New Feet and Winter Weather

“Here’s something you might be interested in,” David said, pointing out an ad in a local magazine.

The advertisement was for reflexology. Reflexology is more than a simple foot massage. It’s about healing through applying pressure to the areas of the feet that correspond to the organs and systems of the body—a definition I’ve heard some refer to as hokum, though, while living in Singapore I indulged in it often. I’m not certain whether a deep tissue foot massage truly restores balance throughout your body, but I’m a poor sleeper and I always sleep better for several days after a reflexology treatment.

And there’ve been a couple of incidences that, to my mind at least, support the theory. For instance, once, while digging into the pads of my toes, the masseuse asked me if the arthritis in my neck was painful. Another time, after I’d taken a tumble and landed hard on my shoulder, the reflexologist abruptly abandoned my feet, raced to my shoulder, and began massaging it instead.  

So yeah, I think there’s some truth to it.

Up until four years ago there was a place that offered reflexology in Marble Falls. Run by a couple of shady Asians, it was reasonably priced and they did good work—though in Texas you must be licensed to call yourself a reflexologist, and I doubt they’d had the requisite training. Nevertheless, they hit all the sensitive areas and David and I enjoyed going to them on a regular basis. When they were arrested for giving “happy ending” massages we were disappointed; also disgusted by their stupidity. I mean, where did the goofballs think they were? We’re not some Thai island.

So. Reflexology. Was I interested? Definitely. I read the ad and called to make an appointment.      

“May I ask where you got my number?” Her tone was suspicious and somewhat accusatory.

“From the ad in the Fox Mailer,” I told her.

“Oh that silly ad. I had them put it in the center of the magazine, but then I got so many calls that I asked them to bury it in the back where nobody would see it. Yet people keep calling.”

She seemed to find customers annoying. Why would she place an ad inviting people to call, then act inconvenienced when they did what she invited them to do? This confounding and brief conversation caused me to feel less than warm toward her.

BREAK TO GO TO REFLEXOLOGY APPOINTMENT.   

Well, she was delightful, which teaches the value in actually meeting someone before drawing conclusions. There was nothing begrudging about her. She was welcoming, friendly, and informative. Her technique was excellent and the heated mattress beneath my back was heavenly. Digging deep without causing pain isn’t easy, but her every stroke soothed so pleasurably that I’m inclined to declare that she’s the best reflexologist I’ve ever had. I hadn’t realized how abused my poor feet were, but when I left her studio they were so blissfully free of pain that I couldn’t even feel them.

On a coinciding topic, when the anticipated cold front came to town, Marble Falls met it with insanity. Schools were closed and medical appointments were canceled; there were very few cars on the perfectly safe streets; at the grocery store there was available parking near the door, and within, the shelves had been so picked over that only a few packs of celery sticks were left. Townsfolk, what were you thinking? It was cold, that’s all. Wear a coat.

While others huddled in their homes, I floated through the lightly populated grocery store with new feet. When I ran into a friend from yoga, I rhapsodized about my joyful toes and arches. When she asked for the miracle worker’s name and number, I gave it to her, tickled to think that she, too, would be asked where she heard about the reflexologist. And this time the answer would be me.

Next, imagine my glee when I ended up in the check out line of an eccentric cashier. It’s my habit to carelessly toss the groceries into my bag; the only attention shown is when I place the eggs (expensive!) on top. But, displeased by my method, or lack thereof, the checker removed every item I’d stuffed into it, and repacked with care, giving the bag a proud pat before allowing me to be on my way.

After that, as I was exiting the store, I noticed the man who was entering. He had a bit of a belly; long snowy strands flowed from his head; a full soft white beard curled over his broad chest; and his blue eyes twinkled with joy at the icy wind. A chat with an old friend, an OCD checker, then Santa Claus. How cool is that? Plus, feet that feel like they’re encased in clouds. This has been a great afternoon.

The backyard on a cold and dreary morning.

Mother-in-Law

David’s mother, Helen, never liked me. When we were all together—and the Waldos gathered often—she either ignored my contributions to conversations or she emitted judgmental tongue clicks and grunts. She never looked at me and she never allowed even the shortest dialogue about anything meaningful. This wasn’t a subtle loathing; it was palpable and meant to injure. David’s sister said the disapproval was because I’d married the favorite child, and that Helen wouldn’t have liked anyone he married—although it didn’t seem like she treated her other daughter-in-law, Betty, any better. Betty, however, was gifted when it came to rising above, while I sometimes became so hurt and furious that my hands would tremble. Although, realistically speaking, we spent years living in other countries and any concern over my relationship with Helen fell away when we flew away.  

Also, her displeasure with me was puzzling. I’m aware that I’m sometimes intense when intensity isn’t called for. And when things don’t go my way, I tend to get snippy—well, who doesn’t? But I have redeeming qualities. I made her son happy. I was an exceptional mother to her grandsons. I’m intuitive, responsible, loyal, and I have a sense of humor. See? All good traits.  

As to her inclinations, Helen was difficult to decipher. She held to antiquated directives, such as boys and men should remove their hats when they enter a room, and it’s rude to chew gum in public. One rule that, when broken, got her riled was the “he and I” rule. She would noticeably cringe when someone said, “me and him,” or a variation thereof. While it is atrocious grammar, for some, pronouns can be tricky—however, she would let this small error form her everlasting opinion. All these standards seemed prim and rigid, which was confounding considering the pleasure she took in telling dirty jokes.

During the few years we lived in Sugar Land, Helen began to have problems coping. There were illnesses and traffic accidents until, at one point, on the phone, she told David that shopping and bringing the groceries in had so exhausted her that she was unable to go back outside and close the car door. So, after much familial discussion, it was decided that she should go into a three-step nursing home—moderate care, full care, and hospice.

Helen had smoked all her life, so it wasn’t unexpected that age came at her with unrelenting cruelty. A toe infection, caused by a pedicure, led to an amputation, which didn’t heal; and when the toe wound became gangrenous, her foot was taken, and that also didn’t heal; then off came all below her knee. And not long after, the whole leg was gone.

And throughout the operations and hospitalizations, her care fell to the daughters-in-law. Where were her sons? Nowhere to be found.

As I lived an hour away, Betty, was the one on the front lines. But I did my share, too. I drove the distance to take Helen to doctor appointments, physical therapy, and on her errands. Once, after Christmas, she had me drive her to every store in the area so she could exchange or get money back on every Christmas present Betty had given her. This woman who had treated me like a mangy stray throughout most of my adult life, showed no appreciation, and, in fact, seemed to view my services as her right.

On one horrendously long day I took her to a medical appointment and, because she was fading in and out of consciousness, the doctor instructed me to take her to the emergency room, which I did. When it looked like it was going to be a long wait in the ER, she had me roll her outside so she could smoke. I returned inside to listen for her name to be called, while outside she dropped her cigarette and, fragile and woozy as she was, bent over to pick it up, and in doing so, toppled from her wheelchair and on to the cold hard concrete, scratching her face and badly bruising her arm and shoulder. The fall got the ER’s attention and she was taken in immediately, where they ran tests, gave her five units of blood, and admitted her. I stayed with her throughout, but not with love in my heart. I did it begrudgingly, constantly checking the time, and wishing to be at home adhering to my usual schedule.

And again—where were her sons?  

I, too, have sons.

Helen’s groundless meanness. My lack of compassion. The sons staying away. Altogether, an ugly picture.

Having experienced such a thorny relationship with my husband’s mother, I have vowed to be the perfect mother-in-law. I won’t order my sons’ wives around or give them unwanted advice. I’ll never judge. I’ll be always gracious, never taking their kindnesses for granted. I won’t intrude into their marriages. I’ll support them in every way and make certain they know that I’m proud of them. I’ll never, ever be mean spirited toward them or make them think they aren’t good enough. All these intentions I’ve created so that if I fall victim to infirmity as Helen did, my sons’ wives will view me with sympathy and consideration rather than as an imposition and a duty. So, as I said, in the mother-in-law arena I aim for perfection, giving no offense and being nothing but docile and benign.

“How’s that working out for you, Jen?” you ask.

“How do you think?” is my response.

Brunch at True Food

Is this not the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen?

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?