back on my palm reading with my dear friend that I’ve got some work to do, some new lines have appeared along my Mercury lines, “stars” or “lessons” as they’re known.

Despite the fact that I’ve done a lot already, I haven’t done The Thing; I haven’t sat and written The Book. The Story. The Memoir. The Lessons. I already have a title. “Hang Nail.” Ha! No, that’s the name of an emo-rock band I would create. I’m not going to share the title here. It’s not yet written.

We have the new freezer. It was delivered Monday. I had to leave the room. I can’t be present when people install large things in my house. I have some issue with fingers being pinched or toes being crushed; or people being pinned against walls because it’s hard to negotiate the piece in my home. It’s quite entertaining, this issue of mine and my husband has asked me to write about it. I will. All in good time, my pretty.

I posted this on my Facebook page about the new freezer,

Our freezer never recovered. It was at least 15 years old. It had been left open too long one too many times. Today, we bid farewell to that freezer. 

And got a new one. With a light. With baskets. With control buttons in a panel on the outer door. With an alarm. With a tax rebate for its energy efficiency. It went from 76 degrees to 33 degrees in 30 minutes. 

I love this country.

Many people took the comment in the spirit in which it was intended. As a comical, ironic reference to my first-world hubris and sick sense of entitlement. One friend asked what it is about us Americans and our freezers and second refrigerators in the garages, etc., and what it’s all for.

I had to nod with her question. I mean, what is it? Half defensive because of my consumerism and half defensive because I’m a shitty planner, I blame my extra freezer on my growing children’s appetites and my utter disdain for grocery shopping. If you want to bore any living hell out of me, send me to a grocery store. Really. Some people love it. I want to stab myself with pencil erasers.

So I ask, can a freezer be glorious? Or is it going to be a constant reminder to me of overconsumption and self-indulgence?

At this point, I simply can’t be bothered to wonder or judge myself for it. I’m American. It’s here, in my house, plugged in and preserving my sanity much like Han Solo when he was captured by Jabba the Hut. In fact, I just put a little bag of water in there marked, “Mom’s sanity — keep frozen.” Maybe I will go to it when I wake in the middle of the night and it will inspire me. We will see what happens.

the freezer will preserve my sanity.

the freezer will preserve my sanity.

Thank you.

 

There’s A Gift in this Somewhere… I Need to Be Wrapped in Caution Tape

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I don’t know where to start.

I put on make-up this morning after I dried my hair and put on a top with buttons and pants with a zipper.

About twenty minutes after that I got a call from my husband, “You can cook that chicken for dinner or something; I read that re-freezing meats won’t be unsafe, but it might affect their flavor, so we don’t need to worry about food safety.”

Wha—?

Someone left the freezer open. Suppress nausea. 

I woke this morning from a rather crazy dream, likely induced by the eight sessions of yoga I have either taught or attended in the last five days. In all of those, I’ve only had the gift of svasana, final relaxation pose, thrice. And of those three times, I’d say I truly let go …. oh, not at all.

In the dream, I stepped outside my childhood home to an evening late-season snow flurry; about four inches had accumulated and it was a collection of glorious frozen fluff. Just like the last time it snowed as such here, I was making a snow angel, in my house clothes, because I knew it would likely be the last downy fall in months, if not years.

In the dream, a pack of marauding pubescent boys, with their straight-brim baseball hats, enormous unlaced high-top shoes that reminded me of puppy feet, skinny jeans, hoodies and tshirts emblazoned with a lá mode and self-aggrandizing slogans were pimp-rolling (apologies to Tom Wolfe) my way. I’m not sure what my issue was with this band of boys, but I wasn’t threatened. I was feeling more defiant than they thought they were. I was ready to raise the bar on their perceived bad-assness. I was ready to wait and see.

Then I woke up to the sound of my alarm, a song by a Scandinavian band called “Jonsi & Alex” which plays primarily atmospheric music. I was completely disoriented. I think the song was “Howl.”

The pack of youth is clearly one of my sons. He’s testing me and his father a lot these days. I won’t go into it because it’s his story to tell and hopefully overcome, but let’s just say that he loves expensive sneakers and doesn’t know who he is yet. I can’t blame him for the latter because I’m not sure who I am and certainly I love shoes as well, but I wondered, at times like these after I changed back into shapeless clothing and my old slippers and put my freshly washed and blown-out hair into a pony tail so I could gut from the freezer about 100 pounds of bagels, waffles, english muffins, vegetables, fruit, NO!!! NOT THE ICE CREAM SANDWICHES!!!, orange juice, pink lemonade, raviolis, tortellinis, sweet potato fries, quesadillas… you name it. I wondered about a lot of things.

The freezer looked like crime scene. I needed caution tape wrapped around me because I was unhinged. Bag after bag after bag. I missed my husband who is at his desk during this moment because I know we would’ve had a fun time; we would’ve made lemonade instead of grousing about throwing it out.

I was thinking of a post Wednesday, “Where’s My Svasana?” because I’d taught yoga four times by that point and had only had experienced my own coached “lie down” twice. I laughed at the idea of that post this morning, nay, ten minutes ago when I was wiping down the blood bath of my freezer. I am sure I was exposed to salmonella, streptococcus, botulism, ptomaine, influenza and who knows what the what all the while as I wiped down the juices blood of the meats I was discarding. There is one truth to this that I suppose is a convenience: it gave me an excuse to unload some food we’d forgotten about or had simply disliked. Probably about $250 worth. Ten sessions of therapy… or fifteen Gap t-shirts.

My cats were crying, “feed me! feed me! the juice on the carpet (yecch) is not enough but it is a huge stimulus to our digestive system. if you don’t feed us, we will go live with the neighbors again….” So I robotically said, “Namafuckingste” (that’s not Sanskrit) to the cats and let the kibble go >tink tink tink tinktinktinktinktinktink< into the shiny steel bowls.

When events like these happen, you are in a Moment of Truth. My Moment says, chides, hisses, “Was it worth it? That yoga certificate? Feeling IN THE MOMENT right now? Was it worth it? That degree in English and writing? Was it worth it? Those babies you had….?”

No one tells you this ugly secret about parenting: IT’S FUCKING HARD.

Screw the pregnancy, screw the labor, screw the body shape distortion and what the fuck happened to me moments. The lack of sleep. The issues with their health. Behaviors that creep up in yourself, parts of you you never thought were there. Screw it all. That’s the easy part. Parenting shows you your True Nature. It gloats over your weaknesses as it challenges your strengths. Kids? They’re not the culprits. They’re not to blame. It’s us… those of us who’ve never actually grown up. Who still like to blame. Who don’t like the feelings we feel when our kids neeeeeeeeeeeeeed us. Because they’re supposed to.

Currently, there’s a wash of writers who want to blame all their shit on their kids. They can’t get a moment alone, so they blame it on their kids. It’s not the kids. It’s us. It’s the parents. It’s like this: my puppy Charlie. He’s great. He’s huge now, about 40# going on a likely and final 70#. I’m good with that. But he’s a dog, number one. And he’s a dog, number two. When he goes after a sock, a shoe, a jacket, a cat, a pillow, a blanket, a towel, a piece of paper, the newspaper, the garbage, Murphy … is he to blame?

When my kids go after each other, when they leave the freezer door ajar after making a smoothie, when they leave the back door unlocked, when they leave a brand new bike out front over night, when they don’t do their homework, when they trade the shoes you bought them for another pair with some kid at school you don’t know and whose family you’ve never met and your kid doesn’t even have a class with this child and he brings them home and says to you plain as day, “Dad bought me these….” or “Dad said I could …” whose “fault” is that? It’s not my puppy’s, I can tell you that. It’s the job of the parent and of the dog owner to make things right. To train the dog to stay away from the things he shouldn’t have. To ask first. And it’s the job of the parent to UNDERSTAND that KIDS ARE NEEDY. They can’t help it.

I’m grossed out by it all, the rash of parents who act as if they’ve figured it all out; that they deserve a trophy for staying sober or washing their kids’ hair.  I know: I’m 117 years old and I have lost my sense of humor. I need to lighten up because exploiting my children’s natural behavior for my gain and popularity is what all the cool kids are doing.

I don’t care. I was never friends with The Bloggess or anyone else who writes tripe like that. I’ll just go on, in my bubble bath of obscurity, with my arms coated in freezer detritus.

And trying to start a business? Teaching yoga, which isn’t easy, especially for all-levels classes because you have no clue as to anyone’s abilities… so you write these lesson plans that might be too aggressive or too easy and you take too long and you wonder if you’re being effective? Some students look at you with blank stares. I guess I do too with my teachers. But they write checks and they come back and they say thank you and they tell you it was great and they enjoyed it… so there’s that. People don’t pay for shit that sucks.

Somewhere along the line, I learned to doubt myself to the point where I think everything I do is not enough. Somewhere along the line, I was told or inspired or encouraged to push myself to the razor’s edge and hang on to that singular fringe, like Sandra Bullock in “Gravity” only to wonder… if I let go… I know I won’t go spinning, because I feel like I already am. But really…

(c) WarnerBros 2013.

(c) WarnerBros 2013.

I learned that my best was always beatable. Try harder. Work harder. It’s deeper than work; it’s about survival. It’s about Mom; my mom who died last year. My mom who was so hard to reach. But that’s ancient history, right? And I’m a fully actualized adult. This freezer thing and all my crap is cake. NnnnNnNNnnnnn.

So I make notes after the classes to remind myself of what I forgot. To improve for the next class. Maybe one day it will just flow out of me and I won’t need lists and yoga cards and apps and stuff; that I will intuitively know how to teach a class.

 

. . . . . .

Somewhere in the weave of that dream I had, the freezer debacle, parenting, and the yoga teaching doubts was an epiphany: these are nice problems to have. As I posted on Facebook this morning just before diving in to coat myself in Fla-vor-ice drippings, pea juice, apple-chicken sausage whatnot, stir-fry sauce and who knows, I am certain that there are a couple billion people out there who would love to have this problem: a freezer with food. A freezer. Food.

As I shoved the bag of partially frozen ground beef into the back of the freezer praying to the Hamburger Helper gods that they have a concoction and blend of preservatives and spices which will make that meat palatable and digestible, I decided I am feeling invisible. That’s a yucky feeling. It taps all sorts of stuff deeeeeeeeeeeep inside me. But instead of pushing it aside, I’m going to have to sit with it.

I’m going to do something I’ve not usually done, which is NOT be all Pollyanna about it, even though it’s the truth, I’m not going to pat myself on the back for changing my perception about this, because the truth is I’m fucking exhausted.

I get that shit like this happens. I just could’ve used a break is all. This is the first time I’ve sat down to write for writing’s sake in a while. It’s the first time I’ve sat to do something for myself in about two weeks. I hope I entertained. I hope you learned something. I know I did.

Here comes the trash truck.

Thank you.