Push vs. Pull

Two weeks, I went contra dancing. During the second dance, the best and most fun guy to watch asked me to dance. I was thrilled. Since he is the best dancer and I am new, I didn't want to ask him to dance. When he asked me, I felt like the belle of the ball.

The rest of the night was downhill. I asked one guy to dance, and he said "No thanks," which was horrific. I nearly died. Another guy asked me to dance, but then he told me I was swinging all wrong. He tried to teach me, but it didn't work so well. He told me I needed to lean back instead of leaning forward. It worked, but not all the way. An elderly gentleman told me I wasn't surrendering to him. Good god I had no idea what that meant.

[For those of you who don't know what a "swing" is, it is when you dance with a partner, one hand on their shoulder and the other hand holding theirs. Then the two spin together like a top. It is similar to waltzing except you stay in one spot instead of moving across the floor. It looks easy, but I couldn't figure it out.]

After that, no one asked me to dance. I was sitting by the sidelines--the last one left--when someone who came back from the bathroom asked me to dance. Not because they had a choice about who to dance with. I was the only one left.

I felt like I had said or done something wrong, but no one told me what it was, like I stepped in dog shit or made an unwittingly cruel or harsh comment that got me shunned by the hive, the swarm. I felt like it wasn't just one person who was giving me the cold shoulder, but all of them, leaving me behind, excluding me. I was dropped. Canceled.

This was depressing. I love to dance. I want to part of the group. I want to be good at this. I didn't know what to do.

I told Pedro the story. 

"So it was a typical Seattle thing, where no one told you directly told you what you did wrong, but you were passive-aggressively shunned?" he replied.

Yes, basically.

"But you know how to dance," said Pedro. "You grew up dancing. You should be able to handle this."

"I know, right?"

But no.

After the dance that horrible night, I went home and I was really upset. Very upset. Instead of quitting, I went online and ordered a new pair of dance shoes from Capezio. I was going to figure this out.

Last Friday, I went early. Before the dance starts, the group offers lessons to newcomers. What I love about this dancing is they teach you the basic steps, and you follow along. There aren't months and months of lessons. There is no choreography. You just show up and follow the caller. Like chess, it takes minutes to learn. Unlike chess, it does not take a lifetime to master. 

Even still, I wasn't getting it. I've danced en pointe, which requires strength, coordination and technique. You don't just sign up for a pointe class and they hand you a pair of toe shoes and they say have fun. Nope. Pointe is like a black belt for ballet. You are told by your teacher when you are ready, often after years of training. This isn't some magical or exclusive thing. You could get seriously hurt if you aren't ready.

And I suck at folk dancing? WTF?

The other thing I know about dance is that you have to accept feedback and correction. All. Of. The. Time. It is a brutal sport when it comes to criticism. I didn't realize how much "feedback" one has to endure in ballet until I took a class as an adult. 

Point your toe.

Lower you hip.

Lift your chin. 

Shoulders back.

Rotate your hand.

And that is for just one position. Rinse and repeat.

When I was a kid, I didn't know how awful this was. I thought a constant flow of correction and adjustments were normal.

Last week before the dance, I was ready. My new shoes arrived at 4:00 p.m. The dance started at seven. I put on a red and yellow flowing skirt and a white shirt. 

I dug deep, deep, deep back into my ballet training: I ate a big slice of humble pie and asked for help. I opened my mind and was ready for a stream of corrections.

I told the group leader that I needed to learn how to swing, and he pointed me to two people--a man and a woman. The woman was danced both positions--lead and follow--which was exactly what I needed. The men I danced with rarely followed: they couldn't give me directions because they never danced in my position. This woman was going to be my salvation, and she was.

"I've never danced with a partner before," I said. "I am not understanding how to swing." I danced with her, and she immediately caught my fundamental error. When I put my hand on my partner's shoulder, I put it on the from on the arm, and pushed. 

"Your hand goes on the back of your partner's shoulder. Imagine you are hugging a barrel. Now gently pull back while you spin," she said.

Bingo.

A few weeks ago and country two-step, I learned to push. Now I needed to learn to pull.

"Each dance has a different position," she said.

Aha. I should have known.

I hit the floor, humbler and more confident. I danced with one of the elderly gentlemen who had a bad shoulder. He gave me some advice to how to help him manage, and we were off, spinning like a top. It was so much fun we both were laughing. Younger guys also asked me to dance--strong, competent, and confident dancers. It was a blast.

Life is so much more fun when you know what you are doing. It was just fun for me, but everyone else, as well.

New Shoes, New Wallet and the Taj Mahal; and His Story v Mine

The Boy hasn't been to school since January. He has spent days and days in bed, sleeping and looking at his phone or computer. He might get up on the weekends to ski, but that is about it. He is also taking Driver's Ed.

This is anxiety and depression.

We are seeking residential treatment for him, starting very soon we hope.

And I think he hopes so, too.

Since depression hit, the Boy has become nocturnal, sleeping til after noon and knocking around the house at night. One night, he got up and read the packet about the options for residential treatment. He got out a pen and annotated it. He signed all of the forms that said "Student Signature" and he checked off the states where he would consider moving: Colorado, Montana, Utah. Anyplace with mountains where he can ski.

Since we've started talking about treatment, the Boy got his haircut. I gave him money and he took the bus to the mall to shop on his own. He bought new tennis shoes and a new wallet.

This weekend, he has friends over. The boys bounced on the trampoline, walked to Burgermaster for lunch, and nearly finished the 5,923 piece Lego Taj Mahal that the Boy got for Christmas. In the past, it would take the Boy days--not weeks or months--to finish a Lego set of this size. His friends came over and they worked on it together. The last thing left is the dome.

I know this is his story to tell, but it is mine, too. I've watched him suffer for too long. He is one kind of pain, and I am in another watching him. Pain is a useful and confusing feeling at times. It can tells us to stop and rest and stay where we are, or it can motivate us to make a change. Depending on the situation, sometimes both can be right.

Fixing one pain can cause another. While I am happy to get him the help he needs, I will miss him. This is the bargain of being a parent, the price of being the primary witness to someone's life, the love and pain combined.

A (Clean) Room of My Own

So Why do I want a condo? I found an amazing loft. I fell in love with it. I also fell in love with two other units, so I am perhaps appropriately cautious. I understand how people can love other people. I can understand how people love dogs. (Cats, not so much.) But how can people love space, places and locations? We do, though. What do they give to us? What do we give to them? I can see how a garden can be reciprocal, but not so much a regular place.

And yet. Last night, the Boy, Jack and I were watching Weekend at Bernie's. (The Boy was looking at his phone during the movie, which is odd because he was the one who wanted to watch this movie. I would have been happier to watch the new Nanette comedy special on Netflix, but I digress.)

In the movie, the two young men who schlep Bernie around for the weekend comment on "The view! The view!" Like they had never seen the ocean or sand before. Why do we like views? Do they make us feel calm? Do they erase our other thoughts and we relax? There must be a reason why we like or dislike the space we live in because having an emotional reaction to our surroundings seems to be universal. I am not talking about "taste" or what kind of countertops people prefer in their kitchen, though that is part of it.

How will I know when I have found the right space? I thought I loved this new condo. I did, but I find this love is like a roller coaster. One minute I find reasons to think it is divine, that it will be the center of all of my happiness, and then I think of the open aspect of the loft and think "At every morning while I am trying to sleep, Jack will be grinding his coffee and I will be pissed." Every noise he will make in the kitchen will float to the bedroom. Likewise, every noise we make in the moring will wake the Boy. There are giant sliding doors to shut, but they open on top. No grinding coffee, no emptying the dishwasher without waking everyone in the place.

Oy.

Or maybe it will be good for me and Jack not to empty the dishwasher upon waking. Instead, we will read the newspaper, a magazine, a book. Or, he can walk across the street to get his cup of coffee. It will be the city of chrissake and there are coffee shops every three feet in Seattle. Maybe we have Quiet Hours. Maybe I'll sleep like a log.

Before we watched Weekend at Bernie's, the Boy started getting my grill about how horribly messy our house is. He has a point. I have a full-time job and his father who works nights and weekends on top of the usual nine-to-five, and neither he nor his sister do any chores and I am too cheap or am challenged to pay someone to clean my house for me. So, I focus on laundry, grocery shopping, vaccuuming, etc., such that the clutter build up is getting impressive.

So this is my desk.

Yeah.

And I want to live in an open floor plan where this (see above) will have no place to hide.

Or will it?

Could that be the beauty of having two places to live? One is clean and awesome and pristine and the other looks like this (see above again, if you want to)?

I just want a clean room of my own, like one of these beautifully staged places with carefully chosen artwork on the walls and perfectly sized furniture. I can leave all of the crap in the Ravenna house.

Or maybe I want to change who I am. Instead of being NE Seattle soccer and PTA mom, and can be a version of a middle-aged urban hipster who walks her dog at the Seattle Scuplture Garden everyday and has a perfectly clean and tidy apartment with cavernous ceilings. Who catches the latest movies at the Big Picture, and hangs out at the Balck Bottle and buys her veggies from Pike Street Market. Seriously. Is that who I want to be?

Hell yeah.

Shoes

I think some of the people I work with think I have an excessive amount of shoes. I was showing my collection to one of my co-workers and I pointed out my Prada's. He blanched.

"They cost way less than a thousand dollars," I said. I am sure he thinks I am a princess. I am not a princess, by the way. I am a queen. Claire-Adele is a princess. I took a feminine archetype class where we learned princesses are women with little to no real responsibity, nothing to look after like kids or pets. Motherhood is the next phase. Women who survive motherhood become queens.

I digress.

They are probably right--I probably do have too many shoes and I have probably spent more money on shoes this year than I did on rent my first year out of college. (I just did the math and its not even close. I spent more on rent.)

So why? Why do I am I spending so much money on shoes? Why?

First, I used to not be like this. Really. My financial hero is my friend Carla who saves so much money. She bakes hew own hamburger buns, paid cash for her house. She wears old, not fancy clothes but has traveled (and travels) all over the world. Whenever I think of money, I ask myself, "What would Carla do?"

Carla would not own a pair of Prada red velvet shoes. So why do I?

A few years ago, Jack worked too much. It was intolerable. If the shit hit the fan and our marriage imploded, Jack would probably marry some chick in her thirties who didn't have kids and wouldn't care how much he worked. The chicky would get half of the nest egg I spent twenty years saving, which would piss me off.

How do I know this? I've seen several divorced guys in their mid- to late-forties get remarried to younger women. The new women don't have kids, so the new couple has time to take awesome vacations and decorate their new home.

Basically, I didn't want Jack's next wife to spend my money on Prada shoes and trips to Paris, so I decided to buy Prada shoes and take vacations myself.

Superstars

I was at the mall with the kids getting new shoes for the Boy and I got a pair of Adidas Superstar tennis shoes.

My children were appalled.

"You can't get those shoes," said Claire-Adele said. "Those are for high schoolers."

"SMH," said the Boy, which is texting lingo for shaking my head.

Yeah. About that. First, I have no desire to look like a teenager. Full stop. These shoes are retro. Adidas came out with the Superstar in 1969. I think my dad wore them when I was growing up in the 1970's. If not these, a similar Adidas shoe. Maybe he wore the Stan Smiths, the white shoe with the green tag in the back. People in my generation wore the Superstars before they were retro, when they were just regular shoes. I wore K-Swiss shoes, which are very similar to the Superstar.

Retro means appropriating clothing, music and the like from another generation. Instead of borrowing from another culture, retro is borrowing from another time. Since I was alive when these shoes were popular the first time around, I am allowed to wear them without apology to my hipster teens. I am NOT trying to look like a teenager. Teenagers are trying to look like people my age when we were teenagers. Heck, they are trying to look like my dad when he had kids in his house. These kids today are not only wearing "mom" shoes, they are wearing "grandpa" shoes.

Cognitive Dissonance and the Other Side

Earlier this week, my past and present lives collided in an unexpected way.

Tuesday, I went to charity breakfast for Literacy Source, an organization that teaches adult immigrants and refugees to speak, read and write English so they may find gainful employment and fully engage in American society. Nancy Pearl, famous Seattle Librarian, Pulitzer Prize jurist for Fiction, and long-time supporter of Literacy Source, was the keynote speaker. She gave us her top picks for summer reading. (See below if you are curious.)

My attendance at these charity breakfasts, lunches and auctions has greatly diminished since my days as a stay-at-home mom, volunteer and community activist. Still, when my friend Barb invited me to this event, I said yes.

It was a year ago last week that I started training for my job. Since then, I've been buried in settling myself into my new roles of working mom and data analyst. I now have "colleagues" and "co-workers" instead of "friends," but really they not much different aside from gender. (Most of my stay-at-home mom friends started out as a volunteer colleague or someone I met through a non-profit.) After the initial phase of drinking out of a fire hose was over, work felt familiar, comfortable in fact. Why? Because I was returning to my past-past-life where I was in consulting and project management. Returning to work was like riding a bicycle...while simultaneously drinking from a fire hose.

Barb picked me up early Tuesday morning. I hadn't seen her in a while. She was one of a very early supporters of my campaign for school board. She is a perennial do-gooder with a massive heart and a fierce brain that wants to solve all of the inequities and injustices in the world. And she isn't smarmy or self-righteous. She is nice and she is kind, one of the kindest people I know.

"Tell me about your job," she asked, as have many other women I know.

I told her I was part of Apprenti, an organization that brings women, veterans and people of color into tech jobs. When I told her I finished my training and am in a data job, she looked confused, as have many other women I know.

"Wait," she said. "You are one of the people in the training?"

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, I thought you were running the program," she said as have many other women I know. "Tell me about your job search. You have such great experience. It must have been easy to find a job."

"Ummm, no," I said. "Finding paid employment after being a stay-at-home mom for seventeen years is a tale worthy of Tolkien." Like Bilbo Baggins, I was seriously kicked out of my comfort zone complete with second breakfasts and whatnot and thrown into a world of grand adventure where I was breathed on by Smaug, the evil tech recruiter who told me I should consider being an administrative assistant. Yeah. Would you say that to guy? No. (Sorry. In my rage when I look back at my job search, I am repeating an existing blog post. My bad.)

Barb, bless her heart, thought my job search entailed me looking up really cool jobs online, and then picking the best one.

Ha! I started a full-throtle bitch session on how hard it was to find a job. Poor Barb. I felt sorry for her having to listen to me rant.

I got back to the office from charity breakfast filled with gray haired middle-aged women. (Women who support refugees don't have time to dye their hair. C'mon! We have better things to do.) At work, I did work related stuff. Once in awhile, I'll check my personal email at work, and 95% I have nothing interesting or urgent. In my email, a friend invited me to a dress rehearsal of the Seattle Opera's Aida. I also had an email reminding me of a fundraiser for Maria Cantwell, the U.S. Senator from Washington. My arts and culture life collided with my political life.

Then, the greatest clash of all--I was invited to attend the Gala for the Apprenti program. As an apprentice. So I could sit with people and they could see the benefit of the program. I am used to being on the giving side of these things, not the receiving.

And yet. I replied to the invite, which the program director replied back: Do you want to bring your husband?

And let everyone see I am married to a doctor? Good god no. Why would anyone donate money to the cause that provides upper middle class white women the opportunity to return to the workforce in a professional position? When I told Jack I couldn't bring him, he said, "You don't think people will donate money to support ladies who lunch?"

I hope to god the dear, kind, true-blue believers at Apprenti do not ask me to give a speech. It would be the worse speech ever.

"I want to thank Apprenti for saving me from a life of volunteerism, benefit luncheons, and driving my kids places. Now that I have a real job, I can buy Prada shoes and not have to explain or discuss with my husband."

Or worse, "Hey all of you tech leaders! Without this program, I would not have been able to enter the workforce even though I have really cool work experiences and a top shelf education. Two of my college professors won Nobel Prizes in Economics. Two. You have a shortage of workers and I know of at least three women who are stay-at-home mom volunteer types who have MBA's from kickass colleges. I know an electrical engineer who is now a Zumba instructor! I know bankers and tech saleswomen and software people who are now yoga instructors! Maybe make your workplaces suck a little less--as in not make them white collar sweatshops--and have you HR people have a little decency to look outside of their little boxes and hire a former mom! Seriously. You are bringing this on yourselves. You are your own worst enemy. Hire more women, stop harassing the women you do have and pay them equitably." (mic drop.)

Yeah. Those speeches will get people to donate money.

Not.

So here I am, freaking out, reading my email at work instead of working. I have to decide between Aida and Maria Cantwell. Oh the conflicts I have in my ever-so-privileged and connected life! So I decide on Maria.

It was the best thing ever. It was a small group at a home on Capitol Hill. It was not unlike the dozens of fundraisers I did when I was running for school board where I'd talk to people at the party over hors d'oeuvres, give a little speech and answer questions. I was too fangirl, starstruck to talk to the Senator, but she talked to the group of less than thirty people.

How in the hell did I get invited to this event with this rarified air? It was unbelievable. The next morning, I woke up and remembered: when I ran for school board, I'd attend events of other politicians, and I'd make a contribution. I must have made twenty contributions to local political campaigns over the past two years. Why? Unfortunately, campaigns cost money and good people need strong campaigns to win. I know the game because I've been on the other side.

So that is the lesson for this week -- I've been on both sides of the same coin. I've been the donor, to causes and campaigns. And I've been a beneficiary of the largess of others, as a candidate and as an apprentice. It just so rare for me to be looking at both sides of this coin at the same time.

Nancy Pearl's Book List

Knee Update in Poetry

Today is a day
For sensible shoes.

Brag and Drag Letter -- Senior in High School Edition

This week was part of ten days off of work. This will be the longest break I’ve had since I started my job last summer. Before the break, I was kind of dreading spending a week with my family.

The weekend before my break was total shit. Claire-Adele was in a rare form of bitchiness, so much so I was counting the months until she is 18 (six months) and leaves  for college (nine months). At one point last week, I was rooting that she’s choose a nearby state school. Now and rooting for her going to school on Mars. The following Monday I was giddy to return to work. The source of this general moodiness (I am guessing) is her applying to college.

Normal Mood of Daughter during Senior Year of High School

Mood of Daughter During College Application Process

I was complaining to my friend Jen about Claire-Adele's noxious behavior.

“Work is easier than home,” she said. How come no one told me that years ago? Why does the world keep this a secret from stay-at-home moms?

I could be simple and say Claire-Adele is horrible and awful all of the time, but no. With this experience comes exceptionable bouts of helpfulness and kindness.

"I'll make the Christmas cards this year," she said.

"I wrote the family Christmas letter," she texted me, including a copy of the note.

"Where is the address list? I'll address the envelopes," she said.

"Oooh, can I make the chicken parmesan for dinner tonight?" she asked. Uh, yeah. No permission needed to make dinner for the family.

I have three days left of vacation, and I've survived so far. Here's hoping I can make it until Tuesday. At the very least, I have my fancy red shoes to welcome me back to work.

Prada and a Fortnight, Part 2

Claire-Adele and I skied today. Rather, we drove in the car to Snoqualmie together and we skied on two different parts of the mountain--me on the greens, she on the most difficult terrain she could find. Only West was open. Everyone there fit into two categories:

1. Beginners
2. People who wished they were at Alpental, buy hey, snow is snow and they'll take what they can get.

When we were driving home, I asked her if I should buy a $400 pair of Prada shoes. In my last post, I wondered what advice I would give her. Now I was curious to hear what advice she would give me. I didn't explain the whole middle-aged, pre-empty-nest and pre-empty bank account syndrome that I am experiencing. Instead, I asked the question straight: Should I buy a $400 pair of Prada shoes?

I partially expected her to freak out, and say you want to spend how much on shoes before I could go to college? That would buy a quarters worth of textbooks! And then she would cry. This morning before we left for skiing, she lost her shit when I suggested taking her out to dinner on Dec. 15 in honor of her getting her first college response--good or bad. We would celebrate her applying to college.

She exploded into tears. "How can you say that? Don't you know how stressful this is for me?"

(Me silently thinking: Yeah. That's why I offered to treat you to dinner...)

"I am going to my room to cry by myself," she said and stormed off.

I was expecting something like that when I asked about the shoes. Instead, I got an in-depth analysis.

"What do they look like?"

"Velvet Mary Janes," she said.

"Nice," she said. Even without a picture, she approved of the style. "What color?"

"They have the style in blue, purple or red."

"Burgundy red or red red?"

"Burgundy."

"Brown burgundy or red burgundy?" she asked. I had to think about it. "More brown, I suppose. They aren't really all that red."

"How high is the heel?" she asked.

"Two and a half inches," I said.

"Mid-height," she said. "That's good. How often would you wear them?" she asked. "If you wear them ten times, that is $40 a time. If you wear them 100 times, that is $4 a time."

"I am planning to wear them at work," I said.

"You would wear Prada to work? Isn't where you work super casual?" she asked.

"I don't care. They can wear what they want. I'll wear what I want."

"Seriously? Don't people where you work wear t-shirts and ripped jeans?" she asked.

[Editor's Note: I am skipping the sidebar conversation on ripped jeans.]

"What would you wear it with?" she asked.

"I don't know. Black skirts, likely," she said.

"You could wear the blue ones with your Jawa dress," she said. "If you wear blue shoes with black, you will need to wear a blue scarf or blouse or something. Blue shoes with black clothes otherwise doesn't go together."

[Editor's Note: I am skipping the item by item of discussion of clothes in my closet that could be worn with different colors.]

"The blue or red are probably the safest bet. I'd skip the purple," she said.

"Should I get a pair, or ___" I asked, waiting to see how she would fill in that blank.

"Christmas is coming up," she said. "You could get yourself the shoes as a Christmas present."

What is my take-away from this conversation? The conversation wasn't

• Philosophical--why should I spend that much on shoes when there are homeless people in Seattle? or,
• An analysis of my budget or whether or not I could afford the shoes, or 
• An analysis of the practicality of buying luxury goods versus spending that money on something other than shoes.

The question before the court of Claire-Adele was "Should I buy a $400 pair of Prada shoes?" Her analysis considered something I had thought about but not as my primary question: Are these the right shoes on which to spend $400? In some bizarre way, I was proud of her. She was not going to be an impulse shopper, letting her emotions take over her decision making. I was impressed.

When we got home, she looked online at the shoes I was considering.

"The blue ones are nice," she said. "And those silver Mary Janes would look great with my Winter Ball dress."

Yes, yes they would. And the real reason to keep Mom actively engaged in a conversation about shoes became apparent.

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.

Art of the Brick and Shoes

Yesterday, Jack, the Boy and I went to see the "Art of the Brick" exhibit by Nick Sawaya at the Pacific Science Center. The exhibit was more interesting was than I thought it would be. In addition to his own creations, Sawaya had reproductions of major artworks, like the Mona Lisa.

This piece has 75,00 pieces, one of the largest in Sawaya's collection.

The Boy had been dragged to numerous art exhibits and museums this summer. He had seen several of the pieces live and in person, which was then cool to see them recreated in Lego.

I spent all day on my feet, and in shoes I haven't worn since my accident. I wore my black Noat shoes, which are very comfortable but have a thick sole that is an inch high in places. And I survived. I have been out of surgery for six months, and I was glad that I could make it around. I had no doubt that I could after our vacation to France. Like our vacation to France, I was pooped at the end of the day and I was too tired to do my PT exercises at home. The Boy suggested we watch the X-Files, and I sank into the couch and couldn't get up.

T-Rex. I didn't notice how many bricks were in this one.

France: Stairs and Sensible Shoes

I survived France, all aspects of it. My knee worked (yay!--round of thunderous applause) and I didn't loathe my family at the end of the trip.

First, my knee. In the Middle Ages when many of the castles we visited were built, there was no such thing as the Americans with Disabilities Act. France has a shitload of stairs and very few places are accessible to people with mobility issues. Interestingly, there were exhibits in numerous museums for the visually impaired. One woman outside the L'Arch de Triomphe was asking for signatures on a petition to increase accessibility for french monuments. I would have signed it, but I felt uneasy giving my John Hancock to a strange woman in a foreign country on a petition where I might only be able to understand half of what was written. I feared signing something like, "I agree there should be access for the disabled at french monuments and I agree to sign over my checking account to Marie-Laure DuPont."

Back to the stairs. The Metro, our primary means of transport outside of walking, is underground. The Metro does not have escalators or elevators. There are at least two to four flights of stairs at every Metro stop. Train stations have stairs. I managed to climb up and down stairs while carrying a backpack and a suitcase. Our hotel had a tiny elevator and slow elevator that was primarily used for luggage, so I climbed up and down the steps of every hotel.* The Catacombs have stairs. Museums like the Louvre have stairs. Versailles has stairs. We climbed up the L'Arch de Triomphe via spiral staircases. Sacre Coeur has stairs. We climbed stairs in the neighborhood to get to Sacre Coeur before we climbed those stairs.

Mont St. Michel has more stairs than there are stars in the sky. We stayed over night at Mont St. Michel--which was completely awesome, by the way. I highly recommend it. The website warned that there are seventy steps to the hotel room, which is fine, except the hotel room was several flights below the abbey. They also failed to mention (or I failed to imagine) how many times I would have to climb those seventy steps. Up and down for dinner. Up and down to get the Boy because he wanted to chill in the room instead of look at more old stuff. Up and down to the abbey twice. Up and down to walk around Mont Saint Michel in low tide twice.

And I survived. I only punted on climbing up the steps to the Eiffel Tower, and that was because it was early in the trip. I feared getting to tired or hurt, and then being lame for the rest of the trip, which would have been bad. Interestingly, I think it might have been more steps up to the top of the L'Ache de Triomphe, but I went up that unquestioningly.

I would use the handrail whenever I could and would go as slow as a possibly could instead of letting gravity bound me down the steps or letting momentum carry me up. I didn't want to lose stability and fall.

I also wore sensible shoes. At my post-op appointment with Dr. Tex, he told me to wear sturdy shoes on my trip, and he nodded at my tennis shoes. Since my surgery, I have been wearing athletic shoes almost every day because they are comfortable and because I workout every day. I have a really cute and comfortable pair of Naot sandals which have cork insoles. I was hoping to wear these in France. I did for the first day, until I was slipping and tripping over the cobblestones. They didn't give me the stability I needed to navigate the century old streets and sidewalks. On went the sport shoes, and I looked like a tourist from the 1980's. Egads, but I had no choice. At least I had matching scars on my knees. I was glad I wore running shoes to Versailles. Instead of my usual twenty paces behind my family on a regular sidewalk, at Versailles I was forty paces behind. If I were wearing sandals, I'd still be there.

I wish I would have bought a nice pair of waling shoes before the trip. I did that six years ago before my daughter and I went to London for a week. I was too pre-occupied with other stuff I guess to plan that far ahead. Next time.

Jack and I, plus cobblestones at Versailles.

Proof I made it to the top of the L'Arch de Triomphe

Medieval castle at Fougeres. Notice stairs in foreground. We climbed up almost all of the towers. Why? Because they were there.

Notice rocky and dried mud walking surface around Mont St. Michel.

Crowded but exceptionally cool walkway at Mont St. Michel.

A nice view of Mont St. Michel at night.

* Except for the hotels in Vancouver, British Columbia. We flew out of Canada which was a) significantly cheaper and b) very efficient compared to understaffed TSA stations at SeaTac.

My Left Quad, Part 2, and Heels

Back in January three weeks after my accident and before I started physical therapy, my left quad was not firing. It lay there inert, not flexing. It had atrophied to the point of not functioning. My physical therapist Evan asked me to flex my quad and I had no idea how. I remember the look on his face when we went through a range of exercises and nothing happened. He looked at my leg and I could see the gears moving. What do I need to do to get this dead thigh back in business?

Last Tuesday before I went to Ohio, I went to physical therapy and I saw the same look on Evan's face as I did in January. Three weeks after the surgery, I could do ninety leg lifts and I earned my way out of the brace. My quad was reasonably strong. As I progressed, Evan added new exercises and reduced my leg lifts to forty-five a day once a day, which should have been fine, except...

Like the single sex herd of dinos that managed to reproduce in the first Jurassic Park, my body found another way. Instead of my quad getting stronger, my hamstrings took the lead. I was on the bench at physical therapy. Evan told me to flex my quad while he had his hands around my left knee in a stranglehold position. I flexed.

"That's your hamstring," he said.

Fuck. 

The Bad News: I've been working the wrong muscle group for the past few weeks.

The Good News: At least Evan and I figured this out sooner than later.

The Bad News: Back to leg lifts. This sucks.

As my father had told me after my surgery, "It is all uphill from here, but at least when you get to the top of the hill you'll be in really good shape." So I had a little backslide on the way up. Eh. I suppose the goal is to get me up to the top of the hill so I can ski back down it someday. Who knew the uphill part would be the hardest?

And heels. We had tickets to see Billy Elliot at the Village Theatre in Issaquah* last night.  I wore a dress, but I have no matching shoes. I tried wearing a few pairs of heels, but they make me feel like I am walking downhill, which is not fun for me yet. These heel weren't even that high. I wonder if my shoes miss my feet. I ended up wearing my Noat sandals, which are wonderfully comfy, but style-wise a notch above Birkenstocks. Is this my solution, a dressy Noat? Perhaps.

The Krista in Satin Gold by Naot. Also available in Pewter-Metal and Black.

Egads! What does this mean? I like my comfortable shoes, but is this too far? I know I am deeply into middle age, but I am not ready to be doddering. And yet, maybe this is the best thing. I read an article in this week's New Yorker by Mary Karr. She rants against high heels. As I type, "Heels" was just autocorrected to "hells," which nicely summarizes Karr's view of spiky, towering shoes.

* Great show, by the way. I love the Village Theatre. It is such a cozy venue.

Pre-Op, Baths and Fairy Dust

I had my pre-op meeting today for my surgery next week. I've decided that these people who are telling me how I will be tortured or who are doing the torture are super friendly and smiley and upbeat. This is not a bad thing. It is like I am at a Disneyland of Torture, minus the saccharin. Enter the Claire, the most lovely Physician Assistant I've met: perky, funny, great sense of humor and wearing a kick ass pair of boots.

She read my chart and saw I have a minor blood clotting disorder.

"Great! We will make sure you are on aspirin for the week or two after the surgery so you don't get DVT. You will have to flex and circle your feet twelve times an hour so you don't clot," she said in the same voice as if she were offering me magical* homemade brownies that had were both fantastically delicious and had no calories. I hadn't really thought of the risk of Deep Vein Thrombosis with this surgery.

"Aspirin -- sounds good. I'll get some before the surgery."

"And you won't be able to take a bath for six weeks. You can't submerge the wound," she said smiling as if she were a college admissions counselor telling me my daughter is a shoo-in for Columbia on a full-ride scholarship.

"Okay," I said. "I can see that." I nodded and smiled.

"And I recommend some laxatives to balance out the constipation from the narcotics," Claire said. "Get the generic Miralax. It is the same as the regular stuff but it is cheaper." It sounded like she could have said, "You know those rainbow Ferragamo shoes** you love? My cousin works for Ferragamo and I can get you a pair for free!"

You are welcome, Ferragamo, for the advertising.

She made a possible blood clot, constipation and not taking a bath for six weeks sound like dessert, shoes and getting my daughter into her dream school for free. This woman should be in sales. In fact, she is. She is selling me the surgery in a sense. I've already decided I want it. Her job is to close deal and make sure I don't change my mind when I realize what a nightmare this recovery is going to be. And this is elective surgery versus getting a cancerous tumor removed where they would be handing me tissues.  This was very different than when I had my mammogram at the Fred Hutch Cancer Research Center. (See my previous post, Lump.) It is not as elective as a nose job or a tunny tuck, but I could live without out my ACL. I wonder what the pre-op meeting is like for a boob job...

Twenty minutes later, I was out of the appointment at the grocery store buying aspirin and laxatives when it hit me: No baths for six weeks? You've got to be kidding me, I thought. I just started taking showers a week ago because I was afraid I didn't have enough stability. I have to take showers for six weeks, which means I'll have to stand in a slippery bathtub with a leg that doesn't move? Seriously, how can this possibly work?

The Sports Medicine Clinic I go to must be sprinkled with magic fairy dust, and it wore off once I left. I am not saying this is a bad thing. Perhaps I can get some of that fairy dust to get my kids to do chores around the house.

* Not that kind of "magical" brownie.  I do live in Washington but...
** I don't think my PT team would let me wear these shoes for quite a while.

Summer Feet

The other day I went outside to get the newspaper in my bare feet.  I had to walk on the wooden porch down to the sidewalk.  My feet ached at the touch of the concrete.

I remember when I was a kid I'd get summer feet.  On the first days for roaming around outside, my bare feet would be so soft from wearing socks and shoes all winter and spring that the grass tickled and the driveway burned.  The first few days, it would hurt, but after that, I could walk on anything.

Do kids today get summer feet, from running around outside with no shoes?