Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Keep Moving

The instructions from my brain - my real brain - the one that governs driving, voting, and laundry, are always the same, be it six in the morning or six at night: Keep moving.

At six in the morning, if I don't keep moving, I'll easily fall back asleep and end up late for work. Oh yes, there will be steps in between: the alarm will go off, every ten minutes, without fail, and I, equally without fail, will sleep through it. Bijou will walk on me, touching velveted paws gently to my arms, my face, in a vain attempt to rouse me, since she knows something is up (or more to the point), something (me) is supposed to be up!

Six at night is nearly the same problem. If I do as my heart tells me, and plunk my bum down firmly on the couch, glass of wine in one hand and remote in the other, my evening is shot. I'll forget to take my evening pills, resulting in uneven sleep; I will drink too much, or too fast, or both; I'll give up on cooking dinner altogether and will pig out on ice cream, and I will not be able to wake up in the morning, and end up late for work.

So the higher brain functions keep blasting me with the same "red alert", be it a.m. or p.m. ...

"Keep moving!"

If I keep moving, I'll do things. If I don't sit down, I can put on a load of laundry. Cook dinner. Boil eggs for tomorrow's lunch. Pay bills. Empty the dishwasher. Get something - anything at all - done.

Because one thing I've learned this past year-and-a-bit, is that it's more fun to do things, than to do nothing.

If I keep ahead of the laundry and the dishwasher, I always have clean dishes to cook dinner in, and I don't spend money I don't have ordering in food, when there's food that I've bought and paid for going bad in the fridge. And I always have underwear, and things to wear I actually enjoy wearing.

If I keep cooking home-made meals, I stand a slightly better chance of controlling my portions, limiting my carbs, and maybe, just maybe, losing some weight. And therefore remaining healthy.

The six o'clock to seven o'clock period is super-critical, at both ends of the day. Tonight, for example, my laundry is now in the dryer, I've eaten dinner, peeled the hard-boiled eggs, soaked the pan the fish was cooked in, and now I'm watching the ballgame with a glass of wine nearby, and it's 7:24 precisely. I can relax now as long as I wish, and I still stand a chance of doing some quilting before having to call it a day. And because I can get some quilting done, I won't have lived a day "for nothing" - I'll have created something, done something beyond cooking and washing and consuming, this day. That will reduce my frustration, help me sleep better.

And tomorrow morning it can start all over again.

I just have to keep moving.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Hello! - Girl?

I am a girl.

I have given up my pretense of being a tomboy, manly, or even gender-neutral.

This has been a tightly-held pretense ever since I was around five years old. I have worked hard to be "one of the guys" all my life. I learned how to play with a reel-to-reel tape recorder a good eight years before I owned a barbie doll. I became an audio-visual technician, learned to sort adaptors according to type and gender (yes, adaptors have a gender: the ones with the sticky-out-thingies are called male, and the one with the holes where those things go are called female - deal with it).

I coiled wires the correct way, the way that doesn't make the wire twist. I learned small repair skills - even learning how to correctly solder wires, and the difference between a good solder joint and a cold-solder joint.

Blah blah blah. It was all for nothing.

I am distinctly female, and I've decided to stop trying to pretend I'm not.

I began with tonight's laundry. I'm sick of bumping into my clothes-drying stand in my bathroom - I took it out and placed it squarely in the middle of my living area.

And now, as I write this, it is holding three panties and six (gasp!) bras.

Take that - you formerly gender-neutral hussy. I wear bras, they're out in the open now, no more hiding them discreetly away...

Away from whom? Just who in the heck have I been trying to hide my bras from, all these years, anyway?! And pantyhose - could someone please explain to me why in god's name I never in all my years hung pantyhose up in the bathroom?

Before tonight, that is.

I guess I'm going through the 52-year-old equivalent of spring fever. Well, after all, tonight IS the equinox: in pagan times people leapt bonfires and cuddled away under oak trees all night long, and I assure you, it wasn't for bible study or prayer meetin'! About an hour ago some fireworks scared Bijou back to the window for a good ten minutes - ah yes, it's fête nationale this week, otherwise known as fête de la saint jean baptiste...

A.K.A., Midsummer's Night - a night to celebrate nature in her fecund beauty, a night to recognize everything earthy and hot and female.

So I find it highly appropriate that I have chosen this night, of all nights, to "come-out" and hang my bras and panties shamelessly in the light, in all their colorful splendour.

I have also just finished coloring my hair, and if I can't get to sleep I'll be doing my nails.

What relentless idiocy - a 52-year-old broad making like such a girl!

Whether idiocy or not, the fact remains that if you're a guy in my life, you will now be bumping into things that have previously been hidden away. When you enter my home, you are entering the cave of a SHE-creature. There will be pinks and lavenders and lilacs strewn everywhere. Turn any corner and you might see an unmentionable: challenge me on it and you might find yourself outside on the street without that sumptuous dinner. Call me an old fool, and you'll be doing it to a ringtone.

There will be flowers.

Vive la différence!

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Not Myself

So, last Saturday morning I headed off to Toronto to visit family and see my wee nephew get baptized. Hubby and I went together on this trip - must have sent a ripple of something through my family member's minds, since Hubby and I are living apart and have been for about a year and a half, and since I have a Boyfriend I've introduced to at least half of them.

In fact, Boyfriend stayed at my place for the weekend to babysit Bijou for me. More than one eyebrow went up when I told 'em that…

The weekend started out fun. Daughter and her Boyfriend lent us their gorgeous new van for the trip, so we rode in total comfort. We could use their GPS, or our own. Hubby spent quite a few moments over the 3 days getting his iPhone to sync with his computer and with the GPS in the van!

I had a bit of a shock when we checked into our motel. Hubby pointed out that it was, after all, a "no-star" motel… See, I was fresh from 2 weekends ago in Ottawa in a 5-star hotel, and I knew we were on a floor where you need to insert your room key into the elevator so it would even go to our floor…but I didn't realize all those nice little amenities were also part of the stars! Two weeks ago, I was treated to shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, mouthwash, even shoe polish!

This weekend, I was greeted by a single bar of soap.

And of course, I hadn't packed any supplies of my own. So this meant that the morning of the baptism, I had to turn up at church having washed my hair with - soap.

While in the shower, I started to wonder when the last time was that I used soap anywhere on my body, let alone my hair. At home, I have specially scented shampoos, rinses, body washes and scrubs of different fragrances and consistencies. The only bar of "soap" I put in my bathroom was given me by Daughter, from her trip to Europe - a vanilla/almond cube originating from La France, no less!

So now I know what all those stars stand for in the hotel/motel rating system: the number of things you have to bring with you!

On to the baptism.

I thought this branch of my family was Anglican. I knew they had put off the wee guy's baptism till their new church was built, but I still thought we were heading into something "normal", something I could handle for about an hour. Something harmless.

Uh-uh. This was "Christian Reform" - as testimonial-filled, rock-band-led, flag-waving, emotional-altar-calls as it comes.

Stepdad's only remark was that he found it odd there was no altar.

Instead, there was a stage. With twin HD cameras and screens off to either side, and a state-of-the-art sound system that would be the envy of many a modern theatre. There was a five-piece rock band setup, complete with monitor speakers and a protective shield for the drum set, so it couldn't be accidentally knocked over by enthusiastic worshippers.

Enter the band, led by the slightly long-haired, and of course, bearded guy, and finally the preacher, a man whose voice would rival that of Saruman the White. Clearly born and groomed to the life of a tele-evangelist, clearly at home on the big screen, clearly in his element.

The congregation mostly between 20 and 40 - we were definitely among the oldest people in the room. This was a young person's church, lots of energy here, and definitely no room for doubt or negativity.

Stepdad had told me there was to be more than one baptism - there were seven in all, and eleven testimonials. ELEVEN! Not even Billy Graham had eleven people tell their stories in a Sunday morning service!

Three children received the "children's" baptism - where the preacher scoops up the water and wets their heads. My sweet little nephew had opted for baptism by immersion, along with several of the adults. What a brave little guy! Even though I'd been squirming in my seat the whole 90 minutes leading up to this, I couldn't help but admire the sheer boldness of the little fellow. "Good for him," I thought, and "god help him" as well.

His mom, my sister-in-law, spoke to me about their choice of church the next morning, and was truly shocked at my interpretation of what I'd seen. I could have wept, I wanted to say so much: but I held most of it back because their choice was working for them. Just as "you can't put an old head on young shoulders," there just didn't seem to be any point in sharing my fears or experience with her. Hopefully, with a little bit of luck, none of the brainwashing will wound her or her children, or her husband. With a little luck, it could just be "church" for them.

Don't think I sat quietly through the "show", though. Every nerve in my body was screaming for me to get up and yell at everyone, to express my rage in some très dramatic fashion. To throw myself down on the floor, livid with rage, to damage myself and anything I could get my hands on, to the point where either they'd cast some devils out of me or accuse me of speaking in tongues.

Only Hubby's tight grip on my hand and sarcastic observations whispered in my ear helped me to stay calm and live through the experience, plus my determination that my personal difficulties should not ruin my nephew's day.

Part of me wished with all my heart that my mother were still alive, to hear her say afterwards, "It was lovely, wasn't it?" the way she used to. Part of me was glad she was dead, and didn't have to sit through it, since her experience of religion basically mirrored mine. Part of me wished I could somehow summon up the guts to say "it was lovely" and leave it at that.

But I did get through it, though it took all my self-restraint - and a good deal of Hubby's imposed restraint - to get me there. Hubby was also quick to point out that this kind of thing is very attractive to young couples who live in instant "communities" that are really only building developments. Where there isn't any history to ground you to a place, a church like that creates its own feeling of community, instant friendships, ready-made playgroups for the kids.

Why should I spoil my sister-in-law's satisfaction with her church by warning her of the carefully-masked misogyny, the subtle pressure to conform that comes from this kind of worship. I only hope she still welcomes me as family - I've been banished from more than one person's life because of my refusal to "convert". Try disagreeing with someone at Bible Study. Try saying "I don't believe that" and see how long your new friends continue to socialize with you. Try watching your children fall away from you because of your doubts, listening instead to the hundreds of other people's voices that are calling you "backslidden". Because there is always balance, you see. Nothing is ever as completely pleasant as it seems. There is Yin, and there is Yang. In every system.

What a nightmare. It certainly shook me up. All the more for being completely unexpected.

And somewhere along the line, I picked up a bug. (Hubby's joke: "Going to church weakened your immune system!") I missed an entire week of work, and only now am beginning to take notice of my surroundings after three entire days in bed hovering on the edge of a 103° fever.

For two nights in a row, Hubby drove over to my place, bought me groceries, entertained me so I wouldn't feel totally desolate.

So of course, since I'm at basically rock-bottom, I'm questioning my life and my choices. Wondering what I'm doing in a basement apartment (at my age) when I have a loving Husband I could go home to at any moment. Wondering if my life was so unbearable after all, when I found myself drinking so I wouldn't have to interact with any of them.

And that thought rang a bell, reminded me of something…

I've now gone seven full days without a drop of liquor.

And three full days without coffee.

Seven days also without my computer, or contact with any friends. Three days completely indoors, huddled under the duvet for warmth.

No wonder I'm just not myself.