It's Not Always About You

 Because I am the way that I am*, oftentimes my very first reaction to a situation involving another person who is angry/short-tempered/impatient/silent, or who otherwise responds in a way that I do not expect, is: they must hate me/not care about me/OH GOD I'VE DONE SOMETHING WRONG. It's a knee-jerk response over which I have no control -- that cold-water sensation of embarrassment, followed by a protective withdrawing into myself. Run. Hide. If left unchecked, the feeling quickly devolves into self-critical analysis: I'm so needy/awkward/STUPID/much. That's just one stop away from self-loathing. And I don't want to go there, because that's a rabbit-hole from which it's hard to escape. 

Plus, I'm not THAT terrible. I don't think. 

I have spent a fair amount of time over the past few years making an effort to be cognizant of that first reaction, and when I spot it, to deliberately step back and think more carefully about the situations. Is it really about me?

And I've come to the determination that most of the time, it's not about me at all. 

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My default setting is an assumption that people will say what they mean and mean what they say. That's an erroneous assumption on my part, however, and one that I would do well to let go. People are just not that clear. 

Why are people unclear? Because I cannot see their whole picture. 

Everyone comes into every small moment bearing not only their current state of mind, but also all of their history, both large and small. All kinds of Life going on. And only a tiny fraction of anyone's previous stories includes anything having to do with me. Yet I find it very hard to put myself in someone else's shoes -- it does not come naturally to me to imagine someone's current mood/projects/situations, plus to bear in mind their history, when trying to comprehend what they are saying or doing. 

So the important thing to remember: I'm only a main character in my own life. I'm a peripheral character, at best, in most other people's lives. I probably don't even have a name in the vast majority of others' metaphorical movies. And so I don't need to take things personally, because things are just plain not about me. 

If people are abrupt at work, they are probably stressed by deadlines and projects and want to impart information quickly and efficiently. They are probably not thinking, you are so stupid. 

If they don't want to have a meal with me? Probably busy thinking about all the 8,000 tasks that they hope to accomplish that day. Probably not thinking with you? Ew, no. 

If they don't answer a call/text/email? Probably in the midst of Stuff. Probably not rolling their eyes and thinking ugh, she is so needy, IGNORE. 

Repeat the mantra: it's not about me.

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Perhaps I should go back to my assumption that people will say what they mean and mean what they say, and try to make that work. It may require my asking additional, occasionally uncomfortable questions: did you mean, X? Are you OK? Is Y a problem? What is going on, really?

That strategy might backfire, though. If someone is in a hurry or bent out of shape for miscellaneous reasons or otherwise preoccupied, more questions won't be particularly helpful. I don't want to make anyone's life harder, or to occupy mental space they don't have at the moment. 

Perhaps I'll just resort to wordlessly offering Grace: an assumption that my exuding kindness, patience, and most of all, not-about-me-ness, is what people need most. And I can return the favor if I am ill-tempered or crabby, by letting other people know: I'm just having a moment. it's not about you. Perhaps that will make everyone's life a little easier. 

Let's see what we can do. 

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* The way that I am: anxiously attached (whether anxious-ambivalent or anxious-avoidant, may vary from day to day). 

Scrabble

 Over the years, we have honed our Scrabble skills. Mine are still inferior, but are improving slowly.

Game one:

288 to 270 (his win)

Game two:

360 to 375 (my win)

Game three, the tiebreaker:

360 to 344 (his win)

(yes, his win, despite my having played 

a 152-point word on my very first move)

If I were asked why I like my Friend as much as I do, one very short answer -- which is both literally and metaphorically apt -- would be:

Because he plays an excellent game of Scrabble.

Kayak

 From Oceanside.

Is this what contentment looks like?

Lovely.

Corny

It's been a long time since I've made muffins. I can't even remember when the last time was. Once upon a time, though, I would make muffins regularly, to bring with me to sparring class for taekwondo. Seems like a lifetime ago. 

This morning, though, I decided I would try a simple recipe: sweet corn muffins. Light, fluffy, just a hint of butter and honey. They turned out well. Especially, I think, since I used the ghosts-and-jack-o'lanterns muffin tin. Festive!

Trying to get back to doing the things that I once used to enjoy doing. And to find some new things, perhaps, along the way. 

Pegasus Unicorn

 Discussion of medical issues today. You have been warned!

I had a follow up appointment today to check on progress from the recent surgery. I'd mentally prepared myself as best possible, knowing that the doctor would need to do a physical exam. And honestly, I am not certain whether I, or my doctor, was more concerned about how my healing was going. He spoke to me first before the exam, to be sure I was comfortable with the idea of an exam, and he explained how he had gone to a continuing medical education course specifically relating to one of my issues, because of me. He filled me in on what he had learned and how we would change my treatment plan if the current regimen proves to be insufficient. 

It was kind of endearing, honestly, to know that he voluntarily took these extra steps to ensure he is providing me the best possible treatment. After being my doctor for over twenty-five years, he knows well that my assortment of issues makes me a sort of pegasus unicorn medically, and he went out of his way to take a specialty class in unicorn management. Good for him. Good for me. And good for any other unusual patients, especially unicorn patients, or even -- if she exists -- another pegasus unicorn.

I did my best not to flinch during the exam (and pretty much failed at that), but I was able to relax enough for him to take a good look and proclaim delightedly that "things look great!" I could hear the genuine relief in his voice. We then had a discussion of the very specific details of my anatomy and the use of the prescribed medications, and scheduled another follow-up for two months from now to see whether the discomfort I am still experiencing has further improved. He seems optimistic. That's good.

As I walked to my car, I realized that my jaw hurt from clenching my teeth, and I had to make a conscious effort to allow the stress to drain out of my body. I thought about the treatment plan, especially about the fact that I really do need to gather my wherewithal, get a mirror, and take a good look at everything myself. That way I will know what exactly the new-and-improved situation is, and can ensure that I'm following the treatment plan correctly. 

I don't really want to look. But it does not behoove me to be a coward.

-----

As I drove back to work, I heard echoes in my head of follow-up appointments from eons ago: those six-week appointments after delivery of a baby, when I awaited the same "things look good!" reassurance from the doctor. That anticipated-and-dreaded blessing to resume... activities. Those were tricky times -- weeks of gingerly parking my exhausted self on a donut pillow with a needy nursing newborn, feeling touched-out by children, wanting to be held and simultaneously to be left alone, wondering if I could ever feel amorous again. 

When permission was eventually granted postpartum for me to use my undercarriage as I saw fit, I had to summon all the courage to begin anew once more. Healing and moving forward takes time, and patience, and a certain amount of tender care -- both physical and emotional. Then (as now) I was afraid. The line between pleasure and pain, always so fine. Was it desire that quickened the pulse, or was it fear? Or perhaps a little of both? 

As these reminiscences flowed, Paloma Faith's "Only Love Can Hurt Like This" came on the radio. So very apt, in both a literal and metaphorical way.

Only love can hurt like this
But it's the sweetest pain
Burning hot through my veins
Love is torture
Makes me more sure
Only love can hurt like this

Only time will tell whether I will be brave.

 

All That

 A little bit about body issues today. You have been warned!

Let's talk a little about something slightly strange/unusual that bookended the trip to Oceanside. It involves... being Visible. 

Incident One happened en route from the Oceanside airport to Cherished Friend's abode. We were in some fairly standard evening traffic, and while slowed down, a nondescript Jeep driven by a middle-aged man pulled up alongside us.  I generally pay very little attention to other drivers, but this one was -- how can I put it? -- making eyes at me. Positioning his Jeep in his lane so as to get a better look. 

What the everloving hell? 

Incident Two happened the last evening I was in Oceanside. We were walking back to the car after dining in a restaurant, going up the ramp into the parking garage, and a middle-aged man was walking down the ramp. Even I, as oblivious as I generally am, had the distinct feeling that he was... ogling me. 

Good Gravy!

There is not much disguising my cup size, this we know. But, as that sound byte on TikTok goes, "am I showing OFF my boobs? Or do I just HAVE boobs, and exist?"  I, and my boobs, clearly Just Exist.

Let's contextualize further: neither time was I wearing anything particularly revealing (and the man of Incident One couldn't even see much of me except for what was visible through the car window) or noteworthy. I'm doing my best to keep my "I turned 55" haircut done properly, but beyond that and occasional lipstick, there's not a whole lot going on here. 

I'm accustomed to moving through life unnoticed. So why, when I have felt invisible for YEARS, were strange men of Oceanside perceiving me?

It was disconcerting. 

-----

I'm struggling with middle-aged-body-image issues right now, exacerbated by the very unpleasant recent surgery and the ongoing chronic migraine pain and the extra pounds that I have not shed despite (albeit mediocre) efforts. When I turned 55, I inwardly decided that my Last F*ckable Day had passed, and resigned myself to Crone-dom: be neat and tidy and dress reasonably well, and don't expect any attention, because Those Days Are Gone. (Let it go. But don't let yourself go.)

I was more or less OK with that. So I don't know how to fit these two Incidents into the whole picture.

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In Days Of Yore when I was young and thin and shapely and taut, my female peers and I would talk about being desired for our brains --  to be wanted for our intelligence, our thoughts, our emotions, our selves, independent of the bodies in which we resided. That was the goal: to be completely loved, for what was inside as well as outside. 

Then time passed and I left my thirties (and then my forties) in the rear-view mirror, and everything gradually flipped on its head. I know now that my ability to work capably (on the whole) in mentally-rigorous fields is appreciated; that's gratifying. Society's emphasis on youth and beauty, though, dies hard: now I (and my female peers too, I would imagine, though we are too busy to spend time talking of such trifles) want to do it all, while somehow still being sexy. 

Realistically: that's not achievable. 

Isn't it? Is it?

And what do I really want, anyway?

I am not sure. 

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Perhaps I should just put the Incidents into a box labeled "Occasionally Visible," and leave it all at that. I don't have the wherewithal to contemplate the complexities further right now. 

I have to go blow dry my hair. 

Limbo

 The trip to and from Oceanside requires flights with a stopover -- it's very difficult to get directly from the Desert to anywhere else. The trip out to Oceanside was mercifully uneventful. The trip back, however, has been a bit... complex. And is still ongoing. 

The first leg of the flight was fine; the bad weather had not yet arrived in the stopover city.  It blundered in shortly after the plane landed, however, and then things devolved. The three-hour layover was sprinkled liberally with gate change notifications (I think there were ultimately about a dozen); when the intended plane finally arrived, there was further delay while there was "mechanical work" performed. Then decisions were made somewhere, a different plane was identified for use, and a full terminal change was announced. The hopeful passengers moved en masse through the airport, like salmon hopefully swimming upstream: up the escalator, onto the tram, off three stops later in the new terminal. The flow of people slowed and idled at the new gate. As we waited, the giant sign over the gate unexpectedly and unceremoniously changed to CANCELLED. 

Oh, dear.

I wasn't speedy enough in the airline app on my phone to nab the one last available seat on a different flight later that afternoon. The best I could do was accept the rebooked flight the following day (today). Plan B took shape. I had a thoroughly mediocre meal at the airport, figured out a nearby hotel that was neither too expensive nor too seedy, and inwardly marveled at the submachine-gun-toting police officers patrolling the outside of the terminal while I used a rideshare app to arrange transportation to the hotel. I checked in, verified the time for the airport shuttle the next day, found my surprisingly spacious room, and shoved the coffee table in front of the locked door for good measure. Slept like a rock. Exhausted.

It's now the crack of dawn here in limbo-land. Windy, but the rain has left. Dark outside still. 

The new plane doesn't leave until this afternoon, so I am left with ample time. These hours should be well-spent processing the visit to Oceanside, here in the quiet, propped up on fluffy pillows of a king-size bed in a city In Between. Yet it is difficult to do so. There is so much. And so much of the so much is made of ordinary moments: strolling, sitting, Scrabble-ing, talking. It seems almost surreal -- a life briefly stepped into for a few days. (Where does my regular life go during that time? I do not know.) I have been trying to recall all the tiny pieces and affix them somehow in the Oceanside box in my brain. 

Inevitably, as with my last trip to Oceanside several months ago, I encounter in my mental review a minute moment that sticks, larger than life, and encapsulates the visit. The sight of a fish jumping out of the water. The sound of a squirrel rustling in a tree. The scent of the ocean on the breeze. The texture of the handmade blanket adorning the back of a couch. And I try to weave a spell around that moment, to save it for use as a Patronus. The spell must be strong, though, because the moment is strong and will threaten to be overpowering if it is not protected properly. I touch it in memory only for a microsecond here and there, long enough to become used to it without being burned. And the spell becomes complete. 

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The ultimate lesson, I think, is to take the magical ordinariness of a visit to Oceanside, and to apply that same lens to review my everyday, regular life. Can I find minuscule moments to form as additional Patronuses, in between the mundane of laundry and grocery shopping and cleaning the rabbits' litter boxes and the eight thousand pieces of paper at work? Can I make the ordinary into something magical every day? Appreciate all of the things -- and all of the people -- in a new way? Make my entire life uniquely enchanted?

Imagine how marvelous that would be.

It's time to try.