Are You There, 2020? It's Me, Mel

In the last hours of 2019, I had a few friends over to my place for drinks before we went forth to conquer Bloomington on New Year's Eve. (How adult-y is that? A cocktail party! I even set out crudites in my grandmother's monkeywood dip bowl.) It was a lovely little gathering, well-oiled with my signature gimlets and jovial conversation. At some point we fell into the habit of bellowing "2019!!!!!" anytime we brought up unpleasant things that happened in the year 2019. And then, of course, as the clock inched closer to midnight, we would occasionally bellow hopefully, 2020!

Well. Fast-forward to 3.5 weeks later...and I am still waiting for 2020 to show up. You see, I am now considering January a "soft opening" for 2020. Dear readers, this month has kicked my ass. What I thought was an ornery little cold quickly devolved into strep pneumonia. What even is that? And how freakin' extra can you get?

To make a short, miserable story even shorter: I spent far more time than I would like laying on my couch, too dizzy and achey and feverish and exhausted to do more than force myself to chug fluids and binge-watch The Crown. It's only been in the last week that I've really started to get on the mend. It's only been in the last few days that I've really started to have honest-to-god energy. It's only been, like, oh, tonight that I started pondering what I want to do with the rest of 2020.

Mind and Body Shit
-I've got a Y membership, and a body that is very much aware of the fact that it is almost 40 years old. You can fill in the blanks.
-Starting, and sticking with, a habit tracker and health log: I'm very interested to see what the correlations are between my lifestyle and my physical body--i.e., how much sleep I get, what I'm eating, how much I'm moving, and how I am feeling.

Work Shit
-This year, I'm due to be re-certified as a librarian here in Indiana. In order to do that, I've got to prove that I've acquired XXX amount of hours of professional development. In a typical case of the cobbler's children never being shod, or something, I've been so wrapped up in other parts of my job that I've neglected this. And so now I've got 11 months left to get my shit together and re-librarian myself.
-Update my resume on LinkedIn. *Disclaimer: I have no specific reason for doing so, other than I think it's a good idea to always have an updated resume.

Fun, Creative, Hobby Shit
-I'd like to do some work with hand-lettering, which is, frankly, all the rage in the Plannerverse. I've got pretty decent handwriting, so I'd like to see what I can do to jazz things up and branch out even more.
-Create a scrapbook of my Bucketlist Trip to Australia or participate in NaNoWriMo.
-Blog at least 3 times per month

Adulting Shit
-Join AAA
-Get my car detailed
-Possibly pay off one of my private student loans
-Reconnect with my Nationwide Retirement account
-Meal plan and ook more

Indiana and Travel Shit
-Plan and have a lovely 40th birthday weekend in Cincinnati with my nearest and dearest
-Try one new restaurant a month here in Bloomington
-Visit my sisters at Thanksgiving (or have them visit me)
-Explore at least 5 new things or events in Indiana

Honestly, in typical overachieving Indygrrl fashion, I've got lots of other hopes and goals and plans and dreams and ideas. These are just the highlights of what I hope to accomplish, if I don't get stricken with Black Plague or Swine Flu or strep-dropsy or whatever the latest thing is. Hope springs eternal, even if my energy and health do not.

2020!

That Went Downhill Fast

2020. It was going to be, if not the Year of Mel, at least a damned good year. And early reports indicated this to be an accurate expectation. No disappointments, dramas, or disasters (at least in my personal life) occurred in the first few days. My first weekend of 2020 was absolutely lovely--relaxing and yet productive, too. Right up through Sunday afternoon. I had my planner layout for the week ahead:

Prepped up and ready for me to jot down my work shifts, the Very Important Board Meeting, my therapy appointment, the program I'm doing on Thursday, the fun social engagements. And then...as I was prepping my smoothie for Monday's breakfast, I sneezed. And became aware, simultaneously, of the scratch in my throat, and my nose feeling stuffy. Ding dong! It's my semi-annual death cold of doom.

Fast forward to now, Thursday evening...I've only been able to go to work yesterday and today. Monday and Tuesday were lost to a black hole of tissues, sleeping, and snotting.  Do you feel guilty taking sick days from work? I know I do. Emotionally, I worry that I am slacking, failing, disappointing the people I work with. Intellectually, I know--this is why we are given sick days. I know that my colleagues would rather I rot away at home rather than give them my creepin' crud. I know that I have to listen to my body and set my boundaries. But that's a lot of meetings I'm not attending, interviews I'm not conducting, schedules I'm not designing, emails I'm not answering, input I'm not giving, information I'm not processing. To say nothing of my own personal goals not being attended to. So, part of this week has crumbled to dust before it even started. 

You see where this is going, right? If part of this week is ruined, then all of this week has been ruined. And so, it's a logical next step that the rest of the month is a lost cause, too, right? And if January is up in flames--welp, there goes 2020. Dead in the water. 

Once again: intellectually and logically, I know that's not the case. But when I'm sick and miserable, it's hard not to feel that that's my reality. 

Interestingly, my Eldest Sister, the Ghoul Next Door, is going through her own rough time right now--some rough workdays that are taking a lot out of her. She and I are discussing how one crappy day can kickstart you down the path to Self-Loathing City, home to the towering skyscrapers that line the avenues of angst, the boulevards of broken dreams, and the address that my negative self-talk calls home: Everything You Ever Touch Turns to Shit Street. Population: all of us. Or at least those of us who constantly wrestle a certain part of ourselves which is our own worst enemy. 

My sister, wise woman that she is, has gotten better about salvaging a day--a week, a month, hell, maybe even a life--from the spiraling shitstorm that a crappy disappointment can provoke. She says she lets herself have an "oh well, that could have gone better moment," and then simply does better at the first opportunity. So, in other words: acknowledge the failure or the disappointment, but don't let the failure/disappointment live past its own moment in time. Move on to the next moment, the next opportunity, hell, the next day if we have to, but don't wallow in what's happened or let it determine what happens next. 

But. She also thinks that a Bad Day Emergency Plan is a good idea. And in theory, I agree. In practice, though, what does that look like? Stay tuned. Once the Death Cold of Doom has moved onto its next victim, I am going to explore this more. In the meantime, I'm going to go try to stay hydrated, and I will call that Doing Better. 

Do you have a Bad Day Emergency Plan? What does it look like?

52 Lists for Happiness: Week 1

Someone I knew said recently that I am "a woman of deep irony," which I think is probably pretty true. One of the ironies of my life is that when I am experiencing happiness, I usually simultaneously am filled with conflicting thoughts which potentially undermine this happinessAm I worthy of this happiness? It's fleeting, therefore it's not real. At the very least, it won't last. It's just my privilege that affords me this happiness. Etc.

(Aside: even if it is my privilege that affords me this happiness, does it make it any less genuine? Also, should I be more obligated to appreciate and experience this happiness, so that I am not wasting this opportunity and privilege?)

(See what I mean?)

Anyway, to cut this rambling short: I struggle with the concept of happiness. I also struggle with online shopping right after Christmas, which means, that this year, I ended up with this book:

So, I'll bite. Let's see what we can see.

Week 1's Project was to List What Makes You Happy Right Now. So I did: 

Looking back over my list, I'm struck by how much on that list is sensation- or productivity-based. The sound of the wind howling, of my cats purring; the feel of my warm feet on a cold night; the sight of a brightly and neatly-polished nail (preferably mine). The sense of accomplishment at the end of a productive day, knowing I've helped someone at work or been useful to a friend, feeling as though I am needed. Just as there are languages of love, I wonder, are there languages oI f happiness?

Week 1's  Challenge was to Take action. How often do you actually get to experience these things? How can you take one item on this list and turn it into a daily practice of happiness?

Upon honest reflection, I think it's possible-likely, even-that many of these things do happen on a daily basis. I call one of my sisters frequently (I'd bug the other one more if she didn't hate the phone so much); I try to have productive days every day; I often ponder old, happy memories. So perhaps in those sorts of situations, it's a question of permitting myself to relish the residual emotion (hopefully, happiness) that comes from these things. But then, does it become a situation of being hyper-aware of my thoughts and feelings and analyzing them as they happen, and then getting to the point where I am over-thinking it...

(Ugh, there I go again. For fuck's sake, brain, SHUT UP.) 

In other cases, I think there are certainly things I could do, mindfully, each day, to provoke happiness, or at least contentment. Taking 5 minutes to pet Austen and Indiana up into a purr; shooting off texts to my nearest and dearest; even tidying up my purse before I turn in each night. (Seriously, so many of the stresses and ills of my life are provoked by a messy purse which never yields up the whatever-it-is I need in that moment. Do you have the same issue?) 

Thus ends Week 1 of the 52 Lists for Happiness Project. 

The Days Are Long, But the Years are Short: 2019 in Retrospect

2019...so that just happened. 

The other evening, I spent an hour or so flipping through my old planners and my memory journal, to try to get a sense of how I spent my time in this past year. I came away with some vague sense that I spent far too much time re-reading old favorite books, dicking about on my phone, and worrying about things that never came to pass (or at least, haven't yet.) Other highlights from the year now gone...In the 365 days of this past year, I:

• Attended approximately 800 meetings at work
• Worried for two weeks in February that I was going to die of breast cancer. (Spoiler alert: I didn't die. The mammogram came back clear.)
• Attended the first match of the Indy 11 soccer season
• Didn't attend enough therapy, but made good use of the sessions I did manage to afford
• Read way too much fanfic
• Got my heart broken by Avengers: End Game. Marvel, you betrayed us, utterly and totally.
• Celebrated an absolutely magical 39th birthday with a friend in the Rocky Mountains
• Suffered through a stress-induced eye twitch through most of August
• Decided to finally give notice at my second job
• Tried to re-learn the art of talking  about things other than work, and to build a life outside of my professional existence
• Wrote in my memory journal, more than once, that my biggest accomplishment of the day was "Didn't smack anyone!" Perhaps the bigger miracle is that no-one smacked me
• Enjoyed the best meal ever at Public Greens in Downtown Indy
• Threw a baby shower--and pulled it off quite credibly, I might add!
• Spent a fair amount of time on Christmas Eve making goo-goo eyes at Miles Alexander, the newborn son of my friends Michael and Anna
• Traveled about in Tropical North Queensland for two weeks, swimming with sharks and turtles and stingrays
• Learned that, even on the other side of the world, when swimming about in the Great Barrier Reef, I get crippled with a huge, burdensome sense of inferiority and unworthiness. Crying in your prescription snorkel mask as you swim frantically away from an aggressive Titan Triggerfish? That's a bucket list experience I hadn't been counting on but nonetheless got to cash in on. Hooray.

2019 was a year of...well, I'm not sure. It was a year. Not the best. Not the worst. It flew by, like a roller-coaster, mostly, and I reckon that's pretty darned apt. When you're whizzing about on a roller coaster, it's kinda hard to pick up a lot of individual scenes and details; it's all flying by in a blur and really, you're just holding on and trying not to plummet to your death. And that's just about the best way to sum up 2019. Hopefully 2020 will be more of a leisurely mosey down a relatively smooth path.

Oh, Hell, She's Cookin' Now! Vegetable Soup

It's not that it's New Year's Day and I'm all full of resolutions and goals and dreams and visions (although I am)--that's not why I decided to make this soup today. The reason I did it is because...well, a while back I had Panera's 10 million vegetable soup, and pretty much became obsessed with it. It was delicious, and healthy (although the various other Panera goodies I inhaled at the same time probably undermined its healthy benefits). I've been meaning to make an inferior imitation of this soup for a while, and today has been the first time in a while that I made a point to slow down and cook something for myself.

So yeah, maybe that it's New Year's does have something to do with it. Whatever.

I chose this recipe from Hummus Sapien, and stuck (mostly) to it. Rather than put in two medium potatoes, I just put in one large one. I did throw in some broccoli and cauliflower, and probably was too wussy with the seasonings. And also--sorry, y'all, I just do not keep bay leaves laying around my apartment. Call it a moral failing of mine, if you will. 

Verdict? It turned out pretty damned delicious! And with plenty left over for the next couple of days. One thing that was missing was a crusty loaf of bread. I know what I'm picking up at the store tomorrow!

Only after I was done cooking the damned thing, when I happened to peep into the fridge, did I realize that I forgot to throw in the zucchini and orange pepper I had picked up for this purpose. This was just as well, as the pot was pretty much at capacity. If I want to add more vegetables in the future...well...We're gonna need a bigger dutch oven.

I'd like to try another couple of recipes before I call this my ride-or-die vegetable soup, but it certainly was a satisfying dinner on this chilly New Year's Day.

Tradition. It's a word I sometimes shy away from--perhaps because there are some connotations with that word that I don't like. I'm a wee bit worried that, if I say I enjoy the concept of traditions, the next thing I know, people will think I'm a conservative James Dobson follower, grumbling about gender fluidity, and planning an annual fox hunt with my fellow friends who "focus on the family".

Well, I'm not a conservative, not anymore, not by any stretch. And I guess I suppose that traditions and progressive life styles are not necessarily mutually exclusive. There are lots of traditions I enjoy--harmless ones, I hope, and usually ones that my family and friends and I have cooked up. Late Night Margarita Party with my sisters on Thanksgiving Night, for example. Visiting my friends in Indy right before Christmas and making rumballs and watching Hallmark Christmas movies, at least somewhat ironically. Busting open our fortune cookies all at one time, then taking turns reading our fortunes and adding on, "in bed." Greeting my cats with a cheerful curse the moment I come home.

One more...uh...traditional tradition that I absolutely love: Sunday dinner with the family. For several years when I was growing up, my grandparents and I were good church-goin' folks, and from time to time, after church, we'd have a lovely lunch/early dinner. It just seems like a good thing to do with your family on Sundays, whether or not you go to church or not.

As an adult--and one who lives rather far from most of her still-living family--I don't have an opportunity to do this very often. So, sometimes (although not as often as I would like, alas) I manage to wrangle an invitation to come have a Sunday dinner with my uncle and aunt. It's always a lovely little event, because my aunt and uncle are lovely, warm people, and seeing them, catching up with them, is such a pleasure.

So this last Sunday, after a long day in the library mines, I took myself over to their home to indulge in this lovely tradition. And every moment of it was lovely--even the drive is a bit special, for they live 'way out in the country, and I have to journey past prosperous little farms, around lonely old graveyards, and through the woods (alas, no river) to reach their home, at the end of a long, winding, sun-dappled road.

Before I headed into the house, I paused to admire the many butterflies flitting about. Not for the first time, I promised myself that one day, I'd hunker down and learn more about the flora and fauna and insects of the region.

Then, into the house to see Darling Uncle (Duncle) and Aunt Jo. We hugged. We talked. We caught up, caught up on local gossip. We ate dinner--quiche, salad, green beans and potatoes; much of the meal came from Jo's garden. We sat on the sun porch and watched the evening wildlife go by. At one point, a buck with magnificent antlers meandered through the backyard, on his way to somewhere else--probably to get shot by one of the neighbors who like to hunt. Eventually, we walked out into the yard, and my aunt showed me her produce and recounted the trials of the current growing season (this year, voles appear to be the scourge of the neighborhood.) My aunt, an extraordinarily kind woman, spent a considerable amount of time urging me to bring fresh basil, tomatoes, and cucumbers home with me.

Eventually we headed back inside to the sunporch and continued talking until the long summer twilight had almost drawn to a close and almost the only illumination came from the fireflies starting to light up with their gentle, ephemeral twinkles. It was time to head back into town, and so, reluctantly, I bade my family goodnight.

It's silly. We live in the same town, and I don't see Duncle and Jo nearly enough. But still--seeing them once a month, or even every two months, is far better than once a year, when I lived in California. There, I didn't have the opportunity to enjoy these Sunday dinner traditions with my family very often. I still don't have the opportunity, often enough--but who knows? Maybe I'm more likely to value this tradition when it occurs less frequently. Too many times in my life, I have taken things for granted. And this Sunday family dinner tradition is something that I never intend to squander again.

Dreamtime with the Indy Grrl: Where Freedom Lies

"Her freedom is her chains."

This morning I awoke, as reluctantly as usual, but with a more unusual sense of disorientation. I had been dreaming, intensely, right before I awoke, and my dream was populated with very real people, very relevant situations, very intense emotions. And someone said something about someone else right at the end of the dream, and it lingered far more than any of the complicated emotions that cluttered my mind. "Her freedom is her chains."

Even as I shook off the last of my sleep and started to face the day, I knew two things: one, that this sentence was, although technically sound, also grammatically awkward; and two, that they hadn't been talking about someone else, not really. 

They had been talking about me. 

The momentum of the day and its usual concerns carried me forward--answering emails, planning a training session, dousing potential dumpster fires, attending meetings, trying not to look vaguely insane--and really, working on a future schedule was enough to knock the lingering grip of the dream from my overtaxed brain. But tonight, at home, as I sat on the deck, enjoying the summer evening and knitting with my cats and my wine and Welcome to Night Vale, I found myself going down an unexpected road in my mind. 

Ten years ago, right around this time, I was falling in love with my future husband (now "was-band") and starting to dig in for what I thought would be a marriage and a life in the deserts of Southern California. I was harnessing myself to that wagon, committing myself to the vision of a life as a wife and partner and stepmother and stunted librarian and fish out of water. I gave it my best at the time, but my best wasn't very good, nor was it very long-lasting. But I was chained to my life, my partner, my work, my commitments, my vision of what things should be like, and I was bound to my reluctance to reveal myself as a failure.  I became not particularly happy, but at no point did I pause to think that maybe in remaining in my prison, in choosing to hold on to that unhappiness, I was making those around me unhappy as well. 

Four years ago, right around this time, I was breaking free from that self-constructed prison. Emancipation wasn't quick or clean or easy, but at no point did I deviate from the end goal of divorce and returning to my roots. So many times--especially on relentlessly hot, sunny, lonely Sunday afternoons--my hopes faltered, and I would entertain fears that I would never escape, would never be free.

And then, the freedom came. A new job, a cross-country move, a divorce, a "room of my own", another new job that stretched and challenged me in new, exciting ways. I'm definitely free now; my time is my own; I choose my own company (and perhaps, more than I should, choose no company.) I grow older, possibly more of a loner. Definitely more independent, less eager to surround myself with people or plans that aren't to my liking. 

In short, I am reveling in my freedom. And this morning, I awoke to a strange echo of a fear that I didn't know existed, and who knows? Maybe it was just a dream. Or...maybe...alternatively...am I becoming too free? Too entrenched in my own life and preferences, and therefore limited by it?

Imprisoned by it? Chained to it?

Or maybe whatever path we choose in this life is a prison. Even freedom.