Category Archives: Meditations

So I Ran . . .

Posted on by
3

This past Friday I celebrated my 33rd birthday. As usual, I was visiting my hometown of Bellingham, Washington. And as usual, I went for a run.

My husband first introduced me to running when we began dating back in ’95. Consistent with the times, I showed up for our first run wearing knee-high tube socks from Costco and baggy cotton shorts—between the two, approximately one-inch of my flesh was visible. It was the 90s. Cobain had recently passed, but his fashion (non)sense lived on. Perhaps I kept it alive a little longer than necessary, but you have to admit that the grunge scene did a good job disguising muffin tops, unlike the iCarly spandex T-shirts that could’ve fit my ET doll.

I vowed that I’d never wear those low-cut socks or—God forbid—running shorts that would show my spongy thighs. If Eddie Vedder wouldn’t be caught dead in those accoutrements, then neither would I.

Of course, I’ve gone back on every vow I’ve ever made. Running became something of a habit and with it came my respect for socks that wouldn’t blister my feet and shorts that didn’t cause me to fall when my shoe got trapped in the long leg of my shorts. It didn’t hurt that I lost weight, either; running duds only look good on a runner’s body (please spread the word). So here I am, 15 years later, still running. I don’t run as often and I’m slower than I used to be (a relative difference since I’d never use the “F” word to describe my pace). I am married, have a child and a mortgage, and with these things came a few more creases in the ol’ décolletage. But I’m also smarter. I know to stop running and head to the nearest bathroom at the first stomach cramp. I know that the 8-year-old who blew by me will be suffering from a side ache in another quarter mile. I know that I’ll never beat the 70-year-old woman who consistently passes me in every 5K race I run. For a short time, running was about performing at my best pace and recording my mileage in my day planner. But now it’s just about putting one ankle-socked foot in front of the other for as long as I possibly can. Because I can.

I can’t remember when I started running on my birthdays. But it gives me three-to-four quiet miles to reflect on the past year. I run out in the county, on a gravel road between two fields filled with cows. The mountains stand in the distance, all sturdy and certain. Usually, the sun shines. I feel my heavy breath and the consistent beat of my feet on the ground. Just knowing that I can makes me feel alive. It’s rarely easy—running. And neither is life. But I wouldn’t trade a single day of it. As my Dad says, “It beats the alternative.”

So I don’t dread birthdays. I don’t mind getting older. Not really. Because here’s the thing: it’s gonna happen no matter what. So I can make the most of this time, or wish it were something it wasn’t.

When I came home from my run, my family was patiently waiting to present me with my cake. Ava had picked out a gianormous pink Disney Princess cake because clearly it was just what I had always wanted. And I decide that life doesn’t simply beat the alternative. It knocks its tube socks clean off.

Birthday

Me, Ava and "The Cake"

Truly, this cake was for me.

Holy Moley!

Posted on by
11

I inherited many things from my mother, most of them good: I am obsessed with collecting cardboard boxes and I’m a happy drunk. But she also passed on a few traits that I would’ve preferred to dodge in the genetic gene pool. Spongy kneecaps rank near the top, but nothing can trump the proliferation of moles that decorate my body.

My sister’s body was equally marked—we played connect-the-dots on her back. I was convinced she had the Little Dipper constellation on her cheek (face, not butt). And since we grew up in the Pacific Northwest where most people keep their bodies clothed, we assumed that everyone had moles hiding underneath their fleece. It wasn’t until I moved to Savannah’s climate that I discovered not everyone was as moley as the women in my family.

From the time I was a little girl, new moles popped up like pimples on a teenage boy. They were easy to keep track of at first, but by the time I turned 30, I needed to call in some reinforcements. Now I visit a dermatologist every 6 months so she can take a portrait of my extended mole family to make certain that nobody gets too big or develops irregular borders.

At my first appointment, Dr. Derm announced, “Wow, you sure have a lot of moles,” which is like saying, “Wow, you sure are fat,” except that I can’t do anything about it. And apparently, neither can she. My insurance won’t cover mole extraction. I’m considering calling an exterminator.

During my appointment a few weeks ago, my dermatologist saw a mole on my abdomen that was bothersome—we’ll call her Mona.

mole

Mona the Mole

Apparently, Mona had gotten really dark over the past 6 months. So much that Dr. Derm decided to remove her from the family.

Mona was cored from my body. The incision looks as if a plug of flesh the size of a wine cork was taken out, but when I looked in the specimen jar (I know, I’m gross), Mona was only the size of a pencil eraser. Just a baby, really.

Dr. Derm gave me four stitches, for which I’m very proud. They are the black thready kind that looks like someone sewed a mouse into your body, but the whiskers somehow escaped. The nurse said that I couldn’t exercise or go to the pool until they remove my stitches IN TWO WEEKS.

I workout like it’s my job, and what fool doesn’t go to the pool when it’s 90 degrees outside and they have a 4-year-old with new water wings? I made it four days.

A friend asked what kind of mole it was and when I replied, “It was Mona,” she didn’t seem to understand. She said that my doctor must’ve been really concerned since she cut it out right away.

“Worried about what?” I ask.

“Cancer.”

I’m so stupid. Here I am worried that I won’t be able to do a chest press when I should be concerned that Mona was trying to kill me.

But she wouldn’t do that. Dr. Derm’s office called on Friday to tell me that Mona was benign and that there’s nothing to worry about. I wonder if Dr. Derm feels bad about taking Mona from me. I kind of miss her. The constellation on my belly is forever changed; my Orion is missing a piece of his belt.

I still have three days until the stitches will be removed. They itch. Sometimes the threads poke through my T-shirt. Mona never bothered me like this. Last night at a party, I showed my battle scar (while sucking in, of course). The crowd responded, “Ew! It looks like a dead ant!” Cool.

I’m a little worried that this is my moley fate—that this witch-hunt will continue and every 6 months another member of the family will be “extracted,” leaving behind another dead ant.

I also wonder what happened to Mona. Is she lying in some biohazard bin wondering where she went wrong? If I had the choice, I would’ve had them take Millard—the dude on my back that catches on my bra strap. Then again, he’s kept a pretty low profile ever since Mona disappeared.

stitches

The Dead Ant

The Sweet Scent of a Memory

Posted on by
8

I’ve always had a pretty good sniffer. I’ll be driving the car in downtown Savannah with the window down and call out the smells as I pass by them: “Confederate jasmine,” “Flame-broiled burger,” “Pot?” It’s not always a gift. I can’t ride in a horse-drawn carriage without gagging and I’m considering handing out Axe body spray to the boys at the gym. I can smell yesterday’s fart from 100 yards away . . . upwind.

Most smells hit me like a bullet train, but none more than the kinds that spark a memory.

I went to pull Ava’s plastic pool out of our little windowless shed behind the garage. The weather had finally broken its lukewarm spell and skyrocketed into the upper 80’s. The sun had been beating onto the shed all afternoon. When I pried open the door and stepped inside, a familiar scent slapped me upside the face. It was a thick, hot smell. A combination of gasoline, cut grass, and—maybe it was the plastic pool—the smell of childhood, if such a thing exists. I stood there, dumbfounded.

Grandpa

Grandpa Caufman

Before they passed away, my grandparents lived in a trailer park in Bellingham, Washington, for a number of years. Not the kind of place that you see raided on “Cops,” but a retirement village of doublewides with pebbled yards and garden gnomes scrubbed clean. They had an attached garage where Grandpa kept his tools, an unused lawnmower, a rickety stationary bike that my sister and I weren’t allowed to ride too fast (how fast can a 12-year-old really ride?), and a couple of plastic bags filled with dead slugs. In the summer, Grandpa would walk around his yard and salt slugs each morning. Then he’d collect their dark, shriveled carcasses in the afternoon. I don’t know why he didn’t throw them out. I guess they were the measure of his days.

My sister and I loved to play in Grandpa’s garage in the summer, mainly because it wasn’t the house.  In the house, Grandma’s porcelain Chinese dogs and Japanese vases forced us to sit in the middle of the living room and keep our hands to ourselves. But in the garage, we had free reign because Grandma figured there was nothing we could break. We found our uncle’s green army men and a slingshot, and we competed on the stationary bike as if we were trying to win the individual time trial in the Tour De France—the loser was forced to touch the bag of slugs. Eventually, Grandpa would come in and shoo us out, usually after Jessica started to cry because I slingshot her with a green army man.

Somehow, the smell of Grandpa’s garage manifested itself in my shed that afternoon, some 20 years and 3,000 miles away. I stood there and breathed it in. In the space of thirty seconds, I thought of my Grandpa, how much I missed him and how sorry I was that he never had the chance to see me get married or meet my daughter. It had been a while since I had thought of him—that thing that happens the further we get along in our lives. But suddenly there I was standing in a stinky shed, missing him so badly that my heart ached.

I could’ve sat down right there and let the scent of my memory wash over me for the rest of the afternoon, but Ava started complaining that she was getting hot and really wanted her pool. I pulled it out, turned on the hose, kissed the top of her sweaty head and got back to the business of living—though something had changed, just a little bit.

Grandpa and granddaugthers

Jess and me with Grandpa

New Media’s New Memorial (or: Miss You, Buddy)

Posted on by
8

Facebook must have Catholic origins. I already feel guilty enough Facebook-stalking my friends (and my not-actually-friends). But then it goes and tells me to “catch up” with friends I haven’t “poked” lately. Look, Facebook, it’s hard to stay totally connected with 200-and-some friends (I know, you have over a thousand). But isn’t it enough that I “friend” them. Must I share virtual drinks and build farms on a regular basis as well?

A couple of weeks ago, Facebook suggested that I reconnect with my friend Jeremy Mullins. Good idea, Facebook. I’d like to. But I can’t, because Jeremy is dead.

Jeremy passed away last summer. He was hiking on a trail with his girlfriend when he slipped and fell some 60 feet. He was the guy who would’ve taken a bullet for a stranger, but instead, he took a wrong step and fell. We were in Washington for the summer and couldn’t return to Georgia for his service, which made it easier to believe that maybe it never happened. Even now I think I see him from behind on the street, his baldness shinning, his suit crisp and out of place for a Saturday afternoon. I take a second look before I remember.

I miss Jeremy, and I was only just getting to know him. He taught with my husband at SCAD, and he traveled to France with us last year. I think he took the picture I use on my blog’s masthead. The knit hat Ava is wearing belonged to him. Imagine that—a guy with a shaved head giving up his hat to a child with a mop of hair. In France Ava treated him like an older brother, making him catch invisible baby chicks she’d throw from across the cafe. He’d outlast her every time. He told poop jokes, had this crazy laugh escalating laugh like a sick locomotive warming up. He said stuff like, “That’s the jam!” and “That’s what’s up!” in all seriousness.

His Facebook page is still up. Friends continue to post and from time to time I feel compelled to read what they say. They write how much they miss him, they share funny anecdotes, they call him “hoss.” I wonder how long it will stay up—but no matter what, it won’t outlast our memories.

Whenever tragedy hits, people say, “Never forget.” I want to forget the dying part, but not his hideous Red Sox sweatshirt that he was forced to wear for two weeks when his luggage was lost. Or his laugh. Or his heart.

Yeah, Facebook, I’d like to “catch up” with Jeremy.

Ray Goto, Mark Geary, Jeremy Mullins in Lacoste

Ray in France with Mark and Jeremy

Pretty Smart

Posted on by
6

Barbie dollTonight I was reading a nonfiction work by Margaret Atwood, Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. In it, Atwood discusses the writer as the “slippery double”—a person divided between her craft (writing) and her “other” self (the one who cleans the litter box with a small plastic shovel and applies the stain stick to the bottoms of her daughter’s white socks).

In some ways I agree with Atwood. When I write, I mostly close off to the world around me, letting the page sponge up my attention. That person writing feels distinctly different than the woman who just made a fart joke. More distinguished. More . . . writerly.

The truth is, none of us are neatly bisected individuals. We are composed of jumbled up and twisted vines. To quote Whitman—because I can—“I am vast, I contain multitudes.”

When I was in school earning a master’s in literature, I took Irish Lit. as an elective. It was a split-level class, meaning I was the lone grad student. Few students contributed much to the class discussions, with the exception of one bitter-arty-edgy child who always managed to say something thoughtful and literary-esque regardless of the fact that no one seemed to care. I learned from her that venturing something intelligent got you little more than a congenial nod from the tenured prof and blank stares from your peers—eyes deadened from too many drugs, a lack of sleep, or some other ailment that prevented their synapses from firing fast enough to construct a complete thought.

I mostly kept quiet.

One day I had to present Yeats’ “The Second Coming” to the class. And here’s the thing, it’s one of the most accessible poems to literature students. So there I stood, trying to make Yeats’ notion that the world was going to hell in a hand basket relevant and applicable (this was during the Bush administration, after all) to a roomful of kids staring and drooling like the residents of a rest home zoning at the “Magic Mark Show” from their respective wheelchairs. With the exception of my one ally, Miss Bitter-Arty-Edgy, who sat attentively. Dare I say, even interested.

After class, Miss Bitter-Arty-Edgy—she had never spoken to me before—caught up to me in the hallway to compliment my presentation. Kind of.

“You’re actually smart,” she said.

I’m not sure if she was asking me or telling me.

I couldn’t figure why she would have ever thought otherwise. I read nonfiction for fun, can analyze a poem at an alarming rate and few people would be willing to go head-to-head with me in a “Jeopardy” category on American Lit. Plus, I hadn’t cracked any fart jokes in class . . . that I could recall.

Because I didn’t respond, she must’ve felt the need to clarify. “I mean, you’re pretty and smart.”

Um . . . thanks?

Admittedly, my vanity swelled like a belly at Thanksgiving, but another part of me felt a bit injured. To her, and God knows who else, my shell preceded my Self. My outie didn’t match my innie.

Or so she thought.

Our appearance and our brains aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. Mine are both housed in the temple (OK, the modest craftsman) of Andrea. It’s taken some time to get comfortable with my inherent contradictions, but I’m getting closer to accepting all that I am rather than what I’m expected to be. I guess that’s called growing up.

After all, we’re all little tapestries of strangeness. I love the executive who won’t let his children play with his Legos because he wants to build the Millennium Falcon himself, or the scholar who attributes human qualities to her pet chicken (you know who you are). Which is why I’m going to take a momentary break from Atwood’s heavy discussion of the post-Romantic writer . . . to watch a little “TMZ.”

On Immortality

Posted on by
5

 

Me in 70 years.

Me in 70 years.

 

 

As I’m doing some research for an article I’m writing, I come across this quote: “Looking at aging as a disease that can be treated, may be the biggest paradigm shift in human history.”

Did I miss something? I check the book’s copyright date, expecting it to be 2050. It’s 2007. So I keep reading, but when I come to “Immortality is possible,” I stop reading and ask myself, “It is?” 

I’m not reading some Orwellian novel or a pamphlet written by L. Ron Hubbard. I’m reading a physician guide for preventative/regenerative medicine. And I’m a little bit scared.

I had heard of preventative/regenerative medicine before. They give our hormones a boost, add a little sponge to the cheeks, some glow to the hair. I think they operate mainly in senior-living communities in Boca Raton, but they’re spreading out, all the while making grand promises that I’m not so sure I want them to fulfill. Sure, if things keep chugging along like they are, I could handle adding a few more decades to my headstone, but I don’t want that for everyone. For instance, that old, crotchety trolley bus driver who made me late for my daughter’s school drop-off yesterday morning because he sat idle in the middle of the road, answering questions about the wrought iron on a historic home, totally ignoring me in his rearview mirror as I flapped my arms hysterically. His time is so up.

Wanting to learn more, I visit the website for the American Academy of Anti Aging Medicine. Never do this. Expecting exciting stories about a shriveled little man who can still hit an overhead at 103 or a 90-year-old cougar who has the sexual appetite of an 18-year-old man, I get the following headlines:

Psoriasis by Mid-20s Correlated to Shortened Lifespan

Copper Prevents Deposits of Toxic Proteins in Alzheimer’s Disease

Across the United States, Poor Education Linked to Poor Health

Aging Heart Prevented in Elderly Mice

Age-Related Vision Problems May Contribute to Shorter Lifespan

People Who Work After Retiring Enjoy Better Health

Trauma in Childhood Shortens Lifespan

 As I read through the list, I find myself rubbing my wrists on the sharp edge of my desk. It’s depressing. And doesn’t seem to support the notion that we are experiencing the biggest paradigm shift in human history in regards to aging one bit. In fact, it suggests that my time is going to be up sooner than I could’ve ever imagined.

Let’s take this headline-by-headline:

Psoriasis by Mid-20s Correlated to Shortened Lifespan
I don’t have Psoriasis, but those poor kids who were afflicted with skin funk in the prime of their youth now have something else to get them down.

Copper Prevents Deposits of Toxic Proteins in Alzheimer’s Disease
Great, I won’t get deposits of toxic proteins but I’ll still have Alzheimer’s. Kind of a pig in a poke, isn’t it?

Across the United States, Poor Education Linked to Poor Health
Uh-oh.

Aging Heart Prevented in Elderly Mice
Great for the mice, but what about me?

Age-Related Vision Problems May Contribute to Shorter Lifespan
And now those poor kids who wore lenses so thick they magnified their eyes aren’t going to live very long just like their psoriasis-afflicted brothers and sisters. Hey, does the world discriminate against children who had a rough go of it?

People Who Work After Retiring Enjoy Better Health
The only remotely uplifting headline tells us that we should continue to work after retirement. This is not good news at all.

Trauma in Childhood Shortens Lifespan
Proof that the world does in fact discriminate against children who had a rough go of it.

Reading this, I’m both depressed and reassured. Depressed that I’m reminded of the numerous things out of my control that will contribute to my demise. Reassured that I won’t be running into that trolley guy too much longer.