Why haven’t I been writing? Oh… I’ve got my reasons.

And there’s always “domestic life” taking up time. You know, dusting this and that (like unused brain cells?), cooking up a little something to eat (stirring the pot?), searching for (and creating) purpose when circumstances require it.

In other words, I definitely keep myself busy. Very busy. And naturally, post-COVID life hasn’t “returned” to anything entirely recognizable in my little world. I mean, for so many of us, how could it?

Add in a pinch of… ahem (insert noticeable throat clearing here ____)… getting older with its “inconveniences” and, well, things do change…

Mostly, as I stick my itty bitty toe in the water of putting thoughts into the ether here — has it really been two years??? — I wonder about all of you lovely people who read what I wrote, gave me such encouragement, and formed a caring (and fascinating) community. And I wonder how you are doing, what you’re up to, how your lives have changed, what struggles you’re encountering, what new paths you’ve taken, what lessons you’ve grown from, and what joys you have experienced in recent weeks and months that you might like to share.

I would love to hear!

And FYI, it has been so long since I’ve dabbled here that a few (back-end) things have changed of course. So if I accidentally “break” something, I will do my best to fix it in the coming days. (Your forbearance is much appreciated.)

Those I can get behind. They’re useful, whatever the day, the month, or the spontaneous moment that sparks a little light to go on that steers us along a positive path. Useful if we listen to them, that is. (And we all know how many distractions and enticements might pull us off course. Hello double chocolate mocha cake!) Still, understanding the way our minds work and the power of words, mantras can calm us, soothe us, and gently nudge us toward something better.

Some of you may think of what I’m about to describe as an affirmation. Okay. I’m fine with that. Whatever you call it — mantra or affirmation — the new year is typically the time for this sort of reflection regardless of putting it into practice. And given that 2022 for many of us brought only small improvements over the preceding two years thanks to the pandemic’s multiplicity of challenges, anything uplifting or hopeful that we can do as we begin 2023 feels like a small step in the right direction.

Personally, I begin the year with a certain trepidation, or perhaps, more precisely, a reluctance to believe that everything can ever again be “all right,” mostly because it can’t. That said, I’m also starting it off with a surprising amount of hopefulness. I’ve seen both of my sons in the past two months and they’re doing well. I’m continuing my hall-walking exercise and added in frequent walks around my little neighborhood (so much more pleasurable, of course). I’m “practicing” socializing more (something I once did reasonably well, but like so many of us, I lost the habit during the isolation of recent years). Besides, I’ve never been one to accept defeat (for long) — you know, “get back up on the horse” even if you fall repeatedly. And I’ve said this before, at the beginning of the pandemic, and I imagine I said it before that as well.

It is not in my nature to “succumb” to anything, at least, not for long. When I fall off the horse, I force myself to get back up. Nonetheless, each year, as energy and resources dwindle, it’s harder to get back up.

Indeed. Nearly three years have passed since my last iteration of that concept. And yes, it’s harder. Each time, it’s harder.

And here’s an equally useful concept: The definition of crazy (some say) is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. So getting back up on the horse may mean riding differently, riding in a different place or at a different pace, or riding on a different horse.

So… Driving back from the drugstore a few days ago, I found myself almost unconsciously repeating certain words aloud. A mantra of sorts. And I repeated the words as I sat behind a stop sign, and then another, and then at a red light, and then another, and eventually as I pulled into my little garage and parked.

The words I repeated, words that I wish I had been able to fulfill many years ago?

I will be successful. I will focus on success. I will be successful. I will focus on success. I will be successful. I will focus on success.

Now, for those of you who know me, you will realize that this is an unusual mantra for me to put into practice. Generally speaking, all of my wishes and my focus tend to be about my family, however much I might also include tidbits of self-care or character improvement. Old habits are hard to break! And it’s not that I don’t want those mantras to hold true, always and forever, but in the past months I have recognized that I have rarely focused on my own success. Promoting others? Yes, I’m good at that. But promoting myself? And putting into place the mechanisms of success that must be established and honed long before promoting anything? Believing in myself enough to visualize that success?

With these reflections, as I said, I nonetheless return to a place of hopefulness in the mantra that came to mind in my car. It wasn’t about healthy eating or weight loss (my usual). It wasn’t about being a kinder, more compassionate self (equally frequent for me over the years). It wasn’t about discipline, although discipline is certainly a necessity (and not something I lack). It was about my choices, my strengths, my energies all directed toward what is essential for my survival.

All those good habits that are also required? Of course I need to maintain those! But I’m good at that. What I haven’t been good at — mastering the skills to thrive financially. Not since my divorce, and not since the days of being a salaried employee came to end. The pandemic simply aimed the spotlight at all that I hadn’t realized, hadn’t learned, hadn’t put in place to secure my own future. And now, a matter of some principles I have been studying (and those little lights of awareness that go on), I feel poised to try and keep trying and expect more of myself than “just” the trying. I expect the doing, the succeeding, the reliance on skills I know I have (and have used for others) to turn trying into accomplishing.

What about you? Mantras? Affirmations? Epiphanies about yourself?

You May Also Enjoy

• Getting Back on the Horse

• How Many Failures Will Lead to Success?

• Beating Back Bad Habits? Yup, It Takes Work

Now, before I wax on about self-care, self-image, and the importance of sensory pleasures to one’s well-being, please don’t admonish me at the mere mention of isolation. Let me clarify that I go out into the world roughly once a week, always with a mask if I’m headed into a store or other place of business, and ditto when I go to physical therapy for my ever-entertaining back issues (sigh). Happily, everyone at physical therapy is required to be masked (all the employees are vaccinated and masked), which offers an element of comfort along with the twinkle in the eyes of the therapists and administrators who work there.

Now, let’s return to the positive perks of make-up, scent, and (generally) sensory pleasure…

Although I’m still challenged by the pandemic poundage I took on some time back, a struggle I’ve had to contend with throughout my life, many months ago I began lining my eyes every morning and indulging my wrists in a hint of my favorite fragrance. Whether I see people or not, this, along with coffee, is my morning ritual.

Why?

Well, my collection of fine footwear may be gathering dust in stacked boxes, and my cute size 6 pencil skirts and fitted sweaters may be equally neglected, but with or without real-world in-the-flesh interaction with others, I nonetheless have real-world in-the-flesh interaction with myself.

Yes, I do pass mirrors throughout the day. Yes, I do catch a glimpse of myself despite trying not to. Yes, it does matter to me what that glimpse reflects back because one day I would like to be really out in the world again. And we all know that appearances matter. Perception, self-image, self-confidence — these are all tied up in that appearance, for some of us more than others.

Identity, too. I mean, we need to recognize ourselves, don’t we?

Besides, there is reassurance in these little rituals like eyeliner and perfume, their sensory potency, their evocative nature so useful in generating positive emotions, particularly during times of change or challenge. And I prefer to remind myself that I remain who I am despite the many (mind-boggling?) “challenges” the world is facing — one of the reasons I write so much less — not to mention the many (odd? unexpected?) transitions in my own life.

Transitions?

Oh, you know. Issues of employment (or not), relationships (or not), active parenting (or not), changing careers (or not), adjusting to relocation (or not), socializing — hello, Pandemic and Not-Quite-Post-Pandemic World — right, or not.

And of course, aging. I mean, we all age, right? But there comes a point where the aging is a tad more, hmmmm… “insistent.” Yes, that’s a nice euphemism. I’ll stick with that one. The impacts of aging, both felt and seen, are more insistent. And these impacts can be unsettling. Scary even. But that is why eyes, even peeking over a mask, are so crucial, at least to me. Their flashes of merriment. Their wells of compassion. Their steely gaze — steely only when required, naturally.

And that is why my signature scent is so important as well. The delight I take in breathing it in. The marvelous associations it conjures so quickly. (And the French Roast smells pretty damn good, too!)

Now, these little flourishes to the flesh and pleasures on the palate aren’t the only things that remind me I’m me, of course. I have the following. Learning new things. Chatting with fascinating people in a Facebook group (the trick is finding common interests). Chatting online in French! Using the phone as an actual phone and catching up with old friends. Whatsapping with my kids.

These essential human connections are at the heart of who we are, aren’t they? And about the heart of who we are.

But meanwhile, my eyeliner and Chanel provide the morning lift I depend on as my first (ahem) infusions of French Roast gurgle through Mr. Coffee at 4 a.m. And that too, my morning brew in the wee hours, its aroma, reminds me of who I am at a stage in life when every reminder feels vital. And these reminders, all sensory, each filled with a lifetime of memory and feeling, make me smile.

What about you? Adjustments? Transitions? Little self-care routines that perk you up? Your favorite coffee?

You May Also Enjoy

• Measuring Up: Seeing Yourself From the Outside In

• Hall Walking

• Page 19 (and Coffee-Dating)

• The Eyes Have It

This may be part of the reason that I have become a huge fan of such shows as Shetland, a British series set in Scotland with a somewhat older and not traditionally handsome protagonist. This is part of the reason that I am a fan of the show Bosch, on Amazon Prime, where not only is the main character not traditionally handsome and clearly in his 50s, but the 66-year-old Mimi Rogers figures as a prominent player in the series. And I am thrilled to see an “older” woman, her age as apparent as her beauty, strength and smarts, in a prominent role.

And yes, I am as drawn to beauty as anyone. I recognize the power that beauty can wield – at any age. Some wield it kindly; others, not so much. (To deny that being beautiful isn’t useful would be silly.)

Shetland and Bosch are just two examples of (mostly non-U.S.) series that offer us interesting faces to go along with fascinating, flawed, complicated, and competent characters – over the age of 50. Moreover, these series feature a mix of ages in the supporting cast as well as at least some diversity in terms of ethnicity and sexual orientation. That too is welcome. That too is real.

Can I just say it is a relief to see faces that look more like people we might actually know? Faces that don’t mess with our minds as to what is expected — all plumped and smoothed and painted over, as if we could or should hide the reality and experience of the years? Don’t some of us struggle as it is with our own aging process? Must we really see such aging distortion on our screens, including the inevitability of invisibility as those who are younger nudge us aside?

Listen, of course I want to look my best! Of course I prefer to appear as vital as I feel — well, as my brain feels anyway. Clearly, how we fight or accept our individual aging process is just that – an individual matter that may vary from day to day, not to mention with all kinds of changing circumstances. What we do or don’t do in “aging gracefully” is a matter of choice, what the wallet will withstand, and identity. It is a matter of one‘s sense of self when looking in the mirror. It is also a practical matter given how we make a living and what is expected in terms of appearance. And therein lies the problem. Expectations. The way they have become so distorted in social media, in film, and otherwise.

Is there any way to stand up to this trend? To allow for individual choice in terms of what we do to keep ourselves feeling good and vital? To retain our sense of self? Our competitiveness in the dating world or the working world, both of which are so heavily influenced by social media?

Honestly, I don’t know. I can say that I hope that finding a balance is possible, but hope doesn’t make it so, and distorted expectations on our screens certainly don’t help.

Meanwhile, thank you Netflix, thank you Amazon Prime, and thank you to those other entertainment venues that bring foreign films and series that offer us a more realistic mirror when it comes to growing older.

You May Also Enjoy

• Your Aging Fantasy?

• Successful Aging. . . Who Knew?

• 50 Years Old and Starting Over. Where to Begin?

When I heard that the US Congress had agreed to eliminate daylight savings time — this happened a few weeks back apparently — I thought to myself, oh, so they can actually reach consensus on something so trivial? How nice. If only they could reach consensus (or something beyond the slimmest of majorities) on issues that matter. You know what I mean… consensus on the mega-qualified Supreme Court nominee, Judge Brown Jackson; consensus on faster and more lethal arming of Ukraine; consensus on voting rights.

OK, OK, OK. I told myself I would not wax political when I write here. I told myself I would stay upbeat. But…

These past few years I am constantly recalling the words of an old friend who told me that “everything is political” — that message offered during an extended period in my life when I existed in the blur of single motherhood and trying to cobble together a sufficient living to keep food on the table and a roof overhead. Life was political then too; I was too immersed in daily tasks of ordinary survival to realize it.

These days?

I find myself heartbroken by what is taking place in Ukraine. I find myself appalled by too many other micro happenings in the US to process, not to mention the macro happenings. I find myself engaged, once again, in my own private acts of defiance against the invisibility that remains inevitable (it seems) when it comes to growing older, to no longer having employment, to isolation in an ongoing pandemic — yes, yes, I know — we are certainly safer with our masks, our vaccinations, and our boosters, but let’s not pretend that it is over. Let’s not dismiss hundreds of deaths a day with such ease.

Indifference. Indifference to death. Why is it that we grow so indifferent so easily, especially to suffering?

Maybe it’s just fatigue. Or the reality of our own daily battles. Or a matter of picking our battles.

* * *

Each day, usually, I find at least a few moments of contentment. Joy, even. Often in the visual — the way the light insists on shining through the sheers in the front room of this old apartment; the exuberant colors in a Fauve painting as I page through an art book; the heady scent and flood of images that follow with a single drop of perfume on each wrist. A delicious Frenchman selected that fragrance for me many years ago. I still smile, remembering our time together.

I’m fortunate, despite the loneliness that comes of so rarely seeing my sons, despite the aches and pains that frequently sabotage my daily doings, despite worrying about money like so many of us, despite the excessive solitude that I know I tolerate relatively well compared to others. I am not bored, I keep my mind busy, I persist in setting myself challenges and goals even in a much narrowed lifestyle. And I do not live in a war torn country, a country decimated by an unconscionable aggressor.

* * *

His name was Sasha. He had sandy blonde hair and fair skin and was, like most of the men I have been attracted to in my life, on the tall side, which next to my 4‘11“ frame, made us an odd couple. That wasn’t the only element of our odd coupledom; I was a 16-year-old American girl camping through the (then) U.S.S.R., and he was a 20-ish-year-old Ukrainian student. Our dates were innocent – a walk, a conversation on a park bench, a movie. He took me to see The Sound of Music, which tickled me even then since I knew the plot and the music (of course), but I found understanding the Russian beyond my capabilities at the time.

I have a grainy Kodak photo of Sasha and two friends sitting on the bench where we would meet, Kyiv’s beauty in the background. And in a little jewelry box tucked away in a dresser drawer, I keep a silver bracelet that he gave to me. I never quite understood why he gave me a gift except that our week together felt sweet and special to both of us. It is the bracelet that I wear on my wrist these days. I’m not sure why exactly, but doing so touches something in my heart. It connects me to a time of my own innocence. It connects me to the region where my grandfather was born. And I seem to need this particular connection right now.

Sasha. Such a lovely young man. Still, such a tender memory. But what of all the young men and young women and old men and old women and the children, dear God, the children and babies that are now being slaughtered? I can’t quite believe it is happening. I see images on the news, apocalyptic images, and I can’t fully grasp that it isn’t some ridiculous film out of Hollywood. I can’t just pretend it isn’t happening. I can’t shake off the knowledge that so much evil exists in the world — evil that should trump indifference.

* * *

Consensus. Strange concept. We decide not to mess with our clocks twice a year, but issues of life and death? Issues of basic human dignity? Where is the common sense in our acts of consensus and our lack of it? Where is the consensus on genocide while it’s happening? Why do human beings do this to each other? I don’t understand.

* * *

I will never know why Sasha gave me this bracelet, nor who made it, nor anything else about it. But I’m glad that despite the decades that have passed, I never lost it. I’m glad that it still fits. And I wonder what became of Sasha.
 

As for my flowing locks, I confess to having found it impossible to live with gray having allowed my “few strands of silver” (ahem) to reveal themselves in the second quarter of 2020. (My melancholic mood was significantly worsened by being unable to deny my age.) I therefore found a means of magically transforming those rebellious strands as needed without spending two hours in a neighborhood salon. The result — helpful denial! And I was (and am) able to enthusiastically, ebulliently, insistently, irrevocably remain a brunette.

(This is a thrilling update thus far, n’est-ce pas?)

What else have I been up to lo these many months?

Gaining weight, like so many of us.

Losing weight, thank goodness.

Regaining some of the weight. Sheesh.

Losing what I regained. Again.

A critical part of this process (and the ability to fit my size 10 jeans)… hall-walking.

Yup. Still doing that. As tedious as it may sound, it helps. Everything. Exercise, however we manage it, is an essential to physical and emotional health, don’t you think?

Other scintillating pastimes?

Let’s see… Growing my hair to a ridiculous length (very 1972). Happily, I have just hacked off many inches to land at a less ridiculous length.

I’ve also been getting out a bit more once vaccinated, vaccinated, and boostered. But my venturing has been rather limited — physical therapy (yes, the wretched back) and grocery shopping, with the occasional (very pleasurable) strolling of a few retail establishments. And I am always always always masked in public places (including PT).

And?

I’ve been learning new things! (Learning is energizing.)

I saw my kiddos (finally!) this past Christmas. (It was glorious. Oh, the joy of Real Life Hugs. Besides, they both cook, and exceptionally well.)

I’ve tried a few online meetups in areas of interest. (I don’t want to lose my social skills forever. And I might as well show off my non-silver hair, right?)

I’ve watched so much TCM (Turner Classic Movies) and Netflix that I know the dialog to some of my favorite films by heart. (“Indiscreet” with Ingrid Bergman and Cary Grant — delicious! And French films and TV series galore — merveilleux.)

One stress-relieving activity I haven’t indulged in this past year (and maybe I should?) is Rhyming Therapy. OMG, did I really write this 10 years ago???

And of course, on those occasions when the first of a new month falls on a Monday, I’m always Little Miss Get Sh*t Done (as some of you know, and yes, I’m trying to keep my expletive-laced lingo to a minimum in the new year).

Now, today is Monday, but not the first of the month. Rather, it is the last day of the month, but I’m pondering tomorrow’s bright, shiny first of February, motivating me to Get Sh*t Done today in anticipation of tomorrow feeling closer to springtime and, who knows, perhaps one day once again feeling more comfortable out in the “real world.”

So what have you been up to?

How are you functioning in the world these days?

What new routines help keep you going?

Have your coping strategies of the past year or so evolved to accommodate “pandemic is the new normal” — if indeed you believe it is?

You May Also Enjoy

• Hall-Walking

• Coping Strategies: I Say, Whatever Works If It’s Healthy

• Reckoning With Stress and Mess (My Therapy Is Rhyme)

*

It annoys me that pain has returned to my right foot. Then again, it is one more point of pain in a collection of points of pain that will remain unresolved until we are beyond our pandemic restrictions. The annoyance is this: I am doing my best to increase my daily hall-walking. In fact, I have more than doubled it, managing 30 minutes in the morning or at noontime and another 30 minutes in the evening, usually three hours before I go to sleep. I don’t always walk as quickly as I once might have, though I do my “route” up and down the hallway at a reasonably brisk clip.

To be frank, I have committed myself to this less-than-ideal exercise with a determination that surprises me. I feel as if walking will keep me from losing my grip, a desire no doubt echoed around the world by others still living indoors even as we attempt to create and sustain routines that simulate an acceptable reality.

Since daily walking was part of my routine for decades, resurrecting it in any form feels comforting. And comfort (these days) is key. Besides, it helps to rein in eating too much or eating unhealthy foods too easily ordered for “contactless drop-off.” And given the pandemic pounds I must lose, knowing that exercise is the only way to achieve it, even a small measure of self-imposed structure is, for me, a necessity.

*

I was texting with an old friend the other day and she is baking as a means to do something productive these days. More than that, she finds this activity both calming and comforting. (She is skilled at so many things and having tasted her kitchen wizardry, I admit to salivating when she describes her latest confections.) In her most recent text, she tells me she is taking up meditation — nothing extreme — but she is finding it helps in general and it helps with anxiety.

“I’ve never been able to meditate,” I text back. “The closest thing I have is walking.”

“Isn’t that a sort of meditation?” she asks.

I send a thumbs-up emoticon in response. Indeed.

*

When walking, I am both observant of the details around me (especially pleasant when outside, of course) and strangely unaware of my “usual” preoccupations. With steady movement, my mind is set free – set free to review the films of my life, to solve creative challenges, to project ahead into pursuing dreams, to plan for a fulfilling future, and to find words. Or rather, for words to find me. For years, I wrote in my head while walking. And those were years before smartphones you could carry in a pocket, whip out in full stride, and speak into in order to capture your thoughts. In fact, I have clear recollections of walking my old neighborhood with scraps of paper and a small pen shoved in my jeans pocket and stopping briefly to jot down a phrase or a sentence — noting the fuchsia azaleas, the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, or the texture of the tarry road beneath my feet.

Naturally, walking a cluttered hallway does not unleash the wonder of words. Not cheery ones, certainly. Rather, I am likely to revisit those old films, seemingly stuck and stubbornly looping. Often those old films, in our melancholic nation and our melancholic worlds, land on old wounds.

So it is that I revisit who I may have hurt and who has hurt me; I second-guess poor choices and chide myself for terrible decisions; I wonder why I stayed so long in destructive relationships, costing me dearly in years better spent rebuilding a stronger self. I wonder about my sons and what I could have done to have been a better parent (and how to be a better parent even now). I wonder about my mother and why she wasn’t a better parent, as if I could’ve done something to shield myself from her narcissism and manipulation; I wonder who I might have been had the wounds inflicted been acknowledged before her death; I wonder who I might have been were I stronger, tougher, less impressionable, more self-possessed.

I am vulnerable — we are all vulnerable these days — but I am not a child. I will not be a victim. I loathe the victim mentality. I must own my actions, who I am, what I become, how to change.

*

As I age and begin to resemble my mother, perhaps it is inevitable that I see myself in her, and that I contemplate the power of a parent’s love to gift, to uplift, and also to wound, indelibly. These are not mutually exclusive elements of our emotional inheritance. Still, I try to decipher the riddle of the woman who bore me. I try to right and rewrite the imbalance.

*

We are past the afternoons of snowfall at its prettiest; instead, winter persists in producing dreary days of drifts that won’t melt away, ice storms that snap limbs, and sullen skies letting loose freezing rain.

Occasionally, the clouds break, and pools of sunshine flood my front room. I park myself by the window in an overstuffed chair, I wrap my fingers around a mug of French Roast, and however fleeting for now, I bask in the light.

*

Hall-walking continues as a significant element in combating the extent to which I am growing stir crazy. Still, I long to feel physically weary in a way that I currently do not. Despite the exercise, I feel weary all the time. Or more precisely, melancholic. So I push myself to go longer, faster, harder. In the past week, 30 minutes in the morning has expanded to 45; likewise, the evening walks are now 40 minutes or more. Given the length of time (and constraints) involved, I am working to set aside the dark films of memory with the assist of my smartphone — I listen to classic movies as I walk, and it’s helping.

Of course, I am left to deal with my nagging right foot, that old wound that brings me back to a youthful self living abroad, and to my glorious plans that were curtailed by a simple accident.

Old wounds are funny that way, aren’t they? Some days they’re triggered in a flash, they open back up, and we relive the hurts that left their mark. Other days, we take note of the butterflies.

You May Also Enjoy

• Becoming Someone Else

• Emotionally Needy Parents

• Narcissism. Manipulation. Keeping Score.

• Walking on Eggshells

I ran into a brick wall of some technical snafu that I had no ability to address. Even now, I don’t know or understand the cause and have benefitted from little information by which I could prevent it from happening again.

So, first of all, let me say that if this occurs again — the apparent absence of access (that 403 error) — I will do what I can to resolve the situation, but I am no longer in a position to fork over money to techie gurus to address issues that are beyond my skill level.

Chalk that up to the pandemic loss of income.

Second, sitting here in my little apartment, should this occur again, I will try not to lose my shit, which is what has happened over these past several days.

That powerlessness I just mentioned?

I’ve been frustrated, bleary-eyed, and angry. I’ve felt gut-punched, disconsolate, unmoored. As if this isolation — now 11 months — hasn’t already shredded so much of my “recognizable” existence, what appeared like it might be a permanent loss — this place — took on enormous emotional momentum.

Daily Plate of Crazy has been my oasis, my salve, my attempt to do something decent and helpful beyond my own preoccupations. Having those dozen years just “disappear” has felt like a nail on the coffin of who I am, my ability to channel my thoughts, to connect in some way with others, to feel less crazy during a period of time when so many of us feel crazy. Or more precisely, adrift.

I’m missing my kids, terribly. I’m worried about one friend in particular. And I have been grieving. Weirdly. I’ve had a 12-year relationship with Daily Plate of Crazy. Twelve years of sweat equity (and money), and pouring my heart into the writing here and perhaps more so, the conversations in comment sections. And that means a 12-year relationship with some of you even if I never lay my eyes on you.

This place is one of the few remaining sources of relationship in my life at the moment. (That’s a little sad to say, I know, but I told you — not pulling any punches.)

In writing, and in the engagement that follows, I find hope. I recognize that I may still serve some purpose. I find bits of myself that are otherwise too easily lost. And as the months of isolation inch along, finding anything recognizable in myself is becoming increasingly difficult. And I can’t help but wonder how many other people are experiencing a noticeable erosion of their sense of who they are as a matter of losing people they love, losing their work, losing their homes, losing the ability to get out — or rather, to get out safely.

Listen, sometimes shit happens. The everyday shit that we all go through. It’s no big deal. Irritating, yes. Maddening at times, yes. But we weather it. We tell ourselves these are inconveniences. And why sweat the small stuff, right? But these days, each loss seems to compound and grow heavier and less digestible. Even the so-called small losses. And we break more easily as things break around us. Especially without the bucks to replace or repair them.

And of course, people are irreplaceable.

So. Lately, I feel like I’m going a little crazy. It’s the isolation, I know that, but not only the isolation. It’s the powerlessness that comes with a string of losses — financial, professional, personal. It’s the disorientation that occurs as we age, as we are forced to accept certain limitations and changes — things we’re not supposed to talk about — try as we might to fight them.

This may not be true for everyone, I realize.

I also realize that I can “work through” some of that craziness, that stress, that emptiness here. When I pick a subject and offer up my take. Or when I try out a writing exercise. Or when I allow the morning’s first thoughts upon waking to wander their way onto the virtual page.

What I’ve discovered in the past few days — I don’t want to be without this venue even if it isn’t what it once was. Hell, I’m not what I once was either.

I’m older. I’m more tired. I’m more breakable.

I’m certain I’m in excellent company in this regard.

As I said, I wonder how many others are feeling like so much of their lives is now unrecognizable that they are crumbling a bit each day. I wonder how many others find that their emotional bandwidth to manage once minor challenges is now severely compromised. And I won’t even bring up the more “serious” challenges.

Enough said. And my apologies for any inconvenience or concern over these past few days.

On another note — Who’s up for Impeachment Part Deux? Honestly, I’m so emotionally weary of everything these days, part of me wishes it would all go away. Each day is such a struggle as it is. On the other hand, the deadly insurrection on January 6, 2021, was a staggering and shocking event. We have eyes and ears, and those eyes and ears plainly point to the former president and cohorts as the instigators. To do nothing, in my opinion, would be a travesty.

As always, I welcome your thoughts.

You May Also Enjoy

• Orientation (Aging and Reinvention)

• Crumpled Up, Worn Out

• Why We Sweat the Small Stuff

I’m not entirely sure why, but for as long as I can remember, the first of a shiny new month has enabled me to reset. At least, to think of resetting. It’s about beginnings. The sense of a clean slate, a blank page, a new shot at whatever we’re trying to accomplish. Generally speaking, when the first of the month rolls around, aren’t we hopeful that we can revive the resolve that may have slyly slipped away at mid-month or later?

Even as a teenager, I remember looking forward to the first of a new month because it meant I could restart my diet. I know, right? Diets. Women and body image. Women and food issues. Another reason to call me (and so many of us?) crazy, just a little bit.

Looking back, the constant dieting seems sad to me, of course. Especially because it reminds me of how many years — make that decades — I have focused on forcing my body into a shape that was never natural. Even when I succeeded by any standard measure, I still didn’t feel quite right in my skin; my view of myself was distorted. The extraordinary amount of time I devoted to body image battles, so common among women of all ages, is not lost on me.

Diets aside – in the years following divorce (in my 40s and later), I’ve experienced first-of-the-month enthusiasm for a reset. Not only was I then typically trying to balance healthy eating and exercise when possible, I was also raising my kids and working projects. At the beginning of each month, I jiggered my schedule and my household budget relying on the old-school method of taping calendars, worksheets, and lists to the fridge and kitchen cabinets. (Hello? Sound familiar to everyone?)

Specifically, I wrote down everything for all to see, and I was especially attentive to recording the details of expenses so as to stay in budget, see trends, identify trouble spots, and correct as needed. This was absolutely essential when I was single mothering my boys — man, could they eat! — and doing what I could to make things work.

Now, many years later, responsible only for myself, I need to do much the same — partly as a result of this past pandemic year’s impacts on income, a scenario no doubt playing out for millions of households, but also as a matter of a rise in costs despite these deep recessionary times. (Ugh. The prices of certain necessities have skyrocketed!)

As much as money matters gave me a headache a few days ago as I was making end-of-the month payments, on the first of the month – particularly on a Monday! – I am resolved to refigure my figures and embark on a new budgetary diet.

Ironically, my most variable expense are those food and household items, which means affecting my actual diet…

In other words, that’s where I can cut the fat (so to speak), and maybe as a result… reduce my pandemic poundage. (I know, I know. Not as obsessed about weight as when I was younger, but I do still care, and I care how any excess affects my health.)

But guess what? At the moment I don’t find that depressing. I’m gazing out the window at snow-covered branches, which is immeasurably tranquilizing. I’m enjoying the sensation of sitting inside one of those snow globes, as a few flurries wander their way down and drift about. As a person who has never been successful at traditional forms of meditation — and who couldn’t use meditation in these stressful times? — this moment, this Monday morning, this first of a new month, I feel just fine.

Do you love the newness of the first of the month? Do you love beginnings? Whatever you start or restart in terms of goals, how do you sustain the energy to follow through? Do diets (and budgets) fall into this category?

You May Also Enjoy

• My Reasons to Love the First of Each (Shiny) New Month

• “I See Fat People”

• The Body Politic: How Our Bodies Look vs. How We Use Them

• Contemplating Meditating. How Do YOU Meditate?

And why shouldn’t they be?

There have been a few occasions when we’ve gotten into it on two “social” issues (for lack of a better term), and I found her arguments to be a wall of talking points with little ability on my part to pierce. Perhaps she thought the same of my point of view. But I did my best to listen (as long as I could), always ending up “agreeing to disagree” and then changing the subject.

Never Assume

Just because we have differences, that doesn’t mean that one of us is more correct (even though I think I am, of course). That doesn’t mean one of us should have an attitude when dealing with the other (neither of us does). And that doesn’t mean that we can’t get along.

Moreover, I can’t assume that she is glued to media sources that I would consider less than truthful or factual. I suspect that assumption would be wrong since I know that her life is filled to the brim with both family and work. More likely, she’s so busy she has little time to read (or watch or listen to) the more extensive sources that are part of my usual routine (because I am not living an over-scheduled, over-obligated life these days).

The bottom line: The “warfare” that some would have me wage against her (or her wage against me) makes absolutely no sense. Can’t we agree to disagree? Can’t we at least listen to each other, enjoy each other where we find common ground, and stay open to each other‘s points of view?

And no, I am not talking about points of view that are hate-filled, exclusionary, or prejudicial. Our differences are largely in the “how” of reaching common goals rather than disbelief or rejection of those goals altogether.

I’m also recognizing that the reasons why different views exist need to be understood and explored.

Walking in Someone Else’s Shoes

Let’s talk empathy for a moment.

I’ve never lived on the West Coast although I’ve visited a few times. I’ve never lived in the Midwest although again, I’ve visited. Those visits were few and limited by business trips. I’ve lived in the deep South for a great many years. I’ve also lived in the Northeast (where I was raised) and the mid-Atlantic (for a number of years).

Oh. I’ve lived in Europe, too. Specifically, France.

Beyond pure geography as a reference — I have almost always lived in cities or close-in suburbs — I have also lived in large-city exurbs, which I confess are not much to my liking. As for rural areas, I have virtually no experience except for the occasional weekend here or there. I am an urban creature at heart. It is what suits me. It always has been.

When communicating with someone of very different background, experience, and opinions, I will need to walk in their shoes as much as I possibly can. Sometimes, that will take an effort. Likewise, they will need to walk in my shoes.

A More Proximate Example

Many years ago, my then-husband (who is an immigrant to this country) would argue his views vociferously. He was far more conservative than I am relative to social programs. He grew up in Europe where he was subject to a very high tax rate in a country with a substantial safety net. His life experience was very different from my own. He had never actually needed that social safety net. And when our discussions on these issues would grow heated, I argued for a bit, but ultimately backed down (and shut up). I learned not to bring up these topics.

Here’s the point. I already knew what it was like, through no fault of one’s own, to be dropped down a well with nothing to break your fall. My spouse had no such experience.

Since we’ve been divorced for a very long time, I have only an inkling of his current views, those views conveyed to me by my now-adult sons. My understanding is that he’s more centrist these days.

Still, I don’t think he’s especially good at walking in someone else’s shoes. He has never experienced what it is to be laid off, to be unemployed for an extended period of time, and to be responsible for a family with no income on which to depend. He has no experience of the desperation, humiliation, and anxiety that results. He has no experience of choosing between paying for a roof overhead or healthcare, or any number of other trade-offs that leave a parent feeling like an abject failure. And I’m speaking about times that precede the pandemic.

Avoiding Conversations

I have another acquaintance whom I know better than the first I mentioned. Again, we get along, we can laugh together, and we can talk about a number of subjects. On the few occasions that we have touched on politics, I’ve been glad we weren’t face-to-face or he would have seen my reaction: jaw dropped, hands slapped over my face, expression of surprise mixed with dismay, and peeking through my fingers to see if the world really was as upside down as it seems to be!

Unlike the friend I mentioned at the outset, this man has good, steady employment and free time which he fills with various interests. He tends not to keep himself informed, takes the word of one or two friends – relying on this secondhand or third-hand information alone – and those individuals listen only to conservative media. He parrots their views without looking into anything himself. (Can I admit this gives me agita?)

Instead of driving myself crazy when we’re talking, I have found that I have to avoid certain topics altogether. That said, I try to keep us to areas of common ground. There’s almost always common ground, don’t you think?

Bottom Line

Look. Am I saying that we should tolerate ugly and utterly inaccurate declarations without pushing back?

Absolutely not. I believe in fighting the “good fight.” And I know myself well enough to state that I’m incapable of holding my tongue in many circumstances. Besides, I have no interest in a friendship, casual or otherwise, with someone whose values are the polar opposite of my own.

I also have friends who are far to the left of me on several topics. Over the years I have listened to their points of view trying to remain open-minded. I have adjusted my stance on a couple of issues as a result, and on others not so much — again partly a matter of my own experience and partly opening myself up to theirs, supplemented by other sources of factual information. And isn’t this the way it should be?

Listening to one another, exploring what different ideas might actually mean, not only for ourselves, yet unavoidably factoring in our own experience.

God knows, there are plenty of people I don’t want to engage with in any way! But we can certainly make more of an effort with a wide range of people in our lives. And we don’t need to throw away friendships of all sorts because we’re living in a bubble of anger or in media echo chambers that continue to ratchet up the temperature for profit instead of encouraging us to listen to each other.

Just my two cents during these (still) frustrating and divisive times.

I welcome your thoughts.

You May Also Enjoy

• Listen First, Talk Second

• Empathy

• Decorum

• When Getting Your Way Isn’t a Win