London, Jack's Back and Keeping Up with the McGuire's

No, not "Jack is back." I mean the back that belongs to Jack. On our second day in London, Jack crashed on his mountain bike while riding with the Boy.

Text from the Boy: "He's all good. A bit stiff. He ate shit going on jump 11/13"

Which means he crashed on the 11th of the 13 jumps on the Gravy Train trail at Duthie. Oy. I can't load the picture of his scratched up and bloody back, which is probably for the best. You might not want to see it anyway.

I talked to Jack the night of the crash, and he seemed fine. He has been battered and bruised before.

The second night was concerning.

"I couldn't sleep flat on my back because I couldn't breathe because the pain was too bad, so I slept on the couch. I want to make sure I can breathe deeply so I don't get fluid in my lungs."

Okay. Did you break your ribs or something?

"No, I'm a doctor, even if my ribs were broken or bruised, nothing to do, blah blah blah," he said.

The third night was more concerning.

"I really shouldn't be driving," he said. I can't turn my back and it hurt when I turn my head." This was the week Jack and the Boy were going to do crazy outdoorsy kind of stuff.

The fourth night was totally sketchy.

"I took some of the Boy's old percocet from when he broke his collarbone so I could sleep," he said. "I had to stop taking ibuprofen because I was getting a rash. At least three times a year we get kids in the ICU whose skin sloughs off because of a reaction to ibuprofen." This is typical dinner conversation at the McGuire's, the rare but nasty side effects of over the counter meds.

"I called one of the pharmacists in the ICU to see what they would recommend."

Probably not taking your kid's old meds, but whatever. Jack has a license to prescribe narcotics, and while I know I should dump old pain killers at the QFC drug return center,* part of me is afraid the massive earthquake will hit and someone I love will have a broken leg and we won't be able to find medical help but I will have a jar of pain meds from a surgery in my medicine cabinet. Better Jack taking one pill for legitimate pain management instead of our kids taking it for recreational use.

So now I am feeling bad for leaving Jack and the Boy home in Seattle while I am out and about with Claire-Adele eating in restaurants, seeing plays, visiting parks and museums in one of the coolest cities in the world, especially as Jack is seriously injured.

But then I don't feel too bad. Two and a half years ago, I tore my ACL trying to keep up with the kids and Jack. Now he is the one grounded for not keeping up with the Boy.

* PSA: You should get rid of old pain meds. http://www.takebackyourmeds.org I've done it before.

Do or Die, and My Favorite Drug

Friday, I was having kind of a shitty day at work. I was the only one in the office from my team, which by itself wasn't bad, but it wasn't great, either. I was also having a rough time at home. The Boy was scheduled to come home from camp Saturday, which was good but also stressful. Jack informed me of work schedule for the rest of the summer and September, and it totally sucks. When the three pistons of work, kids and my marriage (notice I don't include anything about my own personal life in this list, because it doesn't exist) all down at the same time, it is it a huge drag.

I didn't pack a lunch on Friday, so I had to punt for food. I could have ordered from Peach and had something delivered, or I could have bought food from the little refrigerator we have in the lunch room. 

Fuck that, I thought. I want a burger. I trekked over to a Belltown pub.

"Do you want a seat at the bar?" the host asked as I was dining alone. The World Cup Brazil versus Belgium was on the three televisions behind the bar.

"Sure," I said. I sat next to a couple who was watching the game. Brazil was down 0-2. The woman's ninety-four year old mother lived in Belgium during World War II. The mother was watching the game from her home in Iowa. I didn't have the heart to tell this woman I was rooting for Brazil. 

Watching this game felt familiar. Two weeks ago, the Boy's soccer team played a tournament in Burlington where they played five games in less then forty-eight hours. The first three games were qualifiers, and the last two were elimination rounds. The Boy's team made it to the finals for their group. For the last game, the boys (young men?) played an equally matched team from Portland sponsored by the Portland Timbers, the MLS team. The Boy's team was sponsored by the Sounders, Seattle's MLS team. Civic pride was at stake.

Both teams played hard. I've never seen a youth soccer game where there was so much heart from both sides on the field. The ball went back and forth, the players charging and sweating and grimacing. Every kid was fully engaged with the game. Parents on the sidelines dropped their usual conversations about life and kids and vacations to focus on the match. It was do or die for both teams.

It was awesome.

So there I was, in a bar on a Friday, watching the same thing play out in Russia between two of the top ten teams in the world. There was no holding back, no doing "just good enough." To lose is to die. These grown men, among the best athletes out of 7.4 billion people on earth, reminded me of the Boy's team in that last game. The size of the audience and the number of people who cared about the game was different, but if you were a parent on that sideline in Burlington in June, it might as well have been the quarter finals of the World Cup.

I am so glad the world has found a replacement for gladiator sports in soccer. Instead of people actually dying, they just feel like they have died when they lose. Sports Illustrated reported that

"Neymar has admitted that suffering elimination from the World Cup with Brazil was the 'saddest moment of my career' and claims he is having a hard time 'finding the strength to play again'."

To paraphrase, he felt like he died. I am sure something in him did die--the dream that he probably had since he was a little kid that he would lead his country to a World Cup victory one day. The dreams of his country died, too.

But Neymar lives, and will play again, even though that doesn't diminish the pain he feels today.

Sometimes life sucks not because you just lost the big game, but because of the thousands of smaller details of your life add up and weigh you down. It isn't one, big, terrible thing like cancer. As a mom, it is the lack of control over everyone else's mood and schedule, being at their mercy, and having no way to escape.

And then my favorite escape came to the rescue...

This week, I am taking Claire-Adele to orientation at the University of Maryland. I have to take three days off of work for this, which I really don't have. I wasn't dreading this trip, but I wasn't exactly thinking of it as a full-filled, exciting vacation as the main gist would be how I am going to part with my first born and approximately fifty thousand dollars. Seems kind of lose-lose. I texted my old friend Kendra who I knew from Chicago who now lives in Bethesda, Maryland to see if we could get together. Kendra is loads of fun.

"Want to see Hamilton?" she texted me back. This summer, Hamilton is at the Kennedy Center for Performing Arts.

Hell yeah I want to go.

"My husband said I should go with a friend, but he said I couldn't spend more than $300 for a ticket."

I was so excited I couldn't sleep Thursday night. Kendra and I both searched online. The cheapest tickets I could find for Wednesday night was $500. Ugh. I was still hopeful.

This morning when I woke up, Jack was sitting at his computer. "There are Hamilton tickets for $299."

"What?" I said, looking at his screen. Saturday, seats in the first row of Tier 1 were $500. The Kennedy Center must have dropped the price as the day of the show was getting closer. I texted Kendra. She wasn't there. Did everyone know about this last minutes drop in prices? If they did, these tickets wouldn't last. I bought the tickets. If for some reason Kendra couldn't make it, then I'd figure something out. For an hour, I sat waited for her text.

In the meantime, I had to two tickets to Hamilton for Wednsday night. The problem of getting rid of an extra ticket was peanuts compared to the thrill of having them. The escape is what I imagine what a shot of heroine is like, when it creeps into your veins, and nothing else matters except the high.  Jack and Claire-Adele were screaming at each about her getting her driver's license. Suddenly, I was less pissed off about Jack's schedule, about my son staying out super late last night, about the crap at my job. I was floating in my Hamilton glow, the anticipation of seeing it again.

Just as the grit in of life's gears was wearing me down, sometimes things fall in my direction. Two weeks ago, the Boy's team won the tournament with a goal scored in the last ten seconds. And Kendra can join me for Hamilton.

Laundry

I don't do laundry
because I love doing laundry.

I do laundry
because I hate the pile of dirty clothes.

I don't fold the laundry
because I love folding it.

I fold laundry
because I hate the pile of unfolded clothes.

Someday, I will not care
one way or another.

I long for that day.

"50 Candles" and Dishwasher Soap

Last week, my husband took off work as the kids were on Mid-Winter Break. Jack, the Boy and Claire-Adele were going to ski while I was at work. Plans changed when the Boy broke his collarbone, but Jack already had the time off scheduled. While he was home, he attempted to do more around the house, like vaccumming. One morning before I left for work, he asked--verbatim--

"Where do you buy dishwasher soap?"

I want his life. I wish I could have lived a life where I don't know where to buy dishwasher soap.

"That's not what I mean," he said. "I mean do they sell it at QFC* or just at Bartell's?"

Still, I want his life. I told a friend at work the story and he asked what kind of soap we use.

"Some organic kind that doesn't have a bunch of toxic chemicals," I said.

"Fancy dishwasher soap," he said. "That's harder to find."

"Nope. We've bought the same soap for years. It's not like I switched to this last week."

Later that afternoon, I was reading "Fifty Candles" by Wendy Aarons on McSweeny's. This is where Sam from Sixteen Candles hits the halfcentury mark. I haven't turned the corner on fifty yet, but I'm close enough that my turn-signal is on. I almost died laughing when I got to the end.

Or, in my life "Good luck trying to figure out where to buy dishwasher soap."

The following weekend, I was at the grocery store and bought the dishwasher soap. I took a picture for future reference.

* aka Kroger

Doppelganger

The New York Times recently ran an article about the Google Arts & Culture app where people can take a selfie and then the app matches your face to art in museums across the world using some kind of visual recognition software.

I tried it myself. This photo was taken with Apple Photo Booth about two years ago.

Here is what it found.

This Japanese deity is Fudo Myoo. He "uses his sword to cut through ignorance and his lasso to reign in those who block the path to enlightenment." His left eye is closed because he is pissed.

Childcare "Professional"

After work, I was watering my orchids and the Boy told me about his day. He was home from school today for MLK Day. He did his Day of Service by helping watch our neighbor's four kids (ages 2 to 11) jump on our trampoline this morning. At the end of the day, he told me how he was better at with kids than he thought he was. He said the mom thought so, too.

"Maybe I could pay you to watch the kids for the rest of the day," the mom told the Boy.

"I am not a childcare professional," he said. "I am the next door childcare amateur."

I laughed at his story. "Claire-Adele is a childcare professional," the Boy told me. "She gets paid to watch kids." Claire-Adele has a job watching kids at a downtown health club.

"You are a childcare amateur," the Boy said to me. "You never got paid to watch kids." 

How depressing, I thought. My expression must have appeared on my face.

"But you are a really, really good amateur!" he said.

Oy. What makes a professional, just getting a paycheck? What about my years and years of unpaid, 24/7/365 experience? Doesn't that count because I wasn't paid? WTF? I've raised kids for seventeen years and I am a lower rank than my daughter who is seventeen? What gives? Or does "Mom" rank higher?

Addendum: I was talking to a friend of a friend at an event this evening who got divorced after 25 years. For most of her marriage up until it ended, she was a stay-at-home mom, full-time parent, primary parent, whatever. She gave up her career to raise her kids. The fact that she wasn't "working" during her marriage became a major issue in her divorce.

"Why is it someone can choose to be a nanny and that is a career, that they are professionals, but if a woman choose to raise her own kids, that isn't considered a job? What gives? Aren't both people doing essentially the same thing, except one is getting paid and the other isn't?"

I hadn't thought of that. Good point.

Prada and a Fortnight

Years ago, before I had kids, Jack and I were shopping at Marshall Field's in Chicago on a Saturday. It was January and we were getting ready for our upcoming to trip to Thailand in March and we both needed new clothes. The previous week, I was feeling a little funny and wondered if I was pregnant. I was too naive or in denial to think it was a real possibility for about a week after I missed my period. In Marshall Field's, I was riding the escalator down, I saw I giant shoe display. Even though I didn't know I was pregnant at the time, I remember thinking, I will never own a $400 pair of shoes.

The deep recesses of my mind knew I was pregnant even if the front end of my brain didn't know what was going on. The backend of my brain knew that if I were pregnant, that every decision in my life thereafter would be different, and spending $400 on a pair of shoes would be an absurd and unnecessary expense with baby clothes, new furniture and saving for college. To this day, I've never owned a $400 pair of shoes. 

In less than two weeks, Claire-Adele will find out if she gets into a college that will have a major financial impact on our lives. Even if she doesn't get in early admission to her dream school, she will have more chances in the winter to apply for more schools that will cause an equal amount of financial wreckage. I've scrapped and saved and invested and got a job to prepare for this. Like childbirth, I can prepare and be ready, but that won't make it any less painful as I open the outflow of money we set aside for saving for college that hasn't been touched since 2001. The thought of taking more money out of savings than I am putting in makes my head spin. 

I know it will be for a good cause and I am willing to spend a boatload on my daughter's education. First, I know she wants it and will work hard. Second--and I don't know if this is reverse sexism or not, but I know from my own experience as a young woman in the workforce I benefited tremendously from having a degree from a top-notch university with a top-notch major. Whenever I got mansplained to or had to speak up in a meeting, knowing I had a great education gave me confidence and credibility I don't know if I otherwise I would have had. Maybe I was like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz--I had a brain all along, but Northwestern was my Oz, telling me it was true. I want Claire-Adele to have that advantage because I know it helps, and as such I am willing to pay for it. It isn't just the brand name, either. It was four years of being surrounded by people equally smart and hard-working, who challenged, humbled, and supported me. 

Let's go back to $400 shoes. I was reading the fashion pages in the New York Times this week and I saw this amazing--amazing--pair of red velvet Mary Jane pumps by Prada. I have two weeks before I find out if I am going to have to adopt a major form of financial austerity for the next four plus years, depending on where the Boy decides to attend college, too. Is this now my window of opportunity--the window that closed when I first became pregnant--to buy an outrageously and irresponsibly expensive pair of shoes? In two weeks, that window could slam shut and not open again for eight years during which time I will be shopping at the Rack.

Nordstrom has these shoes (not in red, though) on sale for $389 with free shipping! 

They would even be less than my $400 threshold. Then I start wondering, would these be the perfect shoe? Are these shoes simply awesome, or are they the most awesome? Should I look for a better shoe, like these...

And they too are on sale, even though the sale price is crazy. These silver ones are wild. I have no idea where I would ever wear them, but aren't they fun? 

Fun...fun...fun.

Perhaps that is the theme here. This for the past seventeen years, my life has been primarily about responsibility and taking care of other people, not fun and frivolity. I can't say I mind. I am glad I have two kids and love them deeply even though at times they drive me crazy. I suppose that is the point of parental love. I remember thinking I was ready to have kids when I had more to give than I needed to take. Somehow I took that to mean I didn't need to give anything to myself. Buying these shoes aren't going to deprive my kids of food or shelter, or anything, really. 

Fast forward thirty years when Claire-Adele's daughter is going to college. What would I tell her to do? Buy the shoes or save the money?  

I don't know. I have a fortnight to decide.

Skiing!!! Part II

This isn't a joke like my blog post from in December when I said I went skiing when I really didn't. This time it is real, as noted by the picture of my snow covered skis. As my kids might say, this time, the shit is real.

I have a friend who says when we are stuck in middle age, we need to think about doing things that make us proud of ourselves. In some ways, it makes obvious sense: don't do things you will be ashamed of. In other ways, it seems like an odd thing to think about middle age. Do we really need to worry about self-esteem? Isn't self-esteem for kids? As I got off the ski lift yesterday for the first time in more than a year, I found a new mantra: I am proud of myself.

It was President's Day. I didn't want to ski Sunday because I feared there might be regularly scheduled lessons and I didn't want to share the bunny hill with 150 kids learning to ski or snowboard for the first time. No thanks. Monday was quiet. While I was getting my brace on, Jack bought me a lift ticket. I told him to get me a beginner ticket--only good for green runs--, but he got me a full lift ticket which was about $20 more expensive. He was more optimistic than I was. I felt like a nervous bride with a supportive father: I knew I could back out at any time. Even though I had my skis, my brace and everything else, I could still bail if I felt like it.

I thought I'd start slow on the Magic Carpet. When I saw the long line, I almost skipped it and went straight to the chairlift. Jack said, "You had better try this first."

I had never been on a Magic Carpet before. When I learned to ski back in 7th grade, we side-stepped up the hill to start. After that, we would take tow ropes up the beginner hill. The guy at the top of the Magic Carpet looked at me funny. I was the only person on the Magic Carpet not wearing rental skis who wasn't accompanying a small child. 

The Magic Carpet isn't that easy. It is easier than a tow rope, which is harder than a chairlift. Tow ropes require timing, balance and the ability to keep your skis in the tracks. If you can make it up a hill on a tow rope, you probably are coordinated enough to make it down. The Magic Carpet requires balance. On a chairlift, you at least get to sit. 

When I got to the top of the Magic Carpet, I was worried I'd have to dodge fallen snowboarders or obstinate preschoolers who were tired, hungry, and cold, or lost from their group. I turned left to avoid a dozen seated beginning snowboarders sitting on the right side of the carpet. I took off my goggles and wiped off the condensation three times before making the thirty-yard trek to the bottom. My pizza wedge was awesome. I completely avoided facing my body down the fall line, only pointing myself in the direction I was heading. 

"You've done Dave Murray Downhill!" Jack cheered me on, reminding me of the long, black run I've done at Whistler. "Ready for Little Thunder?" Nope. One more time on the Magic Carpet. As I was going downhill, I wondered if there was a way I could practice skiing without actually skiing. Does such a thing exist?

As Jack and I were waiting in line, we saw a little girl with a snowboard crying, "Daddy, no no! Don't make me go!" She pleading, not whining. I guessed that dad was a big snowboarder, and wanted his daughter to learn so they could spend every weekend on the slopes.

"That's the way to instill a lifelong love of the sport," Jack said sarcastically. Jack knows better than to drag an unwilling kid up a mountain.

"That kid needs some hot chocolate," I said. 

I got on the ski lift just fine. Even more remarkable was when I got off of it. My muscle memory which failed me terribly on the Magic Carpet fabulous when I got off the lift. I was careful, but my skis led me to the right place, and I was able to turn and go exactly where I wanted to go. I was able to dodge a fallen snowboarder and a few very slow skiers who didn't clear the offload area fast enough. I was surprised that auto-pilot kicked in so easily. It was as if my subconscious told my conscious to shut up and let it handle getting off the lift. Later Jack told me he was worried that I might freak out at the top of the chair lift, not get off, and ride back down. He wanted me to try to Magic Carpet first to get my ski legs back.

At the top of Little Thunder, I cleared the condensation from my goggles three times, stalling. Once I started down the hill, I started to cry. Why was I up here? What was the point? What was I trying to prove? Did I really need to do this, even though I had been going to physical therapy for a year for this moment? It was too late to change my mind. I already at the altar and had said "I do" to the mountain. I was committed to getting down not via Ski Patrol on a sled. As I went down, I started my mantra for the day "I am proud of myself." I smiled, and I really was proud of myself.

The first turn was torture. I would have to bear most of my weight on one leg. My mind regressed to when I was a 7th grader at Perry Middle School on the Wednesday night ski bus to Snow Trails, and we learned to turn by lifting one leg off the ground. My brain wasn't so sure my body could handle it, but my legs were fine even with the not insignificant additional weight of the ski boots and skis.

I made a few turns, and relaxed. I looked crappy compared to old form when I could fly down the runs off the 7th Heaven Express, but I shouldn't compare my current self to my old one, for better or worse. My old self a year ago was getting ready for surgery. My old self last spring couldn't ride a bike on the road. My old self last fall couldn't run.

I made it down. And I wanted to do it again. After the fourth time, I remembered to face down the fall line. I practiced planting my poles to turn, even though the terrain wasn't steep enough to warrant that much effort. It snowed a few inches while we there, so the snow on the slope was perfectly soft and fresh. The icy patches that were there in the morning were gone before lunch.

Jack took this picture of me at the bottom--and very flat part--of the run.

By the end of the day, I was having fun. I remembered why I liked to ski and was grateful for all of the work I did for the past year to bring me back. Jack wanted me to try a blue run, but I wasn't mentally ready. I remembered my orthopedic surgeon telling me to stick to the cruisers, whatever a cruiser means to me. No moguls, no ungroomed runs. Even though I was wearing my brace, I didn't want to tempt the ACL protection gods. 

There is some bittersweetness in my return to the mountain. In the past two seasons, my kids have gotten significantly better than me. The Boy loves his terrain "steep and deep." When the powder is packed down, he is in the terrain park, practicing jumping, 360 turns and skiing backward. Claire Adele loves Alpental, a place for advanced skiers. Jack has learned how to ski there, too. While I was re-learning to walk, they were on the double blacks. I will probably never ski the same runs with them again except when they are humoring mom. 

I went back to my mantra. "I am proud of myself." Someday, I can be the grandma who takes the little ones on the Magic Carpet, hangs with them on the green runs, and buys them hot chocolate when they get too cold, while their parents shred the gnar on the double blacks.

Therapist, Out of Africa and the Sh*t Sandwich

I was visiting my dad this weekend in Ohio. My mom is in a memory care unit where her Alzheimer's is being managed. I was going to say treated, but they stopped treatment about nine months ago and are now trying to keep her comfortable.

My dad has been through a lot. My brother has schizophrenia, and my parents watched him fall apart for years. My mother had depression where she would lie in bed and cry for weeks until she found the right medication. My first daughter, Ada, died, and now my mom has Alzheimer's. I hurt my knee and was laid up for a year when my mother's illness became a crisis. My dad couldn't help me and I couldn't help him as much as we both would have liked. There is other stuff, too.

"We sure have had our own bite out the shit sandwich," he has said.

Sometimes when I list it out, it doesn't seem that bad. Other people have gone through worse. Other times, it seems overwhelming, too much.

I started meeting with a new therapist a few weeks ago to help me better understand some of the issues my teenagers are going through. When I was pregnant with Claire Adele, I saw a therapist who specialized in women's health issues.  Shellie was great. Now I have this new guy who works with parents and teens. When I give him by bio and list off all of the stuff that has happened to me, he looks bewildered, as if he doesn't know where to start or what is the most important. I can't blame him.

Last week before I went to Ohio, I was reading Out of Africa, a memoir by Isak Dinesen about her years on a coffee plantation in Kenya. She writes

"The Natives have, far less than the white people, the sense of risks in life... It made me reflect that perhaps, they were, in life itself, within their own element, such as we can never be, like fishes in deep water which for the life of them they cannot understand our fear of drowning. This assurance, this art of swimming, they had, I thought, because they had preserved a knowledge that was lost to us by our first parents; Africa, amongst the continents, will teach you: that God and the Devil are one, the majesty co-eternal, not two uncreated but one uncreated..."

God and the Devil are one. This is such an interesting concept. It fits with the story of Job from the Bible, the one where God and the Devil together torture Job (kill his crops, family, etc.) to see if Job loses faith. He doesn't. He keeps believing in goodness, even when faced with extreme distress.

I was reading Ordinary People and I found a comment on how Americans try so hard to have nothing bad happen to them, but what for? Difficult things--disease, injury, mental illness--happens whether or not we want it to. This sometimes is hard to see when I am in the thick of it--visiting my mom in a nursing home, wondering if she remembers me or not, watching my dad spoon-feed her because she can't feed herself. At times like this, I'd like to believe in good and evil, but then it makes more sense that God and the Devil are one.

Parents' Voices v. Kids' Voices

I am taking a novel writing class at the Hugo House taught by Sonora Jha. She has an older son, and she says his comments haunt her now instead of her parents' words. As my kids would say, #relatable. When I was younger, I would hang on the words of my mom. Now, I hang on to the words of my daughter. When my mother would harangue me, I would often bite my tongue and not respond to her. Instead, I would go off and complain to my father, friends, and brother about how I was wronged.

Last week, Claire-Adele and I went to see Hidden Figures. As much I as I enjoyed taking the time to see the movie with her, there were times that I was annoyed at her rudeness towards me. We were running a little bit late as I was talking to my father right before we left. There was a power outage, and Claire-Adele ran to Starbucks to get lunch, only to find their power was out, too, and were not serving food.

We got to the theater after that drama, and I am jogging up the steps, a major accomplishment for me considering that last year at the same time I was learning to walk without a brace or crutch. Jogging and going upstairs were out of the question, let alone trying them together.

"You are the most embarrassing person in the world!" Claire-Adele scolded me as I moved quickly up the stairs. She didn't consider yelling at me in the middle of a crowded movie theater embarrassing, but whatever. I am sure she didn't want to be seen with me at all, but none of her friends wanted to see this movie.

After we had found our seats, Claire-Adele wanted some popcorn because she missed lunch.

"Can you get it for me? I want to see the previews," she said. After being told I was the most embarrassing person in the world two minutes earlier, I told her to get her own popcorn. I gave her money, but I had no desire to stand in line and miss the previews for someone who had been rude to me.

This Christmas, she told the family that she had no plans of coming back to visit after she graduates from college during the holidays. Of course, she wants to be invited on vacations, but God forbid she has to spend a holiday with us.

If another friend talked to me like this, I'd probably drop them--unfriend them on Facebook, block their phone number, etc. Instead, she is my daughter. I don't have the luxury of writing her off. This weekend, I went to visit my dad and my mom in Ohio. I got home around 11:00 p.m. last night, and the kids were in bed. This morning, Claire Adele was sniffling, and I asked how she was doing.

"There is nothing wrong with me," she yelled. "Why do you think there is something wrong with me?"

Good morning to you, too, I should have said. Later, I went to wake up the Boy. As I passed her room, she asked me for the fabric scissors.

"Why do you need them?" I asked.

"To cut my head off," she said as she rolled her eyes. "I need them to cut fabric. Can you get them for me?" She had blue fleece spread out over her floor. She is part of a group that is making blankets for homeless men and women.

"I need to get your brother up, and then I can get them," I replied.

When I went to get the Boy, he was excited to see me. "How was your trip?" he asked. I told him, and we talked about how his friend got his remote control airplane out of a tree. This was big news, as the plane had been stuck forty feet up in a Port Orford cedar since the end of winter break.

"Are you going to get me the scissors?" Claire-Adele barked. "I need the scissors."

"Shut up," I said frustrated with this person who has said nothing nice to me in weeks. "I am talking to your brother." I was so tired of the world revolving around her. "You are interrupting my conversation. Just wait."

"You know," she said. "You say I am rude to you but spoiler alert -- you are ruder to me."

I could let those words haunt me, like the words of my mother stuck with me as a kid. Instead, I look at the millions of micro-aggressions and insults she has hurled at me for the past few years. I know I am the grown-up here and she is the kid. I should be the example of the right way to behave.

Yet, it is so hurtful to be constantly told how wrong and awful and embarrassing I am, and I need to respond. How is it that I am rude when I call my daughter on her rudeness to me? Why? I wish I had Michelle Obama's grace of "When they go low, we go high." This is different. I am living with this lowness, and it is in my face when I wake up, when she comes home from school and before she goes to bed. She directs her sass at not just me, but to her brother as well. I shouldn't defend him because that makes him look defenseless. She has no awareness of the link between yelling at her brother and then his yelling back at her.

"Dad didn't yell at us all weekend," she said after I told her to shut-up. Argh. Jack was probably in "Distracted Parent Mode" all weekend, squeezing in work, looking at his phone, and generally ignoring the kids. He probably didn't notice them enough to yell at them.

"Where is my water bottle? I've been looking for it for two days!" Claire Adele continued to rant.

"I put it in the drawer with the other water bottles. It was in the dishwasher. You should yell at your dad about that. I wasn't home this weekend," I said. She glared at me and stomped away.

Claire Adele will be leaving for college in a year and a half. I've talked to other parents about life as an empty nester. I've always imagined it being so hard and lonely. I always wondered how moms coped with the person they raised for eighteen years leaves to go off on their own. Why aren't all of these women crying and crying? Why aren't there support groups for moms when their kids go to college and leave home? When Claire-Adele was six, I talked to one mom who had what I thought was a nice and lovely daughter say she was sad for about a day when her daughter left for school, and then she was fine. I tried to push out of my mind how I'd feel when Claire Adele leaves the house, my firstborn, my baby. I couldn't imagine.

Now I get it. Claire Adele needs to leave me as much as I need her to leave. We need a separation, time apart. Hopefully, someday, we can be friendly to each other. She might need to push me away to make her own departure easier for all of us. She is succeeding, I have to say. She is succeeding.

Stuff We Don't Want to Do & Blank Pages

The Boy was recently kvetching about his homework.

"Why do I need to learn to write fiction if I want to be an engineer?" he said. "How will this help me?"

I had a hard time coming up with a response that he would believe. He is fairly smart, so getting past his bullshit detector is much harder than smothering broccoli in cheese sauce. Metaphorically speaking, he often finds the broccoli and refuses to eat it. It is one of his magic powers. At least I don't have to worry too much about him getting sucked into a cult.

"Part of this is learning to write," I said.

"I can write essays fine and I get that. But why should I write I story?"

"It is supposed to be fun," I said.

(Eye roll.)

"Maybe you will be a good writer and just don't know it yet," I said. "You are a decent writer." This is true. He isn't a bad writer. Both of my kids are better writers than I was at their ages.

"Everything I write makes me cringe," he said. "I suck at this."

"Part of writing is learning how to write," I said. "J.K. Rowling didn't publish the stories she wrote as an eighth grader."

"I bet her stories were better than mine," he said. I was running out of cheese sauce. All he could see and smell was the broccoli.

I went to coffee with a friend and explained my situation. How can I persuade my very persuasive son to write a story?

"Part of school at this age is learning how to do things you don't want to do," she said. "Kids who succeed at school, especially in high school, are the kids who can gut through what sees unappealing." I never had a problem with that at school. I was internally motivated and naturally curious. I did work because it was there.

I understood her point. I thought the purpose of chores was to actually get my kids to help so I wouldn't have as much work to do around the house. Now I understand the purpose is something completely different. Very few people* want to clean a toilet, empty a dishwasher, or vacuum. My son would rather google random crap than write a story. Who wouldn't? But life isn't about vegging out on a computer to escape reality.

Then I think about the opposite of learning to do things you don't want to do. Sure, I get everyone needs to take care of themselves. But why is learning how to do things you don't want to do such a prized skill in our society? Why do college admissions want kids who succeed in all subjects? Poets don't need to know engineering. Why make engineers learn to write poetry? I can see that for kids: their parents and teachers don't know who will grow up to be an architect and who will grow up to be an accountant, and it is beneficial to expose all kids to all kinds of possibilities. And I know that there are somethings everyone needs to know. We all need to know the basic principles of how government works, principles of science, how to read, how to read a bank statement, and so on.

Here is my quandary: I am really good at doing things I don't want to do. I am excellent at it, in fact. I can also find a reason to get stuff done that I don't want to do, and make it mildly interesting or entertaining. I am rarely bored. Some of this is good.

Some of it isn't. If I am good at doing what I don't want to do, how can I know what I will like to do? How will I know when I find it?

In the end, my son gutted through the story, and it wasn't "cringe-worthy." Before he wrote it, his sister gave him some crazy ideas, one of which stuck and he ran with. He got out my copy of Spoiled Brats by Simon Rich, a wickedly funny anthology of humorous and very crude essays. While the Boy was scared by the blank page before him, he started to have fun with where he could go with it. He got over the ditch and into the fun part. Finally. He realized his broccoli wasn't so bad.

Happy New Year! May your blank page this year be filled with wonder and joy!


* My grandmother and uncle, who probably both had/have a mild case of OCD, enjoy housework. Rather, they so strongly dislike mess and prefer order that their urge to clean is strong.

Strength Training and 40 pounds

I went to physical therapy yesterday and Evan talked to me about getting back to skiing. I can walk, bike and run, so in the grand scheme of life, I am pretty functional and I should be glad. The only part I don't like is when Jack and the kids go skiing every weekend and I can't. I don't want to begrudge them skiing because it is a great sport and probably the best way to spend a day in the snow. It involves all kinds of happy and healthy endorphins, which are according to Wikipedia "a morphine-like substance originating from within the body." Fresh air, going fast, great views, learning new skills and improving existing ones? Who doesn't want that?

Evan said while it is is great that I am running, I need to continue to build strength. "People think they ski on both legs, but there are times when times when you are bearing all of your weight on one leg. Your left leg really needs to be strong if you want to ski."

Hmm. Given the choice between lifting weights and running, I will chose running. I don't consciously make this decision, but instead I go to the YMCA, run first and then think "I have to..." a) get back home, b) run an errand, c) take a nap, etc. before I go to the weight room.

"How strong?" I asked Evan.

"You should be able to lift 150% of your body weight with both legs up and bad* leg down, 100% of your weight on your bad leg," said Evan.

Dang, I thought. I thought about how much I weigh now and how much I weighed before the Boy was born.

"How about if I lose forty pounds?" I said. That means I will have to lift forty pounds less on the single leg lift and sixty pounds less on the double leg lift.

Evan nodded. "That is one way to do it. Every pound you lose takes three pounds of pressure off your knee." I can't figure out the math on that, but Evan has a degree in this so I trust him.

While Evan thinks running isn't helping my strength, it actually is. Hopefully, I am losing a little pudge, which then means I will have less weight to lift. Win-win.

* He didn't say 'bad.' He used a nicer, more neutral medical term.

Phases of Womanhood: Maiden & Virgin, Nurture & Mother, Queen & Crone

I am in a writing class that discusses feminine archetypes through mythology taught by Mary Oak at North Seattle College. My friend Eleanor signed up for the class, and she recommended I join her, so I did.

This class nearly saved my life. It gave me a new lens through which to understand the past twenty-five years, and it made me think of my life in less depressing terms than I had been seeing it.

In the beginning of the class, the teacher talked about the three phases of womanhood:

• The Virgin
• The Mother
• The Crone

I found this to be mildly depressing at first. A few weeks into the class, the teacher expanded the three phases:

• The Maiden
• The Nurturer
• The Queen

My eureka moment came when I heard the word "queen." This is what I have been waiting for, my Queen phase. I am done with nurturing and ready to move on.

In mythology and in the feminine archetypes, the Maiden phase is when the woman in free and independent. She can make her own decisions about her life. I like "maiden" better than "virgin." When I think of "virgin," I think of girls who didn't leave their parents home until they were married. When I think of "maiden," I think of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City. She wasn't married and didn't have kids, but she wasn't living with her parents and certainly wasn't a virgin.

Ironically, the Nurturer/Motherhood phase is when women are most vulnerable. Women are no longer independent as others rely on them. The singer Adele was interviewed in Vanity Fair, and she talked about her three-year-old son. She said something to the effect of she wished she had four hours where she could just do whatever she wants. I could relate back to when I had toddlers and was tied to that responsibility. Even when I worked, my weekends were my own usually. Even if I volunteered, it was something I chose to do--it wasn't chosen for me.

With kids, you don't decide when they are going to have a meltdown or need a diaper change or when they will be pure delight. They are independent beings with their own moods and will. In general, this sense of obligation is much stronger for women than men. I have never every heard a father say he wished he had four hours to himself. There might be some dads out there who have said that, but I haven't met them.

The Queen phase doesn't mean "queen" in the regal, bossy sense. Instead, this is where women regain their time, power, and independence. They have earned experience and wisdom.

As I start to look for a job, I don't think of my time as a parent as time out of the workforce. I think it of it as my time spent as a nurturer. Sometimes I'd get frustrated with myself for not looking for a job sooner, or when I'd get a set-back. Last year, I tore my ACL. I was nurturing myself and re-learning how to walk. My son fell ill a month ago, and part of my "job" was to nurture him back to health. I spent a lot of time taking him to doctor's appointments and making phone calls to understand what was happening. When I looked his illness through this lens, I felt less frustrated. I now see myself in a stage of life that will eventually fade as my kids gain independence, and a new phase will begin.

My daughter talks at times about not wanting kids. "They will ruin my career," she says. Looking back, I can see that. At other times, she talks about her future grandchildren. She wants to skip from maiden to queen and still have kids. I can't blame her. Isn't this what happens to men?

Since I've learned about these archetypes,  I have developed patience. To paraphrase Snow White, someday my queen phase will come. And I'll be ready.

Middle Age

My son is going through middle age. This is not the typical middle age between birth and death. He is thirteen and going through the middle age between being a child and being an adult. I talked to a friend of mine today and she said, "He doesn't want to go backward, but he isn't ready to go forward." That would describe my teen.

I remember seeing a graph once that described regular middle age as such:

As someone who is in my forties, I can relate. The good news is that it should get better in the next few years.

I feel like this applies to my son in his teen years:

I have read articles about the teenage brain, and how it is in the process of pruning unnecessary synapses, or whatever part of the brain they no longer need. The good news is that it should get better in the next few years. This was also true for my daughter, who is now sixteen. I was at an event with a bunch of parents a few years ago when Claire-Adele was about thirteen. I was complaining about her antagonizing behavior, and how I found it annoying at best and enraging at worst.

"She is in the band, right?" Ron said. "I thought kids in band were good kids."

"She is a good kid," I said, "But she is a horrible person."

They all laughed. Brian was quiet for a minute, and then said, "My brother said there is a reason they call it 'Sweet Sixteen.'" I thought about that comment today. Kids get calmer and kinder as they age, as do their parents. Today Claire-Adele was trying to mock me and be mean about not driving her to school,* but she really lack the power and punch she had a few years ago.

I see the Boy struggle with wanting to be independent, make up his own mind. I remember when he was a little kid and I directed almost everything he saw and did. I would let him choose what clothes to wear, but the clothes were bought by me and my mother-in-law. He could choose which book to read, but I bought all of the books. When he got a half hour of TV time, he could choose which Thomas the Tank Engine he wanted to watch. And on.

Now I have less say over what he listens to, reads and wears. He had a Kindle, and ninety percent of the time, I don't know what he is reading. Once in a while, I check the Amazon account to see what he has bought, but that is it.

I don't want to go backwards in time to when I was the creator of his world, but I miss the time when he was more impressionable, and I could make the impression. I miss saying "This is what we are doing this weekend!" and my kids would happily go along. This weekend, I wanted to see the Sherlock Holmes exhibit at the Pacific Science Center. I thought the Boy would like it, but he didn't want to go. He'd rather rest on the couch. My friend Eleanor suggested giving him chores to do as an alternative option to get him out of the house, but the Boy chose practicing his music for an hour over hanging out with me.

Maybe that is the difference: Jack was working, and the Boy would have to hang out with me. The Boy seems to gravitate towards his father lately, which is good. I am happy for both of them, but I still miss my baby.

* She walks every day unless she has to bring something large or heavy to school. That was not the case today. It wasn't even raining.

Lost Time

Today, I was at my neighborhood coffee shop and I saw the usual barista. She is very thin--willowly--and she looks like she might be pregnant as she has a small pooch on her belly. I knew she just got married, but I was trying to think when. I think she was married five months ago? Is that right?...

Just then, she volunteers, "My one year anniversary is coming up!"

Wow. That is right. She got married last September. Why did my math come up that she was married five months ago? It could be that my middle-aged mind can't count right, or I wasn't fully paying attention to when my barista got married. Or, I could be lazy.

I don't think so. I think I lost some time with my skiing accident and surgery on my ACL. Instead of paying attention to the world around me, I was so inwardly focused, I didn't know what was going for a few months. I lost time because I wasn't connected to the outside world that much. I didn't go to the coffee shop around the corner for months because it was hard for me to walk, especailly up and downhills.

I am starting to apply for jobs, which is an interesting process. I have a blank on my resume and profiles since last December when I got hurt. How do I explain this lost time? It was my experience being a disabled person. I went downtown yesterday just to hang out in a coffee shop for a change of scenery. A few months ago, it would have taken a lot of extra energy to make the trip, even though I had disabled parking pass which made the world easier to navigate. Being a pedestrian was hard. I wasn't always sure I could make it across the street during a walk cycle. When I was inside, I had to decide when it was worth it to leave the house. In some cases, it certainly was, but I might have a hard time the next day as my knee might be swollen or stiff. I remember taking my daughter to Northgate to get a dress for the Winter Ball after my accident and before my surgery. I was fine taking her there, but the next day I was tired and sore.

Now, I am having a hard time remembering what it was like when I couldn't walk after my accident and after my surgery. I think this is the pleasant amnesia that comes with recovery--we forget the pain and hassle so we can move forward. Today, I can make it across a street with the walk sign without a problem. I saw a dad at Peter's soccer game who injured his knee, and I remembered the phase where I was faster with crutches and so slow without them. I remember the transition where I had to ditch the crutches even though they were easier.

Now I am coming back to regular time, and I am realizing what I had been missing.

Tornados and Where are My Cows and Chickens?

A friend of mine read an article about productivity and chasing your dreams. What was I doing to accomplish what I want to accomplish and where was I spending my time? Did they align? What could I eliminate or reduce in my life in order to spend more time doing what I want to do?

Sounds good to me.

I also read the best way to get over disappointment is through hard work. I read that Holocaust survivors coped best when they were working, not remembering what horrors happened in their pasts.

Last fall, I lost an election and then hurt my knee, which was not the best way to get over the disappointment of losing an election. While I could wallow about my knee for nine months, it was not all that healthy or productive. I suppose if someone tore their ACL and they had a job, they could stay on that trajectory. Finding a new trajectory while recovering was really hard. My trajectory at the time was licking my wounds. Not that I did nothing, but I wasn't out there tearing it up and kicking ass.

Knowing I was in the middle of a recovery, I was patient and kind with myself to a point. Now I am starting to think about what to do next, so I started looking at how I spend my time. I know I need to start examining this in order to move on with the disappointment of the lost election and the disappointment of hurting my knee. How was I spending my time?

I looked at this morning. I spent part of the morning chasing a tornado, aka the Boy.

I was in the middle of learning SQL when I heard "I can't find my wallet." He was going to the mall with friends for lunch and needed his wallet. So, I stopped what I was doing and helped the tornado look for his wallet. I could have not helped, but the tornado swirling around wasn't helping me concentrate, either. When I found the Boy's wallet, I forgot what I was doing before, and started something else. Maybe I unloaded the dishwasher. Maybe I put some shoes away. Maybe I plugged a few pieces into a jigsaw puzzle I am working on which also serves as mediation.

Claire Adele is no better. She had a tantrum yesterday when she couldn't find her pre-calc notes and music folder from last year. How can I get this better under control? My home is not an office where meetings are scheduled and a shut door means "Do Not Disturb."

I understand my kids need help, but still why is everything tossed upside down when my kids need something? I don't want to be too closed off, either. I want to know when their friends are giving them a hard time, or when school, sport and clubs are all too much. I want to know when it isn't enough. Crises and emotions can't be scheduled, like Tuesday at 4:00 I will have a meltdown when I can't find my glasses, or Friday at 10:00 a.m. I will cry for no reason.

What did kids do before parents were at their beck-and-call? They were out milking the cows and feeding the chickens. Kids had bona fide responsibility, and there were real consequences to not doing the work. Forgot to feed the chickens? The hen might not lay eggs. Forget to milk the cow? She is probably screaming in pain and there will be no milk for supper.

So where are my cows and chickens? How can I teach my kids responsibility when there are so few consequences to their in action? I am paying the Boy to help me learn SQL. He got a little frustrated at times, but other times he liked it. "It is great when it all falls together," he said. This summer, the Boy helped me and Anita do some painting around the house. He made the work faster for us, and he got spending money. They might not be cows and chickens, but productive work also makes the Boy feel better. The same applies to me. If I could just time the time to figure it out.

On My Own, Armando & Straight Lines

I have been going to physical therapy twice a week every week since January 8th. I took a week and half off when we went to France on vacation, and a day here and there when I visited my parents in Ohio, but other than that I have been a faithful patient.

Now I am going to the every other week plan, maybe less. Jason this past week gave me a list of ten exercises I should do three times a week to build up my strength. The main reason for the change is my insurance company gives me sixty visits a year, and I started on January 8th. Jack did say he'd be willing to pay for me to attend more PT, but Jason warned me it gets really expensive really fast.

"How will I know when I am ready to ski?" I asked.

"You can come back in January," Jason said, "when your insurance year starts over again."

Good thought--except now I am on my own. I won't have someone that I have to report into twice a week. There was a time where I was doing all of the exercises, but I wasn't fully recruiting my quad to do the work it needed to do. My leg was cheating and recruiting my hamstrings, glutes and calves to do the work of my quadricep. What if that happens again? Instead of finding out sooner, I'll find out later.

On the other hand, I've made a lot of progress, and at some point I'll need to cut the cord and do this on my own. I'll miss the check-ins, and seeing other people working on their injuries, too. The fall injuries will start coming in soon. Sometimes I wonder why I am still there when I can do so much.

Jack asked me yesterday about Armando. "Doesn't it make you feel bad to see these twenty year old professional athletes surpassing you?"Armando had his surgery six weeks after mine, and he is already running on the treadmill. I congratulated him on that milestone.

"Thanks," he said. "I was sprinting the other day!" He sounded thrilled to be back in his comfort zone. I was happy for him. My livelihood and dreams didn't go down the drain when I crashed on my skis. It was a setback, no doubt, but my life didn't depend on a recovery like his did. While the other twenty year old elite soccer players are out playing getting better, Armando was learning to walk again. Yesterday, he jumped from the ground onto a one foot high platform. I don't think I could do that when I was able-bodied, let alone during my recovery. I also noticed that Armando had different scars on his knee than I did. He must have had a patellar tendon repair when mine was an allograft. My recovery from the surgery would have been easier than his, which makes his progress all the more impressive.

Nevertheless, I felt okay yesterday. I was able to do bridges and pull-backs and lifts on the exercise ball. Back when I started, I could barely do one pull in without wanting to die. Now I can pull my legs back and then lift my hips! Go me! (There is no way I am going to post a video of myself doing this. No. Way. But is it hard. Trust me.)

I also realized how far I've come when I ran into Dave, one of the dad's on my son's soccer team. It wasn't until after the game that Heidi and I said hello to him.

"What happened to your leg?" Heidi asked Dave as he limped across the field, his leg bent.

"I was playing ultimate frisbee and someone crashed into me in midair," Dave said. "I tore my patellar tendon, my ACL, my MCL and my meniscus." Ouch.

"They had to fix the patellar tendon first, and then I'll have to go in and get my ACL repaired," he said.

"They couldn't fix both at the same time," his wife Melissa said.

"I had to keep my leg straight for six weeks with the patellar tendon," he said.

"...And you need to bend your knee right away with the ACL," I said.

"Right," he said. "How did you know?"

"Lauren had her ACL repaired this winter," Heidi said.

I was now Dave's new best friend. "So you know..." he said.

"Yep," I said. I listened to his story, and he listened to mine.

"I really want to get back to frisbee and tennis," he said. I understood.

Melissa chimed in with a story from one of their friends. "He turned forty and said 'I run. I swim. I bike. After forty, I only move in straight lines.'" I laughed. It was good advice, but kind of boring. I told Jack.

"I move in straight lines, but I still have issues with my knees and Achilles heel," he said. "Straight lines are no guarantee."

Bernadette Fox v. Cheryl Strayed, or Found & Lost vs. Lost & Found

Where'd You Go Bernadette by Maria Semple and Wild by Cheryl Strayed: these books are almost polar opposites. Most of the women I know are in the Strayed camp or the Bernadette camp.

In Wild, Cheryl Strayed recovers from a childhood filled with poverty, her mother's death, a stale marriage and drug use as she hikes the Pacific Coast Trail. Bernadette was a genius architect who loses her mojo when fate kicks her in the shins a few times. She becomes a hermit and hides in her version of the Petit Trianon (aka an Airstream trailer) in her backyard. Strayed was lost and becomes found. Bernadette was found, then became lost and has to find herself again.

"Strayed was too whiny. I couldn't get past the first chapter," said one friend who previously loved her job but is now a full-time parent. She dressed up as Bernadette for Halloween one year, complete with the fishing vest and pockets full of passports.

Or, "I loved Wild, but I haven't gotten around to reading Bernadette yet. I know I am supposed to read it..." said another friend who wandered through her twenties.

While I wasn't a genius architect, I did have my shit together when I was in my twenties. I liked my job, I had a nice boyfriend who then became my husband. I went to graduate school and was finding more and more interesting work to.

Then fate came along and kicked me in the shins a few times. My first child died, and my brother had problems with his major mental illness. Jack's job required overnight and weekend work, and I was traveling three or four days a week to Los Angeles. While the work was interesting, I wanted to have a baby and traveling that much was not compatible with motherhood. So I quit my job and became a full-time parent. Claire Adele came along and was a colicky infant. The Boy was born three years later, and then we moved to Seattle.

Somewhere along the way, my hopes and dreams got packed up in a box and put on a high shelf in the closet. I completely identify with Bernadette, who ends up passed out on a couch in a pharmacy in the middle of downtown Seattle in the of the day. I even have my own version of a Petit Trianon in my backyard (not that I am complaining.) "You will become a menace to society if you don't create," one of Bernadette's friends warns her. I have seen a few middle-aged friends implode from lack of meaningful work, and I fear that might happen to me. I am Bernadette.

I started rereading Wild, and I have much more empathy from Strayed now that I've thought about her journey in terms of lost and found. Lost is lost, no matter when it happens. And that is hard.

Michelle & Hillary, and LinkedIn

Many people have seen the Michelle Obama speech at the Democratic National Convention. It went viral on my Facebook feed. I caught her speech online, and I had to stop watching at one point and watched the rest of the next day. Here is where I stopped:

"And when she didn't win the nomination eight years ago, she didn't get angry or disillusioned. Hillary did not pack up and go home. Because as a true public servant, Hillary knows that this is much bigger than her own desires and disappointments. So she proudly stepped up to serve our country once again as Secretary of State..."

This passage haunted me because I lost an election for school board last fall, and I decided to get out of volunteer work in public education. Michelle's comments stung me--it was as if she were calling me a quitter, even though she wasn't. First, Michelle doesn't know me. Second, Hillary was getting paid to be Secretary of State whereas I was a volunteer. Third, if John McCain had won, Hillary would not have been Secretary of State.

In the meantime, I am in the process of figuring out what I want to do next with my life. This is a challenge. Yesterday, I got an email from LinkedIn telling me people were looking at my profile. One of the people was my friend's father whom I got to know fairly well a few years ago. It was then I realized I haven't updated my LinkedIn page since I ran for School Board, and my last entry was School Board candidate. What should I update it with next?

November 5 to December 18, 2015 -- Recovering School Board Candidate

Chilled: Went from gas pedal firmly pressed to the floor for nine months to dead stop

• Did not manage any emails
• Did not take any phone calls
• Did not do any public speaking
• Did not raise any money
• Did not manage campaign staff
• Did laundry, quilting and cooked dinner.

December 19, 2015 -- Recreational Skier, Summit at Snoqualmie

• Effectively utilized Ski Patrol services to escort me from top of Outback to bottom of hill.
• Effectively tore ACL, MCL and meniscus in one fall.

December 20, 2015 to January 7, 2016 -- Injured person in denial.

• Learned how to use crutches
• Learned how to ascend and descend stairs using the "up with the good, down with the bad" method. As a self-learner, I discovered this on a YouTube video.

January 8, 2016 to present: Physical Therapy and Orthopedic Surgery Patient

• Learned to reactive left quadricep muscles.
• Learned to walk using "heel-toe" method. 
• Successfully completed "pre-hab;" stopped using brace and crutches prior to surgery.
• Learned the importance of icing and elevating knee three times a day.
• Didn't swear at children/spouse too much when they weren't being helpful; showed much appreciation when they did.
• Managed to limit use of prescription painkillers after surgery. Used ice, elevation and ibuprofen for discomfort as alternative synthetic opiates.
• Normalized gait.
• Increased extension in leg left from from +5 to -7 degrees in five months.
• Increased flexion from 75 to 145 degrees in four months.
• Continuing to get 45 minutes of cardio-vascular exercise a day.
• Can walk up and downstairs consistently.
• Weened self from use of disabled parking permit except when parking is a real bitch.
• Current Goal: Jogging and running.

Gray is Good

I was at physical therapy yesterday when I overheard one of the therapists talking about a photoshoot the center was doing to promote their services.

"I am not in the shoot," one of the middle age therapists said. "Ten years ago, maybe, but now I am losing my hair and going gray. Let Scott do it. If it were my company, I'd pick Scott." Scott is younger, taller and in good condition. None of the physical therapists at this place are unattractive. In fact, I was a little intimidated when I walked in and saw all of these fit people--clients and therapists--gathered in one place. You don't see it that often in America. Exercises in front of the mirror are torture here because everyone nearby has a perfect BMI, whereas mine could use a little help. But this is okay.

My friend Lynn and I were talking this weekend. Lynn and I go to the same physical therapy place. Her BMI is in the perfect range, and still would be if she gained ten pounds. She is my age, and last week when working with her PT, he implied she wasn't in that great of shape and she was kind of old. The same thing happened to me last week with Jason. These folks aren't being mean--just honest. They spend a lot of time working with younger people who are serious athletes, not duffers like me who got hurt while skiing. I asked Jason about my progress. "If you were younger and a professional athlete, you would have a different plan," Jason said. "We have athletes who come in twice a day for physical therapy." Lynn's physical therapist said something similar. I almost wanted to bark back for both Lynn and I: "At least we were in good enough shape to get hurt doing something athletic!" But I wouldn't. Jason is exceptionally sweet and gentle (except when he's cranking on my knee), and I can't imagine him ever intentionally saying anything mean or nasty. He is right: I am not a twenty-something or a professional athlete.

Lynn and I both decided though, we'd rather go someplace where we are compared to people twenty five years younger than us than twenty five years older. Agism works in a million ways, unfortunately, but this is what I would take. When it comes to getting back into physical fitness, I'd rather be compared to someone who is much better shape than I am. Perhaps age is contagious. I was at the YMCA today where the demographic is on the older side. When I am at the YMCA, I am one of the younger people there, and yet I don't feel young. At the University gym, I am one of the older people there but I don't feel old. A man in his sixties or seventies was on a recumbent bike and I said hello as I passed.

"I am just trying to get younger!" he said.

I laughed. "Me too."

Then I thought about the photoshoot. Sure, Scott is tall and fit, but gray is good, as I learned back in my consulting days. I was in my twenties and the partner I worked for was in his mid-forties, probably a little younger than I am now. The managers between me and the partner were in their thirties. As with all consulting, you have to meet the clients where they are at. Many clients were flexible, and it didn't matter who they worked with. In other cases, we'd match level for level. There were clients who had their twenty-something manager take care of business, I would often be the point of contact for those people.

I remember at one internal meeting, the partner said he would go to the meeting.

"The client wants some gray hair in the room," he said. The client didn't want to just see the whippersnapper just out of college telling them what to do. They wanted to talk to someone with twenty plus years of experience.

I would go back to the middle age therapist and tell him not to rule himself out of the photoshoot. Gray is good.