A Serendipitous Two Minutes

I like to stick to a schedule. I get up every morning at four-thirty, respond to emails, glance at the news feeds, and then write for a couple of hours. Later in the morning I exercise—sometimes it’s an hour on the elliptical and sometimes it’s a couple of hours of pickleball. The vexing result of applying discipline to my days is that I’ve gained a reputation for being rigid, which isn’t true. I can readjust. And, considering the routines of absolutely every other person I know, I’m not the only one who adheres to a daily agenda.

“You’re unbending because you’re German,” says David, who’s the most inflexible person I know. Every day he eats the same thing for breakfast, exercises in the same way, at the same time, and at the same place. From his everyday habits, he deviates never.

Most certainly, I’m fond of the schedule I’ve created for myself, and the fact that it’s fixing to be disrupted has me grumbling. Our cleaning lady, who usually comes on Saturday mornings, has asked to change her time to Friday afternoon because she’s catching a ride to her hometown in Mexico to spend Christmas with her family. I imagine giving in to my inclination: “No, Maria, you may not spend the holiday with your loved ones! You must stay here and clean my house! Stick to the plan!”

As I’m not a grinch, I can hardly deny her request. Nevertheless, the situation looms. For me, two until six on a Friday is a pain. On any other day I’d go to Bee Cave, a shopping hub half an hour away; but that would put my return drive during the heaviest traffic of the week. The seventy-one corridor gets packed, sometimes even completely clogged, as commuters, frantic to start their weekend, spill out of Austin and flood the surrounding highways and byways. Also to be taken into account is the road construction that never seems to end.

And Maria’s schedule isn’t the only irregularity that’s exasperating. I have a haircut today at three, and I prefer the appointment to be at one because it’s convenient to run errands afterward, which gets me home at three. Jennifer Hair’s December calendar filled up early, however, so three o’clock it must be. To my dismay, I’ll be starting out at the time I’d ordinarily be getting home, which pertains in that my little dog, Dilly, needs her afternoon treat at exactly three-fifteen; otherwise, in a frenzy, she trembles. Wildly panicked, she barks, jumps up and down, and turns in circles. Treat-treat-treat!

Here's an aside: My hair person’s name is Jennifer, as is mine. And, because it bothers me to call someone else by my name, I differentiate by calling her Jennifer Hair. This might sound egotistical, possibly a little insane, but it’s not like I was raised as a Cindy or a Susan. Throughout my life I have been the only Jennifer. It’s understandable that, considering this background, I would struggle to hang on to my individuality.

Sorry for the digression; and back to the admittedly minor inconveniences that are on my mind as I put in time on the elliptical.

My phone, placed nearby, interrupts my musings with a ting! I leap nimbly from the machine and read the message. It’s from Maria, who wants to come on Thursday morning at nine-thirty rather than Friday at two. How bizarrely coincidental. I was dreading the arrangement, and now it’s changed for the better. Merrily, I text her my approval of this latest variation, and return to the elliptical.

A minute later, another ting, another text; this one from Jennifer Hair. She’s had a cancellation at one and, knowing my predilections, wants to know if I’d like the slot. Yes please!

Another unexpected and happy concurrence, causing me thusly to ponder: In the course of a lifetime, how often does a situation change from what one doesn’t want to what one does want? And how often does this happen twice in such quick succession? The answer: so seldomly that it’s only a notch above never.

And though I concede that the two instances of serendipity are not life-altering, they do make me wonder if these delightful vicissitudes are the karmic result of an action I took or didn’t take. Or is it possible that I’ve inadvertently developed a gift for planting my desires into other people’s minds? And if so, how do I prolong this ability, and how far afield do my powers reach? Considering this newfound skill, the focal question becomes what do I want and whose mind must I control to get it? 

Here I am, giving Clem her bottle. As you can see, Dilly is a very needy dog.

During hunting season the most sought-after bucks hide in our backyard.

Merry Christmas!

Jen on Her Birthday

Sixty-five doesn’t feel any different than sixty-four. Hmm. I’m now officially a senior citizen. What kind of old woman do I want to be? The stooped lumbering kind who has weekly appointments at the doctor’s office and goes on about every ache and ailment? The eccentric who talks the ears off strangers? Or the enthusiastic smiling sort who enjoys trying new things? A no-brainer, right? Here’s what I’m doing at sixty-five:

I’ve changed my purse mojo. I’ve always stayed away from large purses, choosing to carry small cross-body bags that only have room for cash, credit cards, and a phone. I figured a lightweight purse would be better if I needed to make a quick get-away from. . . whatever. But lately I’ve become impatient with the sparsity of personal items. I want easy and constant access to my reading glasses and sunglasses. I want a mirror and a comb, hand lotion, a tissue packet, and lip balm. So I go to a local department store, buy a larger purse, take it home and hand it to David, saying, “This is the exceptional gift you got me for my birthday. I love it. Thank you.” On the designated morning, he hands it to me and, as though I’ve never seen it before, says, “They had a huge selection and it was a difficult decision, but I think this is the one you would have chosen. Happy Birthday.”

I’ve added an activity. Pickleball, AKA tennis for old people. A friend suggests we attend a lesson; and I know I need more exercise, so I go. Though I’m clumsy and prone to falling, I’m surprised by how much I enjoy the movement and the sweating. It’s a popular sport. There are leagues and tournaments. All day every day, pickleballers are always playing somewhere in the area. It doesn’t matter if I’m not good enough to compete on a ladder because I’m having fun and meeting new people and, as long as we focus on the game and keep things superficial, we all get along. The reason I say that about being superficial is because fanatical belief in conspiracy theories abounds in this part of Texas, and one of the most well-liked local pickleballers is a man I once brought up in a derogatory way in a blog posting—the one about the guy who, over dinner at a mutual friend’s house, claimed to “know for a fact” that Michelle Obama was a hermaphrodite and that Obama’s daughters were paid actors, not Barak and Michelle’s kids at all. I assumed that he didn’t know about the scathing blog, but it turns out I was wrong. So, as often happens, I’ve managed to create friction where there should be peace. As pertains to my new diversion, I intend to keep my head down so I don’t run into him or his wife.

Also, I’m investing a bit of time and money in my sixty-something appearance. For the last couple of years my hair guru has been encouraging me to grow my hair out. She didn’t approve of the shorter style, and in general seemed to feel that if it were longer I’d have more choices. Several months ago I decided to take her advice, thinking, well, it’s only hair, and it won’t hurt to try it her way. Sadly, it’s become a stringy mess that I hate with astonishing intensity. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this crappy fluff in front of my ears. I hate the way the pointy ends poke my eyes and tickle my cheeks. So tomorrow I’m getting it cut and high-lighted. This isn’t so much making a change as it is going back to the way I like myself most.

Another appearance-related endeavor is that I’m going to Botox a few wrinkles—the downward slashes between my eyebrows, a couple of crinkled pouches at the corners of my eyes. I don’t think I’ll do anything about the forehead wrinkles, though. I’ve had my thought lines since I was a child. Seriously, there they are, in my fifth-grade picture, caused by brows raised in constant surprise; and here my eyebrows still are, with me at sixty-five, lifted in amazement at the things that go on in the world. So yes, Botox: a way to postpone the inevitable for just a while.

An unpleasant result of turning sixty-five is that it involves going through the social security bureaucracy, getting signed up for Medicare, changing my meds to suit their rules. How tedious. While the other changes I’m making are positive, the changes caused by Medicare are disturbing in that the two types of eyedrops I’m prescribed cost over forty-five hundred dollars every quarter. I used to meet the deductible in the first three months and the insurance paid for the rest of the year; but now, in this topsy-turvy shift, Medicare meets their self-determined deductible in the first quarter and then I pay for the rest of the year. So my cost almost triples and that sucks.

Ending on a note of happiness—my most wonderful recent biggie is that I’ve become a grandmother to an adorable baby, Clementine. If it weren’t for the inconvenient periodic requirement for passport renewal, I would’ve hopped over to London immediately to meet her. But I’m receiving daily photos and videos and the occasional facetime chat, and it’s fun to track the baby’s growth and progress, even if it’s from a distance. Sam, Julia, and the baby are traveling here for Thanksgiving, which promises to be quite a get-together, as the extended family also wants to welcome the new addition. In conclusion, Clementine is precious and I’m happy for my son and his wife, because raising a child adds a glorious, painful, and complex sense of accountability that expands one’s soul and can be found in no other endeavor.  

Anyway, Happy Birthday, me!

Welcome to the world, Clementine!

Can you believe he asked me what I plan to do with it?

Curtis gave me the visor for my birthday. Stylish, right?

The Price of Antagonism

I was living in Cairo when Leon Uris’s The Haj was published. As a result of the timing, my days were inundated by Arab traditions and the Arab mindset as I was reading the novel. Coincidentally and irrelevantly, I was living in Singapore when Crazy Rich Asians came out, which was amusing because my Singaporean friends loved that book—and it, as with The Haj, was exactly spot-on.

This quote describing the middle-eastern hierachy, taken from the closing of the second chapter of The Haj, was so purely and accurately blood-chilling that it’s stayed with me all these years:

“It was me against my brother; me and my brother against our father; my family against my cousins and the clan; the clan against the tribe; and the tribe against the world. And all of us against the infidel.”

To think that people live with this chain of antipathy as their truth is horrifying and heartbreaking. Suspicion, selfishness, corruption, and animosity; criticism, derision, scheming, and manipulation. How stressful. As to the quote, I imagine this concise summary of an entire culture is underlined in the Kindle version. If you haven’t read The Haj, I highly recommend it.

So. Negativity.

There was a woman who came to Mahjong for a while. She played well and we were glad to have her. She took the game seriously, which is fine to a point; but this seriousness was the foundation of her personality—she had no sense of humor, and when she did laugh it was at someone else’s expense. She was quick to assign culpability and always seemed to be planning revenge for some small slight or perceived lack of respect. Her realtor had cheated her. Her doctor had done a poor job of a repair. When she moved to the area her neighbors didn’t come over and welcome her and so she never shared a friendly wave with them or acknowledged them in any way. One time she arrived at Mahjong furious with her brother. I asked her what he’d done to draw her ire and she replied, “He said he’d call me and he didn’t.” For this infraction she punished him by not speaking to him for six months, a punishment he likely enjoyed. She must be a horror to live with. She dropped our group a couple of years ago. I doubt she liked any of us.

A couple we occasionally socialized with in Holland only got along with one another when they had a common enemy—a family member who’d behaved badly in a business deal, a friend who hadn’t been complimentary enough about their new car, a neighbor whose dog sometimes barked. When they had no target for their antagonism, they turned on each other, screaming at one another for hours, letting loose words that should never be said; and then entering a cold silence that could last for weeks. When I pointed this pattern out to the wife she laughed and said, “Oh, I know. When I get tired of fighting with him, I get him all stirred up about something someone else has done.” She seemed satisfied with the dynamic.

Where did the pleasure they found in rancor come from? Are some people born sour? Do they crave the drama found in severe nastiness? Or is it a state that started small and expanded with each failure, each broken heart, each disparagement?  

I’m pretty sure this is the way it happened with Trina. Her memorial service was last weekend. Fifteen people were there, and, with the exception of her boss, we all loved her. The friend who had taken care of her during her last days stood up to speak. She started crying almost immediately, but it soon became apparent that the source of her emotions wasn’t the loss of my sister; it was a reaction to the trauma she’d experienced during the few months she’d cared for her. With words riding on sobs, she described how hypercritical and exhausting Trina had been, how difficult she was to please, how rigidly she went through her days, how oppressive her presence could be, how she belittled everyone who didn’t think exactly as she thought. Though this was not traditional or appropriate for the setting, I could identify. I, too, had been traumatized by Trina—her rage, her jealousy, all the hateful blame heaped on me again and again through a period of many years. When it was my turn to speak, I told of what a happy child Trina had been and how she’d enriched my teen years. I didn’t share that our relationship had slowly morphed into a Bette Davis/Joan Crawford situation, and how vicious my sister had acted toward me the last time I saw her—though, to the other mourners, I did admit that her constant bitterness had caused me to walk away. If not for Trina’s actions, I would’ve been there to see her through her second and last battle with cancer, but I didn’t even know she was sick until the last week or so of her life. Her friend had been there and her sister had not. So now another negative emotion has been added to the dark basket I carry—guilt. A hell of a legacy, sister.

We attended another memorial service yesterday morning. It was similar in style in that people stood and told stories about their experiences with the deceased. But these were upbeat anecdotes about how generous the departed had been, how her laughter cheered others, how she took joy in her work at her church and in the community garden. It was all about how much she gave and how much she’ll be missed.

I wish there were a deeper takeaway from this other than grouchiness bad, joy good. Why is it that a circumstance that lowers one person into permanent gloom causes another to rise up and move forward? I guess, for me, the lesson here is that we each have a choice in how we treat others. We have the ability to control our actions, our thoughts, and what our tongues set free into the world. It’s what our brains do and it’s why God gave them to us. And I see that once again I’ve revealed my intolerance. I need to work on that. As to Trina and her tragic end, I am putting that behind me. And how will I do that? Well, every time a bleak thought enters my mind, I’m going to turn away from it. Control.

Dunes on Lake Michigan a couple of weeks ago.

Fun that Floats

Our Great Lakes boat is new, in great condition, and carries a hundred-and-forty passengers and a hundred-and-twenty crew members. It’s not like one of the gigantic ocean-going cruise ships. It’s sleek and graceful and intimate.

On every cruise of this sort there are two focuses—the meals and the excursions. This is a Tauck (pronounced towk) tour, which means everything is included. Vodka and scotch flow freely—no exorbitant charge for a single bloody Mary, and no judgmental moue from the bartender when you order a third gin and tonic. And the food is rich, plentiful, and delicious. The conversation during mealtimes most often morphs into an unnamed competition about whose been on the most tours and who’s been to the most foreign locations. In this discussion David and I show interest, but we don’t share because we realized long ago that people don’t want to know, they want to tell. As we all exit the dining room at the end of the meal, most of us can’t remember the names of the people we just sat with, though there are an annoying few who show off by greeting those of us who cross their paths the next day by name.  

As to the excursions, well, the tour people do the best they can to find interesting places between Toronto and Chicago; and, for my part, I make a few mistakes. For instance, I don’t know what I was thinking when, a few months ago, I signed up for the Detroit city tour instead of the Ford Motor Museum. I assumed, without doing any research at all, that the city tour would be a fun walk through interesting streets and buildings, when in actuality it turns out to be four boring hours circling the city in a bus, literally passing the same buildings again and again. What I get out of it is that Detroit is trying really hard to stay vital, though, because of its reduced state, it’s shunned by all the chain stores and restaurants that would boost the local economy. On the other hand, David goes to the museum and has a great time. To hear him tell it, it’s a vehicle wonderland. Definitely a bad call on my part.  

A lesson I learn from the Detroit decision is that I misconstrued the whole cruise concept, which is apparently centered around people who have difficulty getting around. David and I are far from young, but there are many who are older. While I realize there will come a time when we are slow, right now we are fit and we like to move fast. People with canes and limps and ankles crumbling from a lifetime of supporting heavy bodies do not move fast. And because of our speed we end up in the front of every line, which is fine with us because, honestly, it’s painful and frustrating to observe the difficulties our fellow passengers have negotiating steps and aisles. But it soon becomes obvious that our lead position isn’t appreciated by one of our fellow passengers, a massive shuffling wobbling woman who tells the guide in charge of every bus that, due to health issues, she must sit in the front; which means thirty-six people are held up as she slowly teeters up the stairs before they can enter, and down the stairs before they can leave.  

As happens more often than it should, I find the woman and the situation she’s created to be irritating, which causes me to ponder my lack of empathy toward the elderly. It seems that I’ve adopted notions, possibly unrealistic ones, about what sort of old lady I want to be. I don’t want to be an old woman who expects or demands concessions because I can’t hear or see or remember anything. And I don’t want to force others to wait and watch, or even help, as I navigate every aching step. But there’s an obstacle to this passive future self that I’ve envisioned—my obviously crabby and impatient mindset. I badly need to work on my tolerance or old age is going to turn me into a vicious hag.

Anyway, back to the tour. Off the ship, on to the bus; off the bus, on to the ship; so just the highlights.

Mackinac Island, pronounced Mackinaw because it was settled by the French, who like to put consonants at the end of words for no reason. This was a delightful day off the boat. No automobiles allowed, just bikes, horses, and human feet. I take the carriage tour and David takes the bike tour. We are equally happy with our choices. The homes are quaint and inviting, and they look out over Lake Huron, offering a charming view from the water. Flowers abound, and we’re told that when the lilacs bloom in mid-June the whole island smells good. Due to the presence of horses, there are many well-kept stables and people to follow the carriages with shovels. Fort Mackinac has been restored to it’s former condition—homes, bunkhouse, guardhouses, quartermaster’s office. Excellently done. Writings from the people who lived there are displayed—not just facts, but tales of romance, commerce, loss of babies, difficulties because of weather during the winter months. I highly recommend Mackinac as a travel destination and I’ll always remember it fondly.

Two days later we arrive in Chicago, which I love from the get-go. First, on the river for an architectural tour which sounds tedious to me, but surprisingly turns out to be fascinating and actually gives me an unprecedented appreciation for the thought and talent that goes into creating buildings. Then, to Giordano’s for deep-dish pizza, which Chicago’s apparently known for; and the pizza’s great if you think it wise to eat three inches of melty cheese in a bowl made of thick pizza crust. After lunch David and I take a walk and are curious when we come upon clusters of people strolling along—moms pushing strollers, groups of teenagers, old and young—keeping their eyes on their phones and wearing costumes that appear to be themed around Alice in Wonderland. We’ve wandered into a citywide online scavenger hunt. And that’s not all. After David and I get to the hotel we walk to Millennium Park where a teen dance festival is in progress. In the Pritzker Pavilion kids are learning and then performing simple ballet steps. Further on, a hip-hop guy teaches teens to do a dance based on dance-stop-hold it, dance-stop-hold it. And in a large tent an enthusiastic woman leads a hundred equally enthusiastic dancers in jazz-based cardio movement.  

How delightful. Chicago is indeed an engaged city!

Tomorrow we go home where, at the midnight airport, we will find out if my drive-flat tire has gone completely flat or if it’ll see us safely home.

Isn’t she beautiful?

This is an unusual fountain in Millennium Park. We liked it more than the bean.

I mean, look at this ridiculously rich pizza.

I wonder how they clean this thing.

The view from our hotel room.