Haiku! (Gesundheit.)

Golden leaves flutter

Across an empty field, like

A storm of butterflies.

This is the picturesque view through Boyfriend's patio doors. I am staying out here in the boondocks this week in an effort to recover from my latest depressive episode that has once again flattened me and removed me from the workforce.

(If you can call my trifling 3-day week a "force," that is.)

I've heard all the comments several times before. "I'd like a job like yours." "I'd like a doctor like yours." "Where do I sign up?"

But I don't think anybody really wants to sign up for this crippling set of symptoms. Sure, we'd all love a month off for "free" sometimes.

But it's not free - that's the problem. I've already paid the toll, and it's going to take me a month to recover.

Now, I'm as lazy as the best of them. Given a chance to snooze in extra long on a weekend, I'll happily roll over and stretch in the sun! A day where I don't get dressed is as therapeutic for me as it is for anyone.

Provided I have a choice in the matter, of course.

What's different is that I went to roll out of bed and get showered and dressed, only to discover that a work crew had been there overnight and methodically removed access to the shower and my clothes. I could not get to them. Someone had taken a jack-hammer to all the floors in my world, and there was only rubble to crawl over, from the safety of the bed to the safety of the couch. Even the coffee maker had grown in proportion to everything else, and to turn it on required a herculean effort. It was in pieces, for one thing, a puzzle I did not feel qualified to fit together properly. And with lack of morning coffee came lack of morning anything, and it was suddenly afternoon and I hadn't eaten anything, nor had I showered and dressed. I was back where I began. Nothing started, nothing accomplished. Not even simple grooming.

That's the difference, see. I don't have a choice whether I'm in this club or not. I didn't sign up for anything, but here I am.

"Work expands to fill the time available." That's Parkinson's Law - C. Northcote Parkinson, to be exact. My dad had the book when I was a kid. I would read bits of it from time to time, I seem to remember it was funny.

See, it's one thing to be healthy and to take time off, goof off, for a day, or a month, if one can afford. To let a day's work become two or even three day's. But it's quite another matter if you're unable to do anything for a day, or a month, however long the disability lasts. Where it can take you a month to do that day's work because you can't wrap your head around it, because the world has become an obstacle course where every step is a struggle, every movement precarious.

So I was pleasantly surprised this morning to see a cloud of leaves being blown across the field outside, looking for all the world like the butterflies of summer even though it's freezing now. A small gift from Life, a sign of hope. Contained in the dead leaves of autumn are the beautiful wings of spring. It will be warm again.

Impromptu

Okay - I have 25 minutes to write this blog. Twenty-four and a half... Yes, I'm coloring my hair. I am going to spend 25 minutes wrapped in a cloud of peroxide that makes me gag and causes my eyes to water. And for what? So I can look younger?

Have you ever noticed that just about the time your hair is driving you nuts for whatever reason, you suddenly get compliments on it? This happens to me all the time. At yesterday's Thanksgiving get-together, everybody gave me compliments on my hair. Now, it has outgrown its last trim and is now a shapeless mess. I had been obliged to spend nearly 45 minutes drying and brushing and twisting and finally spraying it into shape. This is not what I consider to be a good time!

Right up to five minutes ago, my "roots" were nearly 3 inches long. I could see these roots because my Darling Daughter somehow got me to take leave of my senses this summer and go blonde again. My natural color is a dark grey.

I kid you not. I once had a stylist take all her colors out and tell me what my natural color is. She said, "If your hair was fabric or wool and you made a suit out of it, it would be a dark grey suit."

Not "Ash-blonde." Dark grey.

So I thought I was doing fine, keeping my hair tinted a fairly dark color. But my Daughter (who is a natural blonde) bemoaned it constantly, saying wouldn't I like to try blonde for a change.

Oh, the years of memories that brought back! My Grandmother colored my hair blonde from the time I was seven years old till I was 19. She denied it vehemently. She'd be there, standing over me, putting the dye in, and from where I sat I could read the packaging that said "Hair Coloring" - and she'd still say "I'm not coloring it - I'm conditioning it."

Gotta hand it to Gran - she could have been a politician!

Anyway, it desperately needs a trim, the summer's golden hue has turned slightly brassy, the dark grey roots are 3 inches long, and it was time to finally drag out yet another bottle to help me cover my shame.

I'm going for dark blonde this time. Clairol number 106, to be exact.

I do not expect my Daughter to like it, since it's rather dark, as blondes go. But I'm hoping to get to Christmas without having to do it again.

The fact is, I'm tired of dying my hair. Just think, in four more years I'll have been coloring it for fifty years! I mean, isn't there a point where you just give up, call a spade a spade, and get on with your life - without the addition of chemicals?

I seem to remember a few years back I did just that for a couple of years. Nobody liked my natural color, either. And then I entered my "red" period.

It makes me real jealous of pussy-cats, who have beautifully-colored luxurious fur all over their bodies. All they have to do is groom themselves to be completely and utterly gorgeous.

That's how I'd like to be. Have beauty built-in.

Not squirted in a smelly mess from a plastic bottle.

Clothing

They say, if you want to be rich, don't take up with anything that has a mouth. I often think they should also say, don't take up with anything that wears clothing.

I have a difficult relationship with clothing. Part of the problem is historical: when I was five years old I was whisked across the country by my dad, who thought he was doing "the right thing." Five years old is when girls and boys get their gender identity fixed in place. I had just begun to play dressup in my mother's crinolines that hung in our basement - can't you just SEE those '50s dresses and their beautiful crinolines?!

But upon being removed from the family home, bereft of mother, I settled upon good old Dad as my role model. I learned to wash my face, once a day, that was that. To brush my hair in the morning and before I went to bed. And to put on whatever clothes got laid out for me. Once my grandma got into the picture, she took over - completely - and I was nineteen before I demanded the right to choose my own clothing. This is from my own closet and drawers mind you - I was twenty before I went to a store and choose something from off the rack!

So I did not experience the primping and wardrobe changes that most girls went through in this culture. The idea that I should, or even could, check my appearance in the mirror more than once a day was a foreign concept to me. I wore a lot of hand-me-downs and never really learned to take any particular joy in dressing up.

From time to time I would try. I did a lot of sewing, most of it rather badly. I was impatient with details like pressing, so what I did end up making was, for the most part, ill-shaped and ill-fitting. I liked it because I made it, and kept hoping that maybe the next thing would fit better, without actually laying out a different plan of action, like, for instance, measuring...

In between these "fits" of sewing I would lose patience altogether and go out to a store and buy something. So my wardrobe "grew" - much in the sense of a tumor or a wart, and with about as much elegance.

Fast forward to about eight years ago when I discovered "What Not to Wear" on tv. Stacey and Clinton, help me! I'm dying here! I don't have a clue!

I did manage to glean a few tips over the years: that a woman with my (full) figure should wear structured garments, (so I don't look like a shapeless blob) for instance. Not to put fancy things up high on my chest, since ruffles and what-not look better on flatter women than I. Much flatter than I.

Since around about that time I was in menopause, I also learned that I'm only truly comfortable in natural fibres. Man-made fibres made me sweat profusely, a very distasteful sensation, I assure you!

Well, I've had it. I want off. The world, the game, the fashion whirl. I'm tired of bras, even the goddess bras that fit me so well. I'm tired of matching colors, of trying to remember to wear some of my jewellery with certain outfits. I'm tired of layering, arranging, and tying. It's just not me.

If I lived in a warmer climate, I could easily become a nudist, or "naturist" as it's popular to call them nowadays. Isn't that funny - there's even a politically correct term for being nekked! Say - I wonder what nudists call the people who wear clothes? Fuzzies? No, wait, that's something else...

But I live in Canada, closer to the Arctic circle than the equator alas! So I'm openly declaring myself to be a pyjama-ist. Long underwear (men's, fyi) and a long-sleeved nightie on top. (You know why I wear men's long underwear? Because it's long enough and it's BIG enough. Men don't put up with uncomfortable clothes - it's a mystery to me why women do.)

I declare my pajama leanings. I want to wear my jammies to work. To go grocery shopping in. Why do I have to put on an uncomfortable set of somethings when I have this perfect pairing available? More of us should go to the supermarket in our jammies. Maybe we could bring world peace.

Objects in Motion

I don't know what physics law it is, or even if it's a law or if it's called something else, but it goes like this:

Objects in motion tend to remain in motion: Objects at rest tend to remain at rest.

I've noticed these tendencies applied to my life. If I get up and get the laundry on, especially if I'm walking to the back of the house to hang it up on my landlady's clothesline, then I seem to also be able to get several other tasks done while all that is happening. I've written before about the necessity of keeping moving in the mornings, especially workday mornings.

Now, I know the law wasn't written about human bodies, but it seems to apply to them well enough. I have yet to see a skinny person lounging on the couch and rarely lifting a hand. And I certainly recall a time when I moved around plenty more than I'm doing these days! And, oddly enough, there's that coincidence that I used to weigh a little less back then as well...

Bu what's been astounding to me recently is the degree to which I can easily settle into a total lack of movement!

I seem to have taken "relaxing after a hard day's work" to catatonic depths! A friend of mine, long ago, gave me a Garfield cartoon depicting the orange tubby in classic repose, with the caption "If I were any lazier, I'd slip into a coma!"

Strikingly and eerily accurate!

Remember how I used to love to entertain? Well, lately, the only cooking I do is for Bijou. I used to say if I wasn't up making cat food, I wouldn't even be cooking for myself. Now I'm NOT even cooking for myself, despite a healthy appetite.

I remember an elderly lady, sort of a relative: the mother of my aunt's husband. Her name was Jean, and she was a wonderful Scottish pearl, of whom I have many pleasant memories. She was friends with my grandparents, and I remember hearing her say, many times when she was living alone, that she would "take a toast and tea" rather than go to the bother of making a full meal for herself. My grandparents would tell her time and again that this wasn't good for her, and I, who loved to eat often and well, would wonder how in the world anyone could do that to themselves.

Well, now I understand what she felt. And, like her, I don't like living alone.

Heck, I married (for the first time) when I was only 21. The ten years I was in-between marriages, raising my Daughter, were exquisitely lonesome, despite all the joy I had from watching her accomplishments. And despite all the mess and noise and total chaos in life with Hubby, it was, at least, company. (We get along much better now that we're not sharing the same space.)

Much as I enjoy having my personal space here in this apartment, it has no history. It was never "home" to anyone I love, or the scene of happy social gatherings like Easter dinners and boxing-day parties. And there is no one here, except the cat, to bother doing anything for. It's an apartment, a compartment, a storage box where I brought the essential objects I need for day-to-day life, and no more. It reflects the state of my life right now - an in-between space, an in-between time, a pit stop along the road of my life.

And so often I find that I don't care if I do anything or not, while I'm in this space. I have a very strong "what for?" reflex. There are times I don't even bother picking up the remote control to see what else is on, because I already know nothing interesting is going to pop up!

Well, I swear to you, I'm getting up off this couch (soon) and getting going around here, before I grow roots or something takes root in me. The time has come to stop being an object-at-rest before my time. Time to stop moping around and have some guests over and create a few happy memories of my stay here. So don't be surprised if you hear from me.

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.

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!

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.