Six months ago today the moving van pulled into South Bluffs delivering our belongings to the Memphis house at 123 Nottoway. Now, after building the office and replacing the pergola, we are awaiting the renovation of our master bathroom and repainting of the first floor rooms and second and third floor halls. The projects keep me busy, but in the end, leave me wanting more, whatever more might be.
The July and August suffocating heat has stripped away the glow of our first months in Memphis. The heat is worse than the coldest months of Chicago winters. I've got cabin fever from staying in the house to avoid the heat. It sucks the energy out of my body. It drowns my enthusiasm and irritates my humor. If I run, I must do it before 8AM. If I walk at any time, I sweat. To save my garden under the pergola, I must water twice a day.
Heat is not my only enemy. My shoulders have ached for some time. I attributed it to the move, the house painting and other projects I took on. But, two weeks ago, my shoulders seized while working on the computer at my client's site in Monroe, Michigan. This was the week after I did a series of 27 plank poses combined with downward and upward dog poses at yoga. My attitude was up for it, but my body obviously was not. The result was that I could not raise my left arm and my back from shoulder to shoulder was in constant pain. I could not sleep. When I ran that last morning before my doctor's appointment, pain radiated to my elbows and wrists. I finally had more than I could handle.
The doctor thinks I may have a pinched nerve or a bad disc at the base of my neck. The MRI next Monday should reveal the truth. In the mean time, the physical therapist has given me exercises to loosen the muscles. Most of the pain is gone now, but the steroids blasted a hole in a weakened upper arm blood vessel leaving me with a black bruise running from the top of my left shoulder down to my elbow. Is this a sign of my future -- one pain after the other -- or is it just a blip on my life screen? One conclusion is clear -- no more yoga.
I'm starting to make progress on my writing, but it's dredging unsettling memories. The notes I wrote 20 years ago are filled with events, people and places I can hardly remember, but when I do, it is upsetting. It's like drawing the carpet back, only to find dirt I did not know was there. Three unfinished chapters, 30 pages, have come into being so far-- Squall, Mystery Woman and Loss. But, I can't write in the first person. It's too intimate so I created a fiction. I'm constantly asking myself, "What do I tell, what do I keep secret, what do I invent?" I probe it all, living on the edge of reality.
September portents a change of season. I put away the white pants, jeans, and purse on the promise. My neighbors promised that the fall is long and lovely -- all the way through November. We are counting on it as we took the bikes in for a major tune up. In our four years in Baltimore we didn't ride them but once. We will be prepared for welcoming cool weather. Until then, we grind against the heat.
Showing posts with label Settling In. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Settling In. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
The Spring Purge
On a cloudy day last week, I conducted my annual spring clothing purge following the theory that if you haven't worn it for a year, then it probably needs the boot. Also, I hadn't bought a bit since last December when we learned of our move to Memphis and I was itching for a shopping spree. I had a closet full of consulting clothes and a dearth of casual togs to survive the Memphis hot summer. However, I never got to my closet. When I opened the drawers of my dresser to sort through the folded clothes first, I was faced with a shocking dilemma - Does my lingerie define my character or does my character define what kind of lingerie I wear?
In either case, the evidence was embarrassingly and depressingly heartbreaking. My underwear had aged, but, unlike, wine, it did not get better as it ripened. Nor, was there a piece of lace or high cut pantie to be found. You'd have thought I had cornered the market on sensible garments. There wasn't an intimate thing about them. I could stand in traffic in just my underwear and no one would blink an eye. It was the underwear of a 60 year old woman. It was all so practical, so form contouring, so disgustingly boring and so gray and beige!
I sat down to scrutinize the situation.
With today's fabrics, women's underwear actually not wear out. It grays and sometimes fades, but refuses to disintegrate. Where are the good ol' days of cotton and rubber band elastic? When the elastic went, those thin little rubber strings broke and stuck out all around my waist, legs and back. I knew when it was time and I felt totally justified replacing those broken unmentionables. But, today, I can wear the same underwear for years and it still functions, even when the white has grayed and the colors have faded. The wonders of technology have struck at the heart of my lingerie shopping guilt mantra -- don't buy unless you really need it.
The other issue, of course, was my choice of style. My ten hour days, running regimen and constant road trips for work, left me with little time to contemplate the style of my undergarments. The few pounds I've gained over the last 10 years didn't enhance underwear selection either. I didn't want anything that might ride up to give me a wedgie in the middle of a meeting with 20 other people. I opted for comfort and that meant my lingerie evolved to be practical and devoid of character.
So, the verdict was clear as I stood there in front of the mirror in my last droopy beige bra and waist hugging grayed white jockey panties -- I was becoming my underwear. It was take back control or die! I declared war. I may be sixty, but I"m not dead yet. I want my character to define my underwear, not vise versa.
My attack centered on Macy's intimate apparel department at Oak Court. With the vengeance of a Ninja, I scoured the racks and tables for the most colorful, lacy and well cut undergarments. Armed with dozens of bras and panties, I then marched into the dressing room swearing to conquer the lingerie enemy.
Two hours later, exhausted and flush from stepping into and adjusting so many little items, the battle was won, if not the war. I now have a collection of lingerie that lets me look like I feel inside - an attractive, if a slightly wrinkled, woman. The battle was not without costs. I discovered that the older I get, the more lift I need. That means I've got to spend lots more money on bras if I'm going to keep my boobies from hanging down to my waistline. But, Macy's was having a sale that weekend, so I came off the battlefield with my credit card intact.
There was one casualty...thongs. They're just a little too erotic for this ol' body. I leave them to the younger generation.
In either case, the evidence was embarrassingly and depressingly heartbreaking. My underwear had aged, but, unlike, wine, it did not get better as it ripened. Nor, was there a piece of lace or high cut pantie to be found. You'd have thought I had cornered the market on sensible garments. There wasn't an intimate thing about them. I could stand in traffic in just my underwear and no one would blink an eye. It was the underwear of a 60 year old woman. It was all so practical, so form contouring, so disgustingly boring and so gray and beige!
- What had I become?
- What happened to the woman who refused to even wear underwear for a time in the 70's?
- How did I let this happen? Does contentment breed bad underwear choices?
- Where was the woman who lusted throughout her 30's and 40's in little lace things?
- This wasn't about being pure and simple, it was about being monotonous and plain.
I sat down to scrutinize the situation.
With today's fabrics, women's underwear actually not wear out. It grays and sometimes fades, but refuses to disintegrate. Where are the good ol' days of cotton and rubber band elastic? When the elastic went, those thin little rubber strings broke and stuck out all around my waist, legs and back. I knew when it was time and I felt totally justified replacing those broken unmentionables. But, today, I can wear the same underwear for years and it still functions, even when the white has grayed and the colors have faded. The wonders of technology have struck at the heart of my lingerie shopping guilt mantra -- don't buy unless you really need it.
The other issue, of course, was my choice of style. My ten hour days, running regimen and constant road trips for work, left me with little time to contemplate the style of my undergarments. The few pounds I've gained over the last 10 years didn't enhance underwear selection either. I didn't want anything that might ride up to give me a wedgie in the middle of a meeting with 20 other people. I opted for comfort and that meant my lingerie evolved to be practical and devoid of character.
So, the verdict was clear as I stood there in front of the mirror in my last droopy beige bra and waist hugging grayed white jockey panties -- I was becoming my underwear. It was take back control or die! I declared war. I may be sixty, but I"m not dead yet. I want my character to define my underwear, not vise versa.
My attack centered on Macy's intimate apparel department at Oak Court. With the vengeance of a Ninja, I scoured the racks and tables for the most colorful, lacy and well cut undergarments. Armed with dozens of bras and panties, I then marched into the dressing room swearing to conquer the lingerie enemy.
Two hours later, exhausted and flush from stepping into and adjusting so many little items, the battle was won, if not the war. I now have a collection of lingerie that lets me look like I feel inside - an attractive, if a slightly wrinkled, woman. The battle was not without costs. I discovered that the older I get, the more lift I need. That means I've got to spend lots more money on bras if I'm going to keep my boobies from hanging down to my waistline. But, Macy's was having a sale that weekend, so I came off the battlefield with my credit card intact.
There was one casualty...thongs. They're just a little too erotic for this ol' body. I leave them to the younger generation.
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