Just Keep Swimming.

I did not set my alarm last night. Nor the night before or even the night before that. I am not on vacation nor am I sick. I am part of the statistic of the unemployed as of Tuesday. Never having been laid off before I am not sure how to deal with the experience. I awake every day at 5:30, my normal time but now with nowhere to go. Yet I feel not sad or angry. I have a calm acceptance of the situation and understand business is business. The premonitions I experienced in April mentally prepared me to a point, but I'm not sure one can ever be fully prepared to deal with it all. I expected to have my ego hurt or to cry, but I did neither. I was not happy and I also new I would never leave on my own. This was the universe's way of pushing my out to seek something better. It was the only way. Of course that does not make it any easier to accept.
When it happened I felt the wave of panic descend: how would I pay my bills? Where is my resume? What am I going to do? I took a breath. And then another. I thought to my Buddhist training "just breathe." Others have gone through this, I am not alone. I can survive because I already did the ground work. Back in April when I suspected the layoffs were not yet done I did some preemptive planning and got my shit together. Now that the axe has fallen I am in a good financial place. I am also fortunate in that I have many great people surrounding me offering their services for job searches, resume writing, networking and most importantly their love. With their support I cannot fall, my feet will never touch the ground. Even in this dark hour I am truly blessed.

Jesus Loves You!

I don’t believe in God. There. I said it. I may bother some with this statement, but I’m not sure if I care. I am bothered by the wild attraction to religion, but this post is not about such issues. This is about my willingness to reconcile what I’ve felt for some time but could not say. I am not sure if I have reached an easy way to express the mixed ideas in a succinct manner so if I wander please stick around, I may get back to the beginning.

Religion is a subject which has always fascinated me by its power to help, heal, divide and decimate. Or should I say belief in a religion is what can cause all of these things from as far back to Egyptian days and Akhenaten’s attempt to switch from polytheistic worship for monotheism under the God Aten through the Spanish Inquisition, the Crusades, Henry VIII’s split from Rome, witch burnings (which last to this day in Africa), up on to prayer in classrooms, anti-marriage rights and the conflict between creationism and evolution. It would seem religion has the power to divide more than unite.
But I must admit I do like the customs and traditions which go along with religions and find religion is more telling about a culture than any handbook could ever reveal.

I believe my first step towards non-belief began by leaving the Catholic faith although that had more to do with the church than with my belief. I did not understand why heaven would turn its back on a good person simply because of their sexual orientation. I could not comprehend a murderer could get in by saying “I’m sorry” and a few Hail Mary’s. If standing next to the murderer is a gay man who lived his life devoted to charities, helping the unfortunate, eschewing all material items, but in a long term monogamous relationship to another man St. Peter would turn that man away while stepping aside for the killer. How am I supposed to support and believe in a church and a supposedly unconditionally loving God while he has conditions on that love? I could not so after confirmation I turned away and never looked back.

I am not completely without religion though. Like many I have found comfort in Buddhism, but not faith. A Buddhist does not worship Buddha for Buddha is a title not a God. Anyone can become a Buddha if he or she studies long enough and reaches beyond this world and breaks the cycle of life and death. Which brings me to a strange point in my thoughts: how can I believe in reincarnation or ethereal powers if I don’t believe in a god? Simply the idea of reincarnation helps alleviate my fear of death. I cannot imagine missing out on life so by believing I’ll come back or at least maintain some sort of conscious thought after death eases my anxiety. Do I truly ‘believe’ it? No. Death is death and it scares the crap out of me. However I do believe there are things out there which cannot be explained or seen by our normal senses. They could be just energy patterns, but whatever it is I certainly don’t believe in a bearded old man sitting on high or any other powerful being taking such an active interest in our lives. I don’t believe we are chess pieces which can be controlled by any action but our own. I have no reason to be compassionate other than it is the right thing to do. Any ill I cause is not the Devil’s fault, it is my own. I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in myself. If I’m wrong well then I’ll be the first to admit it. But if I’m right I just won’t know it, now will I?

The Good-Bye Girl

July was the month of good-byes and each one took a piece of me with it as it left.

The first is my friend Rachel did move away to Texas as I predicted. We spent a night packing, drinking wine and having a good evening together. Even while we packed her grandmother’s china we did not mention us parting. We ignored the lone star of Texas hovering over us. We did not cry until I left, until I had to let her go on to the next stage in life and I into mine, both on our own.

The second good-bye came when I took my grandmother’s ashes to bury them in the ground with her brother. During her life my grandmother was my biggest fan, my confidante and my mentor. She taught me about loving life, giving back more than you took and to remember what is important to me. I promised her I would bury her with the only family that did not reject her; the brother that loved her and took care of her when she was little. In July I finally had the courage to let her go and made good on that promise. Bringing her out to a graveyard 500 miles from my home felt like more of a good-bye than when she died. Having her ashes I could still hold her close, I could include her in the goings on in the house, she was still a part of my life. Putting her in the ground in a place I will probably never see again tore the covering off of the grief I’ve held in check. I didn’t want to say good-bye again, but I made a promise and it was the last loving thing I could do for her.

The third is the strangest. I said good-bye to a piece of my life that no longer should have carried any weight, but it did. I emptied out a box filled with paperwork from my divorce 16 years ago. Buried in the back of a shed were the legal documents relating to child custody, all of my personal journals, notes and other assorted items reflecting me and my thoughts for that tumultuous part of my life. I read the letters I wrote, but never mailed, so deeply filled with anger and pain. All of those items I kept to ensure my little girl would never be taken from me I could finally release. My baby is turning 18 in two weeks and the threat is gone yet I was reluctant to let them go. For so long I held on to those papers like an anchor keeping me from crashing against the rocks and even though they no longer mattered the familiar fear washed over me. My hand held them over the recycling bin only to draw them back. I read them again and again. Ever a memory keeper I wasn’t entirely convinced they needed purging or was that just an excuse? The person in the words no longer exists, that life no longer exists and my little girl is a fiercely independent woman I no longer need to worry about losing. I had to make a choice: stay tied to a past so blackened with misery or let go of the rope and left the waves take me to better shores. I chose to float.

The Rites of Spring

It has come.
The day all womankind fears,
The day I must buy a bathing suit.
Lord help us.

Today I go into the fluorescent lit rooms dreading the sight which awaits me. I know the lights are designed to enhance all of my physical flaws. In the mirrors I see pox marks covering every inch of my body, which is funny since I've never had the pox. Dimples, adorable on Shirley Temple, look cavernous on the back of my thighs. My skin is the grayish pallor of the recently dead or one who should be so lucky.

And who can forget the dreaded tri-fold mirror. Designed by Marquis de Sade's star pupil no doubt. I should not have to turn to the right and be horrified with the ungodly sight of an old lady's butt firmly attached to my own body. Oh the humanity. At one time it was a sight to behold, but now I resemble a product from the Island of Dr. Moreau. No one should have to look at it without the good fortune of being struck blind. Mothers tell their children stories to scare them into behaving, "better be good or God will strike you down and give you an Anita butt."

Of course I do have the option of buying one of those bathing suits with an attached pleated white sailor skirt, but I simply cannot wear one of those; at age 5 it is cute, at age 40 it should be a felony. I might as well say farewell to any remaining self esteem and don a white rubber swim cap gleefully adorned with yellow daisies.

My friend has offered to let me come over and try on some of her suits to see if they fit. This would save me from the above mentioned lights and give me the opportunity to use her children as a litmus test: If they start to cry then the suit is not for me.

Co-workers try to assuage my fears by telling me to look at other people. That I'll find solace in the fact that I look better than they do at that moment. But what if I am someone else's comparison model? I don't want to be "that girl" when viewed by others. You may be wondering why I do this. Why do I put myself through the stress, pain and trauma? Because I want to be able to swim up to the in-pool bar in Cabo and order a margarita. I think the desire to drink while lounging in a pool is a perfectly valid reason for going through all that torture, although no fair mentioning the occasional drunk slipping under the water. Thanks for the warning, but I'll take my chances. Maybe I'll just buy everyone a margarita laced with a Xanex then they won't notice my thighs because their eyesight will be too fuzzy. Either that or I'm resigned to swimming at night.

Wish me luck, I'm diving in.

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

Seeing the names of long time employees on the roster of layoffs is frightening. I've worked here for 13 years and in any profession that is practically a lifetime. I assumed this kept me safe, but on the list are names of people who have worked here for longer than I and this really shakes the foundation of my so called security. What surprised me is how fast those leaving must pack up their personal belongings before being escorted from the premises. The personal effects littering my office would take me several trips out to the car just to scrape the surface and watching the RIF’s pack up one box and go told me I should clear out some of my junk. Now. You know, just in case.

In my desk were letters and statements from 1997, work reviews, pictures my now 17 year old daughter drew when in first grade. Photographs, books, knick-knacks line my shelves like a second home. I threw most of the paperwork away, saving the drawings and photos. I packed my books and went to take down the framed photos from the desk and wondered if I did put those away would I cause someone to think I wanted to leave? Now I was torn between cleaning up and put in the motion of actually being fired. What if they saw I had abandoned my allegiance? What if they had never thought to let me go and now this prompted the idea? What if the picture of my grandma and my dad were the only things protecting me from the layoff? I stood with them in my hand, unsure to pack or put back.

Superstitiously I put the pictures back on my desk, adjusted the tiny Kwan Yin statue, and set about back to work. I have a box of items to go home and a larger box to go home this weekend when no one is watching. I hope to have drawn a balanced line between a willingness to stay and my dignity when it is time to go.

To thine own self be true

Here I go again traversing the hills of the newly reformed couch potatoes: I joined a gym. Normally this is an after Christmas tradition for many, but I valiantly pushed it out until March. The decision was actually quite selfish for I wanted to wait for the huddled masses of New Year Eve’ resolution wannabes to stop blocking my access to the elliptical trainer and go away. “But I’m going to do it this time!” No you are not, please step aside and let me work.
It’s been 5 years since I was last in my work-out mode and to the unfamiliar I may appear to be one of the aforementioned masses, but I assure you I am not. I have motivation, I have a goal, and I have a plan. No it is not just an idealistic goal of becoming healthier. Pfft, where is the fun in that? That won’t get my ass on the trainer. Just try bragging about your heart rate to someone at a cocktail party and watch them chew off their own arm just to break free. I have something much better- I have plastic surgery waiting for me. Ha, ha! Didn’t see that one coming did ya? That’s right I’m toiling my evenings in the gym for surgery. See I’m quite comfortable with my body in its current form. Skinnier I would look even better, but that’s not my incentive and that won’t keep me going. Nope, I do this because I want a face lift when I’m 45. The way I see it if you begin early enough then the difference won’t be so dramatic that everyone, (and I mean everyone), is talking about your face. I want subtle and the way to get that is to start early. Recently I've noticed the beginnings of drooping cheeks, jowls if you will, which run in my family on the women's side. Well for the men too but who cares about them. I don't want to have these flapping in the wind at age 60, I want those lifted and tucked away from the public eye. However before I can do this I first must lose the extra weight. If I got the lift first then anything I lose later would give me the look of being caught in a NASA wind tunnel. Joan Rivers I am not. Please. Anyway I really am comfortable with this decision and don’t see the big deal about it. Kids get braces to fix jacked up rodentia teeth and braces are a medical treatment that rarely has anything to do with necessity and a lot to do with vanity so I don’t see how a face-lift is different. People are judged on their appearance and for me keeping my cheeks off of my clavicle is what I choose. Either that or duct tape, but I’m thinking the silver would clash with my gold jewelry and that just won’t do. I hear the outcry, “But anesthesia is dangerous you might die.” Yes, I might and I might also die in a car crash, a plane crash, choking on a double chocolate cake or at a 70% off sale at Macy’s but you don’t see me fighting my way to the exit for safety. No way (bitch, give me those pants) life is dangerous and if not lived to the point of enjoyment why even bother. A quote from Shawshank Redemption and one I particularly love is: “Get busy living or get busy dying.” and I plan to do the former and forget about the latter. I don’t have time for death, haven’t you seen my calendar? Now if you’ll excuse me I have a treadmill to conquer. Vive la résistance à la pesanteur!

What if I stamp my feet?

Am I the last one hanging on to a past that has left me behind? I live in the same town where I was born which I find is not too common. A good friend, one of my crew from way back, called to tell me she may be moving to Dallas soon and my heart is breaking. She will be the 2nd one in my clique to move away for opportunities our hometown could not provide.

Right now I am able to visit Connie about 4 – 5 times a year, but with Rachel moving to Dallas it won’t be possible to travel to both places as much so how do I choose? Which one do I sacrifice? I feel like a little girl lost and alone in a busy mall. Bustling shoppers whipping by with their bags and I stand apart from it all. She says "it may not happen let’s wait and see" but those are the same words said prior to Connie’s move. Once spoken, in my heart, I know it to be true: she will leave me. I don’t want to say good-bye, I don’t want to grow up and face the truth that not all lives are spent together. I want my friends to stay by my side and grow old with me. I want to continue to laugh at our lives past and present. I want it all to stay the same, I want, I want, I want! But it doesn't does it? Life is never still. People move and I remain.

Checking your bag or Carrion?

I’m sitting behind a white pickup truck on the exit ramp yesterday and in the back window is a decal: “Remembering those we lost” with an outline of the twin towers, 9-11-2001.

My thoughts run on a treadmill digesting what I see: That was over 7 years ago almost a lifetime and yet not so far that our psyches are still bruised by its memory. Hmmm, that sticker looks very new, must have been a recent purchase. I guess someone is still selling these stickers for those that need to pin a huge ‘look at me, I'm hurting’ announcement on their sleeve. Whatever, we all hurt and we all carry the feeling of loss from that day, but not all of us choose to shout it out to complete strangers on the street. But even worse is when I realize some company is making money off of the lives that were lost. Exploitation of the dead is a grand money making venture to them. Is violence nothing more than a marketing strategy to the peddlers? I wonder if the sticker designer thought of this when sketching out his or her product. Did any profit go to the victims or their families? Maybe some organizations exist which do pass on the proceeds, but I assume many do not.

Like hungry vultures the sticker and t-shirt companies eagerly wait for the next tragedy to occur, ready to manipulate emotions and sell their blood wares. Unless authorized by a group that give profits to victims’ families, counseling or medical care to the survivors of any tragedy please do not purchase products tainted with the misfortune of others.

You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Today I must tell my little fuzzy companion good-bye. I must tell her thank you for the love and happiness she brought into our lives. Today I must tell my daughter not to worry that I will hold her while the vet injects the drugs, that Kiki won't be alone. I must tell the clinic to please return her ashes so we may hold her forever. Today I must tell the Grandfathers to watch over her and keep her close. Today I must tell myself this is the kindest thing I can do for her, but for today I won’t believe it.

I thought we were an autonomous collective...

Something’s been bothering me lately and I have to lay it out: What would you say if I asked you, “what is your biggest accomplishment?” If you are a male you’d probably answer something like your job, your touchdown pass in high school, or finishing a mountain climb. These are reasonable answers, but I find almost 8 out of 10 women I ask the answer is “my kids.” I just want to scream. Now these ladies are my mainly my friends so certain personality styles are similar, but really, what the fuck? How can a woman claim birthing a child is her greatest accomplishment? This accomplishment didn’t involve much participation on her part. Other than the sex act the rest is left up to nature. Taking vitamins and remembering to eat is not that difficult. This amazing accomplishment has been shared throughout history with royalty, crack-addicts and dogs. Wow, way to acknowledge yourself there; here’s your blue ribbon.
I love my kid. I’m proud of the person she has become and cannot wait to see what she does with her life, but I have done some amazing things before her, during and will continue to live after she moves out.
Tell you what ‘moms’ why don’t you look at your life and find something you have done and take pride in your achievement. Some hints: graduated college, bought a house, ran a marathon, led a protest, climbed half-dome, or how about acknowledging your own self worth and stop being swallowed up by the idea of motherhood.