Frog

Found this on Facebook. Weird, but poignant. (I would leave out the "You have to try" though, because no, you don't. You just have to be. That is enough.)

Turtles

Herself speaks.

The community where my parents live is really lovely this time of year: leaves turning on the trees, yet still-green areas, with the water, the fountain, the turtles sunning themselves. There is a gently-sloping pathway along which to walk easily (either with our without a mobility aid), with plenty of benches for sitting and resting. If I lived in this community, I would take this walk and sit on a bench often.

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I'm struggling a little bit with emotions right now as we try to navigate my father's limited remaining time. I know what my emotions are and can name them; but what I cannot actually do, is feel all of them. Some of them come easily: compassion, patience. Some of them I cannot give voice to: anticipatory grief, for example. Part of me rationalizes that feeling those particular stifled Feelings does not actually change the situation, so it is not helpful to do so. Another part of me knows that it's not useful in the long run to squash down or deny the existence of those Feelings, so I should find a safe place and time to actually attend to them. 

I have reached an age (or stage) in life when I am not comfortable with feeling Feelings in front of other people. I don't want to be a burden. I especially don't want to be vulnerable. (This could be why, despite my recently-professed desire to make additional friends, I haven't made attempts to do so for ages.) Perhaps someday, I will be brave enough to do so. 

For now, I will ask the turtles to keep me company, while I contemplate All The Things.

Aspiration, Thwarted

 Herself speaks.

My aspiration was: after visiting my parents, I would swing Oceanside for a few days and visit my Cherished Friend before returning to my desert land. It's been about six months since I've last seen him. Far too long since the last time (but shorter, at least, than the nearly two years between the time when he left that corner of the desert and moved Oceanside, and my first visit), but I do the best I can. Work and Aging Relatives and Plague and Things have necessitated that I not gallivant across the country as often as I would have liked.

Fate has intervened, however, in the form of Hurricane Ian, and what was to be the day I flew into Oceanside, is now expected to be the day that Ian makes landfall right there. So no. Aspirations squashed. Flights cancelled, plans rearranged. Another time. 

I am disappointed. But unsurprised, because Life is this way. 

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I am reminded once more of my need to make additional friends. 

It would have been helpful, as I made the decision to postpone the trip to Oceanside, to be able to elicit sympathetic words from someone who understood how I had been looking forward to that sojourn and to spending time in the comforting and enjoyable presence of Cherished Friend. (Not something I feel I can say to him -- it is no doubt awkward and uncomfortable to try to say something supportive to someone who misses you. And I especially don't want to foist Feelings upon him.) 

There is the additional consideration that visiting my parents right now, as my lovely father grows frail and we all prepare for his inevitable journey to the Grey Havens, is emotionally fraught as well. I find myself wanting a hug, a consoling word, some thoughtful questions to help me parse my feelings. I do not want to weigh down any one person with the task of listening or holding my metaphorical hand in this time. If I had more friends, I could distribute the burden among them, and it would be easier for me (and them) to bear. 

What is the roadblock to friendship? Friends require give and take; friendship cannot be one-sided. Yet at this moment in time, my ability to give beyond what I already do is extremely limited. I have need, but I can only provide in limited amounts. And that is not a fair friendship. I am not comfortable offering so little to people, and I am afraid of people wanting more than I can give. I do not want people who try to rely on me, to end up disappointed. 

And so, I fold in on myself. I am Queen of Doing What Must Be Done. I will do The Hard Things, and carry my own burdens. One foot in front of the other. 

Yet, I will still work on putting in place more Aspirations, including an aspiration to find (and make) time with people with whom I can be contented. Because we all deserve a little happiness. Don't we? Even me. 

One day at a time. I'll get there. 

And Bird

Well done again, Facebook ads. These are excellent. 

Duck

Well done, Facebook ads. This is hilarious, and I would actually consider purchasing it.

Dog Company

Harbor

Festive

One of the local grocery stores has decorated the pick-up spots.  A tiny part of me thinks, isn't it a bit early for Halloween decorations? That tiny part is very quickly drowned out by a louder voice that says, the past two and a half years have been SO DIFFICULT, let's let people have a shred of joy and decorate however and whenever they like.

Happy (early) Halloween!

Facebook Clothing Follies

Facebook ads have LOST THEIR COLLECTIVE MINDS.

I could not even figure out the first item. That is, apparently, a dress.

Oh, Facebook. You have my birthday. You know I'm in my 50s. Why on earth would I put any of these on my middle-aged body? Not a soul wants to see that. Especially me. 

Not in a Million Years

SWEET EVERLOVING MOSES, FACEBOOK. I didn't even mention my recent gynecologically-related surgery on your platform, why OH WHY are you presenting me with ads for nethers-shaving-equipment?  GOOD GRAVY. 

Ad-wise, I think I prefer the one that uses the correct anatomical term over the colloquial "hoo-ha". Just because. 

But NO. No, thank you.  

Emma

Poignant: the Queen's pony, Emma -- with one of the Queen's kerchiefs across the saddle -- watching the funeral procession. 

Pair

Cookie is a stereotypical frat boy, enamored of casual destruction and troublemaking through "here, hold my beer" type antics. Nevertheless, the tender, chivalrous love he has for his companion Poppy redeems him quite a bit.

The Snack Aisle

 Last weekend, Beloved Husband and I took a trip to the big box store to buy mass quantities of various things. As we roamed back and forth, we encountered a brief people-traffic jam in one of the snack food aisles: there was a group of three people toward one end, and one of them, a young (no more than 25, likely younger) woman, was momentarily standing in the middle of the aisle since had not noticed the people trying to slide past. She did eventually become aware of all of us and stepped out of the way so everyone could move forward. 

As we cleared the snack aisle, I heard a man who had just passed through that aisle say to the woman he was with, "she shouldn't be in the snack aisle." It was a clear reference to the weight of the young woman who had momentarily blocked traffic.

Oh, no. So much no.

I wanted to shout: WE DO NOT COMMENT ON OTHER PEOPLE'S BODIES. I was not comfortable shouting about manners in the big box store, though. Not ready to make a fuss, especially since the young woman (likely) did not hear the statement. Let it go.

---

To hear such a flippant criticism of a stranger's body was both shocking and totally unsurprising. Society has conditioned everyone to think that women, especially young women, should be thin; if they are not slim, it means they are lazy, slovenly, excessively-snack-y, and that strangers -- especially men -- are entitled to comment on it, to 'call them out', to make sure they and everyone else around them are all aware that the woman has failed to meet societal standards. 

What does it matter? People are entitled to exist, to be in public places, to live regardless of their body size. Body size is not a moral issue. Fat is morally neutral. 

Also: this young woman was of middle size -- my size, perhaps. And, like that young woman no doubt, I am painfully aware that I do not meet societal expectations of thinness and beauty. Should I just not go out? Why should I feel as though I have to justify my existence in this particular body? Or as though I have to render myself smaller, more invisible, somehow less in order to just be? 

During the drive to the big box store, I had explained to Beloved Husband how I always feel bad about myself when I talk with an absolutely lovely woman I know about her marathon running. Not because she is braggy -- to the contrary, she is humble about her achievements and ever-encouraging to others -- but because I feel as though I could do more, be better. Which translates to, be thinner in my head. 

And then, there was the snack food aisle woman situation. And I understood a little better why I feel the way I do: we cannot escape the judgement of others. Even in the big box store. 

I will probably always be somewhat overweight. I will never be conventionally attractive, especially now that I have reached the mature age of 55. I will have to adjust accordingly: accept myself, and take no bullshit from strangers, if it is directed at me. 

Onward we go. 

Follow-up

Potential TMI alert: body issues. You have been warned!

I had my first post-op follow-up today. In all honesty, I was sweating it a little bit because I was not sure whether I was physically or emotionally ready for an exam. Fortunately, though, it was just a conversation with the doctor about the procedure, strategy for continued treatment/care, and the scheduling of a much latter second appointment for an exam. Phew.

I did learn a couple of things: first, that the condition I was in, was actually worse than the doctor had thought, necessitating a somewhat longer surgery to address matters. It was, however, successful. Hallelujah.  Second, now that we've corrected much of what was clearly a dysfunctional situation, everything -- even ordinary bodily functions -- feels a little weird. In other words, I'm still a little afraid to pee. 

I still need more healing time, but I'm on the road toward recovery. That's good. 

One day at a time. 

Stuffy

 Herself speaks.

Surgery, however minor, is very difficult to process. It's an authorized intrusion on bodily integrity, and a giving up, however temporary, of control over oneself. It's traumatic, even if it it necessary. ]I have had a few flashbacks/memories of this week's procedure, and I am trying hard to just let them slip over and through my brain and away into the ether. No dwelling on things I could neither control nor change. 

I remember being suddenly aware of a transition from Nothingness to Presence in post-op, without remembering the transition to Nothingness in the first place. The pressure of the oxygen mask on my face and creeping pain from the site. Seeing the blur of the nurse's outline when I opened my eyes just as she removed the mask, and hearing her kind voice after I  involuntarily let out an awakening gasp -- 'Don't cry, you'll get all stuffy.' 

I didn't cry. I didn't want to be stuffy. Or a bother. 

-----

I know that time, careful attention to pain management, and regular use of the necessary medications, will likely yield successful physical recovery. I'm doing what I can to take care of this temperamental body. The question remains, though -- how does one heal the wound to the soul that comes with the surgical process? I'm not sure where to begin.

All I can think is: Don't cry. You'll get all stuffy. 

One day at a time. I'll get better.

Meow Meow

It really is gratifying, the way Offspring the Third's kitties like to spend time near us. 

Good kitties. 

Progress

Feeling a little better. Recovery has been slow going, and I would be more resentful of the difficulties of existing in a middle-aged body that requires more-than-average maintenance, except I am tired, and especially because I know I should be grateful that things are not worse. Because they could indeed be worse. 

I will say, though, that meaningful conversation with one of my Important People today has been restorative to the soul. So I am most definitely grateful for that. 

Ow

I live!

Details later.

I can confirm that the aftermath is as I expected - which is to say, absolutely horrid. I would rather endure another kidney stone than this.

It should improve in a day or two. The longest day (or two) ever.

Wish me luck. 

Bravery

Braveness is not the absence of fear but rather the strength to keep on going forward despite the fear. ― Paulo Coelho

Countdown

 Herself speaks.

If all goes in accordance to plan, tomorrow I will undergo what is (allegedly) a minor surgical procedure to take care of my gynecological medical issues. 

I'm feeling calm, but I am standing on the edge of a slight precipice of panic. The biggest fear is postoperative pain. It shouldn't be too bad, but we all know that my body has a tendency to do things a little differently, so we never know exactly how things will transpire. 

I am declining to spend much time contemplating the remote possibilities: what if the doctor finds something problematic? (The words "biopsy if necessary" have been mentioned more than once.) What if things go... horribly wrong? (How many times is it necessary to ask if I have an advanced directive (yes), or if I've ever had a reaction to anesthesia before (no)? Those questions never instill confidence in proceedings.) Do I need to say profound things today to the people I love, in case I don't have a chance to communicate how much they mean to me later? That seems a bit excessive. It does cross through my mind every time I have surgery, though. 

Let's not think about all that. What will happen, will happen, whether I worry or not. This is low stakes; it should be fine. 

As part of the pre-op appointment, the doctor recited all of my previous surgeries. It's a motley litany, with the bulk of them being gynecological. I'd actually forgotten about one of them, because it was wrapped up with another procedure done concurrently, which dominated the proceedings. And time has taken a toll as well - since the time of my last surgery, I have added (ordinary) medications of middle age. Will they impact how things go? Probably not. 

The body's been through a lot. It tries so hard. It -- and I -- do the best we can. 

Let us hope that all goes fine, and that I am back shortly afterward.

See you soon. 

The Things We Want

Herself speaks.

Disclaimer: These are general ruminations. You may find yourself thinking, "not all men," or "not all people," and you would be correct. I know noteworthy exceptions to the generalizations herein, and I am not speaking of them. As is said in internet parlance, "don't @ me." 

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There's a specific TikTok video floating around right now: in the original video, a very beautiful, tastefully made-up young woman murmurs to the camera to explain how you know that a man likes you, holding up a single finger with a long, immaculately painted nail to her lips for emphasis: "if he asks you how your day was, girl, you're in". 

The video has been stitched numerous times by numerous creators, each of whom pauses to contemplate the woman's statement, and then comments something along the lines of:

The bar is on the floor.

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Here's the thing -- I didn't immediately notice that the woman had said anything controversial. What does that say about my personal expectations?

And next the question arose: what do we, as women, expect from men? Does it differ, if the man is someone a woman is dating? A long-term boyfriend? A platonic friend? A husband? And is "how was your day?" really an apparent indicator of a man's interest in the well-being of a woman?

What do we, as women, expect? Is what we expect different from what we deserve, as suggested by the numerous TikTok creators? If so, how do we "raise the bar" and expect more than, "how was your day?" Then, how do we communicate the level of expectation?  

I get the impression that it is believed to be women's responsibility to train men to meet such expectations. How do we do that? By somehow "rejecting" them when they do not meet the bar? By saying the plain words of I need X or I expect Y or more, over and over again? What do we do when our words are interpreted as "nagging" or criticism, rather than an expression of need? How likely is it that men will in fact notice, or hear, or learn, rather than taking the path of least resistance and doing nothing except what has always suited them? 

When I asked a wise woman I know, why do men not do things, she explained, it is because for men, there are no consequences to doing nothing. 

How do women impart consequences? Are we comfortable doing so, especially with men we love? 

How do women get men to hear what it is that we want? And more than just to hear -- to actually take action? 

----

Perhaps it is my personal stage of being, but I have reached the point where I genuinely try to expect nothing from anyone -- not men, not women, no one. People are who they are, and will do what they do, regardless of what we expect of them.

I am not sure that is the right tactic to take. Perhaps I should try again to explain expectations, and impart consequences. Help people to be better, to do better, and to somehow facilitate what I would like through those strategies. 

Perhaps I am too tired to do that right now. 

The hardest thing, for me, is having hopes and needs that sometimes feel like expectations. It is hard to let go of wants. Yet, I cannot control what other people do, or do not do. 

I do know though, that I can rely on myself. That's a good place to start.