Lady Tired

I stole away the other day to a place I normally avoid at all costs: Opry Mills Outlet Mall. Mega-big, it’s a shop-a-holic’s fall-off-the-wagon binge. For me, it equates to too much stuff, too many people, and too many fluorescent lights; it’s a generic kind of place I feel bad about patronizing. But I have found one small thing this place has to offer that I can find nowhere else in Nashville . . . cheap, convenient, spur of the moment self-care in the form of chair massage.

Yep. That’s what I went for. And that’s why I’ll go again. The Asian guys at the backrub kiosk are pretty darn good at working out double knots and re-aligning kinks. And I’ve felt like I’ve needed some back work for about four months now. But between the havoc the economy is playing on my husband’s psyche and the fact that we are re-doing our master bath, my penance has been to forgo pedicures and massages.

Luckily, it’s penance with an end in sight because I really miss those forms of self-care. My husband might think that it’s just a hormonal excuse for pampering but to me, they are things that not only feel good but make me feel good about myself; I have made myself a priority for that hour, I get to relax, and I come out feeling more centered. In my book, that’s a win-win for everyone.

So there I was, confidently walking into Opry Mills and heading straight for the massage kiosk. And there were three Asian guys – all of whom were working on others so I wandered the mall for fifteen minutes or so and then checked back. A lean, younger looking Asian man said, “Lady, you want?” and pointed to a chair. I think I surprised him when I nodded yes and started to take my seat. He grabbed a laminated price list and asked “Lady want which one?” I pointed to the $30/35 minute one and we were off.

Now, when you want convenience, you don’t get to be picky. So as this guy started, I knew right away that it would be sufficient but not great. I also knew that I needed my back worked on because as he pushed certain muscles in my upper middle back, I could feel the pull at the front of my throat. That’s usually a sure sign that I’ve waited too long. He would say to me periodically, “O.K. Lady?” To which I’d grunt, “Fine” or “Uh-hmmm”. A few times, he did actually hurt me – which didn’t damage me long-term but did make me call him a few names under my breath.

And then, about half way through, I felt my whole body actually relax. Perhaps he’d loosened me up or perhaps I’d simply let go, whatever the reason, he felt it too. He said, “Ohhh, Lady tired.” And I’m chuckling to myself, thinking, “You have no idea guy. No idea.” Lady is tired. My kids aren’t sleeping well, they are waking me up 2-3 times a night, I’m juggling teaching at Vanderbilt, Singing Heart Press, I’m overseeing a bathroom renovation, trying to be a great mom, and a good wife. I’m caretaker to my mom’s condo which has entailed water leaks and a really mean, mad neighbor below, a broken fridge with a rotten damn butternut squash left in it since May (!), and the purchase and delivery of a new mattress and bed. Yea, dude, Lady tired. Lady need to be here. Lady may come ‘gain next week.

He calls me Lady. I call him names. Looks like a match made in heaven. Or at least a match made in a moment that met both our needs. A match my husband doesn’t – and won’t – even know about if it’s up to me. Hey, there could be worse ways to cheat and much worse people with whom to cheat. In this case, what he knows won’t hurt him. And my confession’s here if he chooses to read this. If he does, I might just owe him $35 – it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

Commit to Something

I went to my son’s school’s Home and School Association meeting earlier this week - the first one I’ve attended in his two plus years at his lovely little parochial school. It surprises me that it has taken me this long to get there. For one, I have three degrees in education so you’d think it would be a no brainer for me to be an attentive and involved parent in the Home and School Association. But the other even bigger thing is that we’ve made a commitment to this school and to our son’s education. We pay for him to attend. And the least I can do is actively participate and be involved.

Truly committing to things you want and believe in takes more than just time or desire; it often takes courage. Because sometimes we just don’t know what’s on the other side of a commitment. Take me for example – staying slightly removed from any major volunteer roles at my son’s school. I am afraid I won’t have the time, that it will take me away from my family, that I will be asked to do more than I willingly want to give.

Sometimes a commitment gives us a goal and some structure. And sometimes, this is exactly what we need. A plan, something to hold onto, something to work toward that lives in the future. Something we can see and count on.

I came up with such a plan recently. Running a marathon has always seemed to live somewhere in my future. And in recent months I’ve come to the conclusion that it would be a great way to usher in my fortieth year. I’m hesitant to totally commit for many reasons but I think if I had a partner I might be more motivated to see it through. Someone to both help me and hold me accountable.

So here’s my lifelong friend Terri navigating her recent losses and working through her grief . . . and I’m thinking this could be good for both of us. The idea is fanned and a flame ignites in me – I feel my convictions growing stronger. Of course I’ve got to try and co-opt her into my plan (I was always good at this – her dad thought I was the brains behind our many schemes but he never gave her enough “credit”: she gave me the energy and motivation for many a well-laid plan).

I tell anyone who is grieving that physical activity – particularly walking or running – is one of the best ways to help yourself when you are sad and muddling through. I keep telling Terri she needs to walk or run – that this will strengthen her heart, quiet her mind, nourish her soul. The on-going banter goes something like this in my almost daily check-ins. “Get your new running shoes yet?” Her latest response was, “Meaghan. I’m depressed! I don’t want to get out of bed. No I haven’t gotten my shoes yet.” “O.K,” I answered, “but when you do I want to tell you about an idea I have. Nothing you need to worry about now but in a month or two we’ll talk more . . . “

I knew she’d need to know more. “What?” she says. “Well, I think we should start training together – when you’re ready of course.” “Training like how?” she asks. “You mean like a mile a day?” “Yeah,” I affirm, “maybe we’ll start with a mile a day and then move to two miles a day in the second week, three miles a day in the third week . . . until . . . we’re ready for a marathon. I think we should run a marathon together.” I put it out there, let it hang for a second and sink in.

“Marathon? Are you kidding? How long is a marathon? When is this marathon?” she asks. I’m feeling lucky – she sounds intrigued . . . “Well, we could do the Country Music Marathon in Nashville in April – it’s 26.2 miles . . ." She says, “You mean we’d run 13.1 each?” And like that, I see our plan taking shape.

“Yes, that’s perfect! We could do the half-marathon in April. And then, if we feel good and up to it, we could do the full marathon in Chicago in October. What do you think?” I ask hopefully. And she says slowly, “I don’t know . . . “

But I think I’ve got her. And I think she needs this. I know I do. I need the connection with her. I need her to motivate me. She needs something life-affirming. The running will be good for her and give her something beyond her losses to think about and work toward. Not to mention as we head into our fortieth year – together – that it will be good for our bodies, as well as our heads and hearts.

So there we have it – a commitment taking shape. My favorite poet Rumi has a line in one of his poems that I love: “Start a huge, foolish, project, like Noah.” Because you just never know what good lies on the other side of your commitments. Here’s to huge, foolish projects – those we dream and those we live. And especially those we commit to. It’s easy really: commit to something, anything. Simply commit. And then put one foot in front of the other and walk (or run) into your dream.

Scrub Stove, Blow Driveway

It is the 11-year anniversary of my father’s death and I do not feel like I have done one thing today to honor him. I may try to sneak in a walk and wrench myself away from domestic nirvana for an hour but I feel like I should give him more than that. That I should give me more than that. More time, more space, less clutter.

The best it got so far was scrubbing the burners on the stove so hard my arms hurt a little and blowing every leaf and speck of dirt off the driveway to the best of my ability. It reminds me of the saying, “Chop wood, carry water” which my dad always loved. Doing the daily chores and using them as mindful meditation – getting lost in the rhythm and finding your balance. Thinking, breathing, doing.

The last time I scrubbed the burners so hard they shone my friend Kris was in her final days of her battle with breast cancer. Today, I felt compelled to scrub again. I can’t cure cancer or bring my dad back but by gol, I can have the cleanest burners in all of West Meade. It’s not much but it’s something. It’s a small accomplishment, I’ve gotten something done and sort of lost myself in the process. Blowing the driveway was a bit more challenging. Kids kept running out, needing something (a snack, a band-aid, to tattletale), and it wasn’t quite as fulfilling. I wanted to lose myself in the noise and rhythm of my progress but my kids had other plans. But those burners, ahhhh. Ajax, a magic eraser sponge, and elbow grease – what more is there? They look the best they’ve looked in six months.

And that may be the shrine to my father this year. Clean burners. It gets smaller and seemingly less symbolic every year. I used to tell my husband I needed to have a few hours to myself – where have those hours gone? Doesn’t my dad deserve a few undistracted hours of me? Don’t I?

I’m tired. And still so sad from my dear friend Terri’s losses over the past month. I feel like molasses is running through my veins – an emotional hangover, my brother called it. Maybe that’s why the best from me today is simple domestic chores: I grocery shopped, made tuna fish, a white bean chicken chili, folded five loads of laundry, scrubbed those burners, unpacked my and Sage’s suitcases from our Michigan run, picked up Taggart and our neighbor friend Lily, fed them snacks, and went out and blew the driveway. I could hear them playing music (my dad would have loved that), I could hear Sage screaming (happy screams, come to find out), and like I said, I managed the tattletaling, boo-boos, and snack attacks all with blower in hand.

Maybe that is my best. And maybe I simply accept it and say it’s O.K. As I type, my husband has taken the kids outside so I can have at least this mental space, to commemorate today. So I’ll take it. I’ll think without interruption and type without having to answer a question. I’ll cry as I re-read this and think about how much I miss my dad and his unique, inimitable presence in my life.

It’s gotten easier in some ways and harder in others. I have found a peace in my relationship with my father that has grown deeper with each passing year; the hard part is watching my kids grow and knowing there would have been a very special mark he’d have made on them that I can only mimic. So there I am – scrubbing and blowing. And there my dad was – chopping wood and carrying water on forty acres of land outside Traverse City. No running water, no electricity, no phone. A teepee, a trailer, an open-air outhouse. To each, his/her own, my father often said. For me today, I chose domestic nirvana. It was everything. It was nothing. It was something. It is what it is.