Travel Light?

Travel light?

Fuck that.

I want all of my shit

With me 

All the time.

I need 

Four books

Six pairs of shoes

Clothes for any occasion 

A crossword puzzle (or two)

Two computers - work and home

And

Craft projects that fit in my carry-on.

God forbid

I ever get

Bored. 

Fun with a Capital F

James Moore retired today from the Pacific Northwest Ballet, and I saw his last performance. I read that he was suffering from pain in his ankle and back, and decided to call it. 

James was is by far my favorite dancer, and we were lucky to have him in Seattle. He brought joie de vivre to his work, and he always looked like he was having the best time on the stage. He was exciting to watch, like Noelani Pantastico, Lucien Postlewaite, Carla Korbes, and Dylan Wald. (Update: I can't believe I forgot Batkhurel Bold!)

There are plenty of dancers who are technically good. Lots. They don't get on the stage if they can't do the steps.

What separates the good from the great? 

I suppose that is a question of the ages, and in this case I am only an audience member. Nevertheless, I have an unqualified and inexpert opinion.

Fun. Do they love what they are doing and have fun doing it? No doubt it is hard work, but the drive to do the hard work comes from someplace. I am sure some people toil away and are technically good dancers. Maybe they worry and fret and are perfectionists. Perfection is not fun. Fun is fun. Fun is love. Love is fun.

In his next step, James and his wife are opening ballet studios for young children in Tacoma and Renton. He said he loved the fun the kids were having as they learned to dance. 

I think I might need to borrow someone's five year old kid and check it out. 

Red Wine

They say 

red wine 

is good for you

that people who 

drink red wine

live longer and healthier lives

than those who don't.

Why?

My thoughts: 

Perhaps it isn't 

the wine

that helps people live longer.

Maybe red wine drinkers

have more friends

more family

with whom they break bread

enjoy meals.

Maybe 

it isn't 

the wine

but companionship.

Middle Age Thrills

I've recently done some retail therapy. I have been feeling blue, and I needed a pick-me-up, as my father would say. Since I am now an empty-nester and divorced, I have all of my time and money to myself. I don't need to share. When I had kids, I have no problem spending money on them, but I felt guilt when I spent money on myself. I still do, but I am slowly getting over it. (I won't tell you how much money I have spent on art in the past year. Egads. Art dealers in Seattle know me by name.)

Aside from my crazy art buying binge (which really needs to stop one...of these days), I am happy with little luxuries, too. I recently bought pajamas with honey combs and bees and crowns. I love them and they bring me an unreasonable amount of joy. My second crazy and exciting purchase was a cordless vacuum cleaner. The cord on my current vacuum cleaner has a gap in the cord covering, and I don't want to electrocute myself or my dog, nor do I want to burn down the condo building, especially now that I am on the HOA board. That would be a bad look.

Pajamas and a new vacuum. That's my jam.

Purple Socks

Purple socks purple socks

Hademade hand knit purple socks

I bought them at the Market

Wool and silk

Keep my feet soft and warm

and

soothe my soul

as I think of the person

who sat

and sat

and sat

patiently quietly

to make them

perhaps

in a meditative state.

The peace and calm 

that comes with each stitch

is transferred

to me

as I wear them.

Purple socks purple socks

Purple socks

Back in the day

My phone shows me photographs I took from years ago. I was the family photographer, so pictures show up on my phone of my kids and ex all the time. I haven't bothered to delete the pictures of my ex yet, I don't have the energy to do that. He, on the other hand, only has a handful of pictures of me on his phone to delete. I bet he has move pictures of his new girlfriend on his phone than he has of me and the kids put together. And I am not kidding. I never saw his phone roll, but I rarely saw him take pictures of his former family. I, on the other hand, have thousands of photos.

When I look at the pictures from years ago, I see a woman who never thought her marriage would end, who didn't see what was coming. I look at my innocent self, not knowing the future, or what it would hold. Not that I wished that I could see my future, now or then. Back then, I was waiting for things to get better, to resolve, but they never did.

I look back at those pictures, and I see a woman who had no idea what she was doing, but she was doing the best she could at the time, even though her best wasn't that great. I wish that at the time I could have let go and enjoyed what I had instead of making everything a struggle. I wished that I believed everything was okay as it was. I wish I had enjoyed what I had. I wish I had better acceptance. I wish I would have acted with less reactivity and more kindness. I wish I would have listened more.

Would any of that have saved my marriage? I don't know, but I'd certainly feel better about myself and the way I acted.

As you all know, my ex very rapidly moved on, and within a few months after I asked for a divorce he found a girlfriend and has been in a relationship with her for more than two years. They both are successful professionals, run marathons and travel the world together. Many therapists have told me not to compare someone's outsides to my insides. Nevertheless, I am sure he treats her with more kindness and patience than he did me. I bet he doesn't flip his lid if her paddle board loses a screw like he did with me, blaming me for not attaching the screw that locks the fin in place properly. The fin didn't fall off, but the screw got lost in the seaweed at Green Lake. 

The fact that he was rapidly able to dive into a new relationship while I am languishing makes me wonder if I was root cause of the failure of the marriage. Maybe I was a nagging shrew. Maybe I was unkind and unloving and angry. Maybe he lost his shit about a paddle board screw because he didn't feel loved. Maybe there was a way I could have been kinder, more loving and patient, without being a doormat. Maybe I could have as Richard Rohr says, "offer the wicked no resistance," meaning don't get defensive or reactive when confronted with things that are upsetting.

Here I am, pounded by holiday weekends, one after the other--Easter, my birthday, Mother's Day, Memorial Day--that I am spending alone. I have friends to hang out with the rest of the year, but the holidays are a special form of hell, and my mind wanders to miserable places. But this is okay. I need to feel all of my sorrow in order to heal, so I can show up better in the future.

Mouth of Babes & the Weak Link

Yesterday, I had a VIPG -- a Very Important Pickleball Game. Our team made the playoffs, whoo hoo!

I was talking to Pedro about it and I said I didn't think we'd make the finals after this round.

"Mom," he said, "you are a fucking adult. You don't play for fun. You play to win."

Right. I am going to have to figure that out.

And we did win, which is very cool. Our team won the playoffs last season, which was exciting, and also like not that exciting at the same time. Of course, it was nice to win, but the thrill wore off after thirty minutes. The ego loved it, but then the ego's happiness shelf-life is short before it looks for the next shiny new thing. Yet, I suppose winning is better than losing? I dunno.

Winning and losing is relatively new to me. As I've mentioned before, the only time I've every played competitive team sports was one infamous season of Cardinal Booster soccer in middle school. Soccer looks easy, right? You just run around and kick the ball. How hard can it be? 

It was awful. I was the worst person on the team and I couldn't wait for the whole experience to be over. I was also disappointed that someone who was twelve had passed her prime and couldn't pick up a new sport without being drowned out by other kids who had been playing since they were six. There is seriously something wrong with the world that didn't allow a pre-teen to be a beginner at something.

So here I am again, trying something new, but having a better experience. Pickleball is a relatively new sport, so almost everyone is new to it. With the exception of a handful of people from Bainbridge, no one my age has played pickleball since they were a kid. 

The biggest learning I am taking away from this experience: being the weak link or the worst person on the team. Our team captain has a strategy of pairing the best players together and the weakest together. Her idea is that out of the nine games (three games played by three pairs), the strong pairs will win three out of three for six victories out of nine. If the weak team loses by ten points or two, it doesn't matter if the other teams' victories are decisive.

I was re-reading my blog posts and I've seen how far I have come since the fall. Back then, I half of my serves were out of bounds. Now, I'll get one serve out of bounds in three games, a dramatic improvement. Once I became reasonably competent, I was terrified of losing, thinking it was my fault. I'd replay missed shots in my mind.

Now, I am okay with where I am at. I also know that my goal is to improve my skills, not just win. If I focus on winning, I am giving too much power to my opponents. I can't be depressed or sad if I lose to a pair that is better than I am. How can I get better if I only play people I can beat?

There Should be a Word (Part 2)

There should be a word

for when your hair is 

still damp 

from your morning shower

and sweaty from exercise

at the same time.

Au Revoir, Le Creuset!

More than thirty years ago when I was fresh out of college, I was working at a boutique consulting firm in Chicago. My co-worker Dawn moved back to her home state of New Jersey to get an MBA. Before she left, she unloaded stuff she didn't want to schlep halfway across the country.

She gave me a crusty seven inch, light blue enamel and cast iron Le Creuset frying pan that used to be her grandmother's.

She looked at it and saw the discolored paint. 

I looked at it and saw gold.

"Are you sure you want to give this away?" I asked.

"I am never going to use it," she said. With that, I packed it up, took it home, and used for thirty-three years.

Today, the pan died. I was reheating hash browns and I smelled something odd. When I cleaned the plan, I noticed the enamel chipped. I googled if I could still use the pan, and the answer was sadly no.

I have no idea how old that pan was. It was pretty worn when I got it, but it still had a lot of life left in it. I could have been purchased in the 1940's, 1950's or 1960's. Who knows? That pan is older than my kids and lasted longer than my marriage. The pan might be older than me. I used it regularly to melt butter for popcorn and sauté a small batch of onions. The pan was a prop in a major plot point in my life. Jack was cooking breakfast sausages in that pan when I told him I was pregnant with Ada. Later, I used it to melt butter when I baked chocolate chip scones for my kids.

Au revoir, Le Creuset! May you rest in peace.

Winning and Losing

I need to develop a relationship with winning and losing.

I am on a pickle ball team where we track our performance. I haven't played an organized team sport since eighth grade when I was in Cardinal Booster soccer. It was horrible and I was unskilled, but I did it anyway. Pickleball is way more fun, but I haven't had to track winning and losing since middle school.

I am not sure what to do when I lose or when I win. I feel like I am holding the team back, letting them down when my duo loses a game. You might be thinking, "Lauren, this is doubles. You aren't the only one responsible for the win or the loss." 

True, and I still feel personally responsible. I feel glum and irritated when I lose, and I wish I didn't. It makes me feel like a sore loser when I am not. There are professional athletes whose teams lose regularly and I bet they aren't as mopey as me. They have figured out how to cope with losing. Even the Chicago Bulls lost ten games in their best season.

I wish I could focus more on having fun and how much I have improved since I started. When I started, my serves barely made it in bounds. I practice my serve and overhand shots at my health club once a week. Now, my serves are 90% in bounds and I can play closer to the net when I don't chicken out.

Pilates Video Model

I would make a magnificent Pilates video model. Wonderful. Superb. 

I kind of suck at Pilates and my instructor is regularly correcting my form. I'm curvy, not a stick figure like all of the women in my Pilates book. I am built like Barbie doll that someone squashed down from 6'10'' to 5'4'', keeping the boobs and the booty the same. I say fuck a lot when a move is challenging. I grit my face and look like I am passing a kidney stone at 90 of the 100.

These are all reasons why I would make a unique and special Pilates video model. 

I can hear what you are thinking, "Wouldn't we want someone who looks good and knows what they are doing?"

No. You do not.

I tried doing the New York City Ballet workouts on YouTube once. I didn't even get through five minutes because the people were way fitter than me and I couldn't keep up. I honestly don't think anyone could keep up outside of people younger than 23 and professional athletes. Think about it: the people demonstrating the moves are the most fit, coordinated, and graceful people on the world. The people watching at home are not.

I would be like the people at home--moderately coordinated, curvy, soft, and realistic. These exercises are hard to do, both in form and intensity. People could watch how to do it wrong first, and then see how to adjust to do it correctly. They would see me sweat and swear. I roll my eyes at my teacher.

Plus it would be funny. People could watch me exercise while sitting on their couch eating a bag of potato chips. I might inspire these couch potatoes to try to exercise. They could think, "If that chick could do it, so can I."

Pickleball

Why do recall

the shots 

I've missed

and 

not

the shots

I've made?

Why is it

that now I am 

a better player,

that I feel 

worse about

how

I play?

Before, 

when I sucked,

I was happy

to get

my serve

in bounds.

Now, 

I die inside a little 

when I miss.