Je suis… malade?
Item: Top Designer: PLANET by Lauren G Where Purchased: Thred Up Years Owned: Fourish
Dear Gentle Reader,
We have been apart for far too long.
Ok, yes, so maybe I have been watching a bit of Brigerton lately, but that is not (the only) reason I have been struggling to be consistent with this project that I love. Finding the time is an obstacle. Being able to organize my thoughts is another. A cavalcade of stress and a mountain of depression- these have been large ones. But one of the biggest obstacles is not having a Room of One’s Own. That’s a vital thing for a writer. A space that is theirs and theirs alone. And when one gets to that place, one is already in the correct head space for writing. Or whatever creative pursuits one needs.
I’ve had a few such spaces. A full room at first, and then a corner nook, and sometimes the basement. My needs were few. A computer, speakers for playing music, enough desk for a beverage (usually coffee or wine), privacy, no distractions, little clutter, and peace. These things are all impossible to find in my house these days.
I only have a laptop now, so I’ve been experimenting with writing spots. I was doing some writing in a corner nook in my bedroom, which was lovely when Nate was away! I found that when he is home, even when he is just a snoring lump five feet away, I just can’t get the thing done.
Tonight, though, I think I’ve found the solution! I’m outside. Its wonderful, peaceful, and feels entirely my own. On this night, I feel like I am the only person in this tiny town outside enjoying this gorgeous, although impossibly humid, night. Maybe the whole state. Maybe the world. It feels very indulgent! And will work for many more months!
So. This top. This is a velvety, drapey little thing with the generous cut PLANET is known for. I bought this around pandemic time, when I decided I was going to buy only plain, comfortable, high quality items so I could hang around my house completely relaxed but still chic. This fit the bill nicely. But. The perforated fabric makes it hard for me. It was something I bought online and did not zoom in far enough. The perforations make me think, vaguely, of a football jersey. I’m just not a girl who can feel fashionable in a football jersey, although I acknowledge some do. So I did not wear it as much as I should have.
I did wear it, though, for a shopping trip to Albany with my dear friend Annie. It was about a month or so before my FIRST TRIP TO FRANCE, so I felt justified in searching for some special things to bring.
When I got home, Nate told me I looked great, like I was ready to step onto a plane and head on a journey. I wore it with black joggers and grey and black snake print flats. “You should definitely wear that to France!” he told me. So I listened!
Here’s a fun fact about my husband. He travels, a lot, all over the world, and he has very covetable airline status. Every year, near the end of summer, he realizes that he has not quite flown enough to maintain his covetable status for the next year. “We’re going to _________(insert far off fantasy place)!” Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t. This time, he said, “Let’s take the kids to Disneyland Paris!” I scoffed- no, I probally laughed out loud the first time he mentioned it. But somehow, this time, it worked out!
In all my dreams of finally going to France and Paris, there were a couple things I never quite envisioned. The first one being children. Two children, in fact. A five year old and a seven year old, in fact.
The other thing is vomit.
Nope, I definitely never dreamed that my first trip to France would contain such vast quantities of vomit. Mostly from the above mentioned five year old child. But the rest? From me.
The first part of our journey was actually better than I ever dreamed. Nate got a free first class upgrade (why his airline status is covetable), and he gave it to me. So I had my own private lay flat sleep pod, and my husband was bravely taking care of both children- in coach.
I had the time of my life. I was snuggled up in a down blanket with cozy slippers and a few glasses of champagne. I got to watch a movie that had zero animated characters, eat an incredible halibut dinner, and stretch out to sleep with a silky eye mask. Bliss.
“Ma’am?” A hand touched me and I jolted awake. There was a flight attendant standing next to my pod. “Your daughter is sick, and your husband has asked for you.” Bleary eyed and totally confused, I stumbled after her as she took me to a bathroom in the back of the plane. Nate was there with my daughter, who threw up all over Nate and herself. It was like a horror movie.
I felt so awful for my very sleepy, totally miserable girl. Nate told me about what happened while we tried to wash Evie’s long curly hair in the sink, and change her clothes. It was….terrible. We did the best we could, which was admittedly not great, to clean everything up. I cuddled my baby girl for a moment, then we all went back to try to sleep.
Usually, I have a horrible time falling back to sleep after waking up, especially if it’s for such a dramatic reason. But I actually managed to fall back to sleep almost instantly.
I dreamed of peaceful mountains, and babbling brooks, and gentle breezes that definitely did not smell like vomit. And then, of a voice. Not the voice of an angel. The voice I never wanted to hear again. “Ma’am?” A gentle hand on my shoulder jolted me awake, again.
Can you guess? Yep. More vomit. This time it wasn’t as dramatic. Evie basically woke up, threw up into a bag, and went immediately back to sleep.
But this time, I just couldn’t. I can’t remember how many hours I laid there, just not able to do it. I sort of dozed, but did not sleep. And when the plane landed, I felt terrible. Sick? I wasn’t sure. I figured I probably just did not get enough sleep. I felt dizzy, like I should still have been asleep, and unbelievably hot. I waited for my family to disembark, and felt worse and worse by the second. I had to take my cute top off and walk around in a plain black tank. By the time I saw Nate, I told him I thought I might throw up.
“Really?” He asked. “Are you and Evie sick?” I had no idea. We didn’t even have a week to be in France, so I did not want to waste any time being sick. Evie was feeling better, though. She asked to go to the bathroom, and I picked her up to take her- but of course, there was a line. I have a thing with bathroom lines and getting sick, apparently. But that’s another story for another day!
Holding Evie, I started to panic at how slowly the line was moving. I began to get clammy, sweat pouring out of me, my body shaking. I didn’t know what to do. There was just no way around the long line of ladies, and I couldn’t even yell out, “Excuse me, I am going to be violently sick!” Because I had no idea how to say that in French. My only choice was to run out of the bathroom and throw Evie at Nate. “I’m going to puke!” I moaned. And I just slid down to the floor. The coolness of the tiles made me feel a little less like death for a moment, but I just saw no way out of my situation. I was going to vomit in public in the middle of Charles de Gaulle airport, or I was going to die. Just as I started to conclude that death was my only option, a hidden door to the right of me opened and a man walked out of a single stall bathroom. I got to my feet and was in there quicker than I could say “Oui oui!!” And I was going full exorcist before the door even closed behind me.
Instant relief. I will not described what occurred in that single stall bathroom in Charles de Gaulle airport, only just say that since the invention of the vomit, there have been five vomitings that were rated the most violent, the most disgusting. This one left them all behind.
But the relief was very short lived. I looked around the small bathroom and realized that there were no paper towels, nothing to clean up with- except single ply toilet paper. I grabbed a few squares in a hopeful attempt to clean up, but I might as well thrown them in a vat of acid. I wondered briefly if there was someone I could go to for help, or just to let them know there was a clean up needed on aisle Single Stall. But I didn’t know where to start looking. In the end, I simply walked out of the door as quickly as I could, grabbing Nate and whispering “Go! Go! We have to get out of here, right now!!” And as a family, we skedaddled away from my shame and out of the airport.
And because we are Dotsons, and to our family, traveling is like some Olympic Sport, we headed directly to Disneyland Paris, no passing Go, no stopping at our hotel like wimps. Sick mama or not, terrible sleep or not, fun must be had!
Can you see the fun??
What do you think we smelled like???
Not chocolate croissants, I can promise you that.
We never found an explanation for our brief, terrible illness. The most likely culprit we could find was a chicken salad sandwich Evie and I shared at the airport before we left. But who can say?
All I know is that it took me almost two days to recover, while Evie was fine later the same day. And our trip? Incredible! I have more tales to tell from this one. And while I would probably not choose to eat the chicken salad sandwich, if I could go back in time, I have no regrets. Because this is what memories are made of, right?
Vomit? Memories are made of vomit, right?
Well. I’ve said vomit way more that I ever thought I ever would here. I also feel it is is important to apologize to whoever cleaned that Single Stall. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, I am so, so sorry. But the most important thing is- the shirt! It has been washed and I promise you could never tell the trauma it has seen. But should I keep her?
Thrift Haul of Fame (Part One)
Item: Sunglasses (! A first!) Brand: Chanel (maybe?) Where purchased: A long gone junk store Years owned: 10ish?
Hello, my dears! So, I’ve been having a bit of a hard time getting into the rhythm of this writing thing. Part of it is figuring out this website, which has evolved greatly during my absence. Everything is different. It’s been quite a learning curve. Every time I press enter on something I’m terrified I will lose everything I’ve writing. But I’m slowly, slowly starting to figure out how to do all the things I used to do without thinking. However. I have spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to figure out how to get pictures on here. Like I am a 90 year old lady trying to figure out an iPhone.
I think the hardest part for me, though, has been trying to get into the right head space for writing. More specifically, trying to find ANY head space for writing has been the hardest part. There’s just not any room in there. There’s just way too much going on in there every second. I’m just hoping that if I can get a tiny sliver of space for this, I can keep gradually widening the gap. Maybe?
Oh, yes, and then there is the self doubt. I’ve actually written a lot so far, but I keep judging it and telling myself it’s not good enough, not funny enough, and no one will care. Sometimes it feels like I’m just too sad, and that I will always just be too sad. Fighting against that one extra hard tonight. So I’m just going to bang this out and get er done- quality be damned!
Ok. One topic I am planning on writing about a lot in this new incarnation of this blog is thrifting. These last few years, I believe, I have honed thrifting into an art form. I think if I’m being honest, it’s one of my top three talents, behind remembering what I’ve worn to everything and slalom water skiing.
Almost all the clothes I have purchased in the last three years have been from some incarnation of a thrift store. The reasons are many- I love the idea that I’m finding something unique, that I’m helping the earth, the bargain factor, all that. But above everything else, for me, it’s the treasure hunt. I love the thought that I I could find literally anything. Anything at all! I could find a Polly Pocket I’ve wanted since I was 11 years old. I could find the bag of my dreams. I could find a vintage Welcome Back Kotter tee. I just never know! I’m like the Indiana Jones of the Goodwill.
I thought I would occasionally write about my absolute best thrift finds, and getting some opinions about authenticity, in addition to the usual Keep or Toss?. Up first- my Chanel sunnies. Here:
I can’t remember precisely when I unearthed this treasure, but I remember where I was. A sort of nondescript junk shop in midtown Kingston. There were piles of unrelated random items everywhere. I was pretty disappointed at first- there weren’t even any clothes or jewelry! I almost left immediately. And the the clouds parted, and a ray of sunshine spilled into the shop and shone down on a little basket on a a crowded shelf. Sunglasses. I picked up the basket, and started sorting, despite the little sign that said they were $8, which seemed crazy for used sunglasses. And I saw them. The silver CCs glinting in the sun.
Could it be? Could it possibly be? Chanel in a basket of plastic gas station sunglasses?? I snatched them like a sweet muffin, my heart beating like I was running a 10k. They were probably fake. Had to be. And yet, they felt nice and weighty. I tried them on. And I decided $8 was a decidedly fair price for probably fake Chanel sunnies. And so they came home with me. And then the fun began!
I frantically Googled, learning the ways to authenticate Chanel sunglasses. I started checking boxes. The serial number looked correct.
More Googling. Oh, the serial number should also show up etched into the lenses? I ran out to the kitchen to look at them in brighter light. I tilted them first one way, and nothing. And then I tilted the other way- gasp! I could see the etched tiny numbers!
Breathlessly, I looked for another clue. Each lens should also have Chanel etched into them. I ran back out to the kitchen, tilting the frames all around until- gasp! Chanel etchings, too!
I most likely squealed at this moment. “Nate! Nate!” I ran back out to the living room, where Nate was hanging out with our friend Annie. “I think they are real! Real, authentic Chanel! I can’t believe it!”
Neither Nate or Annie said anything. I put on my newly beloved treasure.
“What are you, a California Raisin??” Annie asked. Sound of ego, deflating. So, sure. They are a little large for my peanut head. They will slip down my nose if if I tilt my head down too quickly. But I love them none the less.
I became like a granny with her sofa encased in plastic. I loved to look at these and try them on from time to time. And sometimes, on a down day, just whisper to myself “you own a pair of Chanel sunglasses.” But I never wore them outside of my house. What if I lost them? What if I scratched them? What if I looked down while crossing the street and they slipped off my face and got run over by a cement truck?
I only remember wearing them in the real world a single time, for my darling friend Juda’s bachelorette party. It was in NYC and involved a drag queen brunch, and we were instructed to wear black. It was one of my favorite outfits and one of my favorite brunches of all time. And my sunnies did not even have a run in with a cement truck!
But I don’t wear these enough. I am trying very hard these days to not save anything, to enjoy my clothes and special things and not wait for a perfect occasion that might not ever come. Because one never knows.
So today I have two questions: Do you agree that these are authentic realness? And should I keep them?
And Just Like That…
…here I am!
So, it’s been a while. Yes. I know. Practically a lifetime. Or, to be specific, two lifetimes. Two adorable lives have entered mine- sweet, precious horcruxes who have nearly sucked all the me out of me. Nearly, but not quite! There’s a bit of me in here still, clamoring for a voice. I’ve thought about giving her one for far too long, always wondering if anyone would listen, or care. The call has been growing stronger and stronger, and since the turn of 2024, I’ve logged back into this website a few times, the first in so many years, and I’ve thought about it. Tonight, though, I had a whole plan for the night. A plan that included cleaning, a video game, a show, and sleep. But absolutely no writing. And then, while I was washing dishes, something pulled at my heart. And it was too strong to resist. Suddenly, just like Elsa, I was helpless to resist and I had to follow the call- until at last I opened this laptop, and here I am. Hello!
I suppose I’m through with caring if anyone cares if I write this. Or if anyone will read it. That used to be the drive for me, my main reason for writing. Now, though? It’s for me. If you’re here, too, thank you! I’m so glad. But now, this is for me.
I am definitely having a crisis of confidence, oh, absolutely. Can I still write? Or maybe more importantly, can I remember? Six solid years of sleep deprivation have turned my brains to mush, it feels. As I was falling asleep last night, I tried to remember the date of a monumental event that happened to me last year. It just was nowhere to be found. I know that countless other sparkling gems of remembrance are floating around in my unconscious, happily undisturbed. Can I grab ahold of any of those slippery little things? And even if I am able to, can I do any of them any sort of justice? Do I even remember how to work this website, at all? Who can say? I just don’t know. But I’m going to give it a go. Here’s why.
I have stories to tell, still, of course! And they need to be told, yes. But the biggest reason is that I’ve been walking around for two years like a zombie. I have looked the same, and been a functioning human being, and done my best to be a good mother and wife and friend and person. I’ve been doing alright, I think. But inside there is nothing but a heart shattered into a million pieces. Just uncountable tiny fragments of who I used to be, rattling around in there, useless and pointless and painful. I can’t say that I need to “find myself” again- I am not lost. I know exactly where I went.
When I say that this is for me, I mean that I hope that by putting some of these memories into words, framed by my wardrobe, however uncool it might be these days, I can sort through some things that need sorting. But also I have loved going back and reading these stories, things I have forgotten, details that have been lost to me. So I’m doing it for that, too. A few months ago, I found the comments section of this blog. Two of my biggest supporters are now gone. I love reading their words, and it was such an unexpected gift at a time I really needed it. So that’s another reason.
This is maybe more melancholy than I intended. So, yeah, I have some stuff, to be sure. I will not always be this emotional, I promise. But this feels so good. This is a Big Deal. This is a sort of homecoming! I’m back, bitches. Tell all your friends.
Geronimo!!
I am mere minutes away from yet another birthday. And in many ways I am dreading it. And in many ways I am ready for it.
Dreading it, because being another year older means more to me now than just a few more gray hairs, or one more wrinkle. There is a clock, ticking steadily on, that one day will run down. And I think about it often.
But I’m ready for it, too, because 36, as you probably know, was not the best for me. The first half was actually pretty epic. There were numerous, unforgettable highs! But then the lowest low I’ve ever experienced. And I’m still climbing my way out of it, slowly but surely.
So, yeah. I’m ready to turn a new page, and am hopeful that 37 comes with much less heartbreak.
But I am no longer as naive as I used to be. I have a new, unwanted wisdom. I wouldn’t say that it’s made my heart hard, because I’ve fought very, very hard not to let that happen. Let’s just say that it’s made my heart more cautious.
And has caused me lately to wonder which is worse- the fear of falling, or the fear of not jumping? It’s not the first time I’ve wondered this, but this time it’s certainly the most poignant. My plot has thickened with the addition of two conditions, a blood clotting disorder and an auto-immune disorder that could affect me or my baby if I do get pregnant again. It’s not the direst of news, by any means, and I feel pretty great physically. But there has been a good deal of pondering in my heart.
Nate told me a few days ago that my new motto needs to be Geronimo. Say Geronimo, and jump! he said. And I’m going to try my very best!
37 is going to start with a bang. We’re finally going to take a few mini-breaks and get away for a few days, which I’ve been yearning for since March. And I get to see my favorite band in the world- twice! And there are many more wonderful things to look forward to, like weddings!
At this point, there’s no reason not to be optimistic.
I still feel sad, though. I’m sitting here, watching the minutes slip away, getting closer and closer to midnight. And feeling more and more tears pooling in my eyes. I’m not sure why, exactly. I’ve been doing so much better with crying thing.
I guess it feels like the end of something. If there’s a beginning, there must be an end, right? But I’m not sure what is ending. Not my grief, certainly. But not my hope, either. Maybe it’s just saying goodbye to 36 that is hard…
And, like that, it’s gone. I am 37. And so…
Geronimo!!
Mission: Distraction!
My life is starting to seem a little more normal. Which sometimes is great, and sometimes just hurts.
Occasionally these days, I’ll even find that I’ve somehow made it home from work without sobbing in my car. But as soon as I realize this, I start crying.
I guess it’s just going to have to be two steps forward, one step back for a while.
Something that has really been helping is busy-ness. It seems that if I keep myself distracted, it’s easier not to fall into the black hole. And also, it helps the time go faster, which is vital to the healing.
Video games were essential in the early days. I found an awfully distracting Sherlock Holmes game that turned my brain into a painless, mushy lump for quite some time. And maybe neither of us would have survived without the epic mind-number, Candy Crush! Yes. I’ve crushed more candy than I care to admit…
But there’s also been so many actually productive projects, like jewelry making, and gardening. And I’ve gotten around to many things I’ve been chronically not getting around to for years, like building a new earring holder, and getting my many neglected bird feeders up and active.
There has been a rather nurturing theme in my distractions. We are lovingly caring for many tender little plants, exponentially more than ever in the past. And I’ve turned my backyard into a sort of wildlife sanctuary, with birds, fat squirrels, green frogs, tree frogs, a turtle, an adorable duck couple, multiple deer, and one lost, surprisingly frightened, bear. I guess I am just surrounding myself with as much life as I possibly can.
Because when I am not distracted, I start thinking, and remembering, and then the darkness comes in.
It’s not just the sadness that is difficult to handle. There’s the unrelenting guilt, for sure, the crippling doubt, yes, but also, and sometimes most of all, the paralyzing anxiety. I have had a few panic attacks over the silliest things. It’s terrible, but it makes sense, I guess.
What happens when your absolute worst nightmare comes true?
Your lesser nightmares seem imminently more probable.
So, yeah. Since the miscarriage, now I feel like anything, literally, could happen.
Car accident? Microwave explosion? Home invasion? Getting mauled by a bear?
All seem very possible. Especially the bear one…
And the subcategory of this new, unstoppable anxiety? I have become a hypochondriac.
Which is also, I guess, pretty easy to understand. For one thing, I’ve had to have tests run for all sorts of awful things, so all sorts of awful things are weighing on my mind. And for another, my body basically turned against me, so how can I trust that it’s normal ever again? That’s one of the hardest things for me to handle. It’s just the deepest of betrayals. The fact that my baby died, and my body didn’t tell me. I had no idea that something was that catastrophically wrong. Or, if my body was trying to tell me, I misunderstood entirely. Which seems so impossible, and is just so very upsetting. What else might I be missing? What could my body be hiding from me? I spend a lot of time worrying about it.
I have a few major concerns right now. The first is a heart attack, which I feel I could have at just about any moment. But I am most fearful about having one while I sleep. And then there’s cancer. Everything is potentially cancer these days…
I know these fears are, most likely, not rational. But I can’t seem to get them out of my head.
On the whole, though, I guess I am slowly becoming a functional human again.
This week, at the dentist of all places, I felt something surprising that I haven’t felt in a long time: hope.
It was fleeting, and hasn’t been back, but it was there, and I liked it.
And I know it will be back!
Tales From the Darkside.
So I needed a little break, to decompress a bit after my last post. I was overwhelmed with such a vast variety of emotions, more than I expected. But they were emotions I needed to feel, so I let myself feel them fully for a few weeks, and then I decided to keep going with this.
It’s helping me. I’m making a little road map of my grief, in the hopes that I will be able to find my way out of it someday…
Somehow, May is all but gone. It’s been two whole months, and I can’t believe it. All at once, it seems like an eternity has passed, and that no time at all has passed. But, regardless, I am still here, still managing to breath. Here I am. As I am, now.
Quite different from who I was at the beginning of March.
I am a new person. and I’m trying to get to know myself.
It’s hard. It’s so much easier to just try not to feel anything, to be numb. I should know. I’ve gotten so good at it! I’ve needed to be numb to make it through these last weeks. It has helped to just fill up one day and move on to the next. I don’t know if you can call what I’ve been doing living, but I’ve been surviving. And that’s a good thing, they tell me.
It isn’t that my heart is broken. That I have lived through. That I can handle. It’s that my entire being is broken. I don’t know how to recover from that. I don’t know the first step to take. I’m hoping this might be it.
Yes, I’m still sad. Sadness is at the center of my everything, tinting the edges of my vision at all times. It’s a strange thing, though. Before, sadness was a mood that I felt from time to time. Now, sadness is a tangible thing, a parasite, living inside me, feeding on me, wanting to swallow me whole. And this new, invincible sadness is not just emotional. It’s so, so physical. I have never been sad with my entire body before. I didn’t even know that such a thing is possible.
Well. To tell the truth, that’s just one of the things I know now that I never,ever wanted to know. I am just brimming with unwanted wisdom these days!
There is something else, too. Something dark inside of me that was never there before.
It wants me to be bitter. It wants me to be jealous and hateful. It makes me want other people to suffer as I have suffered. It scares me, and I hate it, but I just can’t get rid of it.
It is easier to just give in to it. Sometimes it feels so good to just shrivel up with hatred. Sometimes, I am too tired to fight anymore.
But mostly, I try. My current method is to call up John Lennon, and let him sing some verses of “All You Need Is Love” in his sweet, mellow voice in my head. It’s pretty effective, I have to say.
Sometimes, it’s even out loud. When I feel the darkness swelling inside me, a wave of anger and hatred and all that I am not, sometimes the only defense I can think of is to sing “Love, love,love!”
And maybe repeat it a few times.
It works! Yes, it makes me feel a bit schizo, but that’s a small price to pay, I suppose.
Every day,somehow, I get up, and I fight. It is so hard, and at the end of each day, when I am driving home, I think, “I did it! I made it through another one!” And I feel like the strongest woman in the world!
And then, eventually, five seconds or five minutes or five hours later, I remember that I was not even strong enough to protect my baby. I couldn’t even manage to do what millions of women do all over the world, every single day. And then I feel so utterly weak, so feeble and old and worthless. And then I begin a brand new fight…
And every morning, I wake up, and I think “This is it. I just can’t do it.” I keep thinking that this is going to be a dark day, that this will be the day that I can’t make it through. But somehow, even though there is that darkness I can’t avoid, and there are tears in every single day, I do manage to find some light, too. There does always seem to be a reason, however fleeting, to smile.
So, I cling to that. It’s all I can do.
This Is Where My Airplane Crashed.
Right now, I’m wondering if this will be as difficult for you to read as it has been for me to write. For weeks now, all I can do is come and stare at the words, add one or two, and then hit “Save Draft”. Every morning, I get up, and think, “Today is the day. I will talk about it. I want to. I’m ready!” And I plan to hit “Publish” at night. But then darkness comes, and I don’t feel brave anymore. And I say, “Well, maybe tomorrow.”
So I’m wondering if this is just for me, something I need to do, a cobblestone that I need to place as I forge the path to whatever my new normal will be. Or if I need these words to be read, if I need our story to be known. If that will bring me a start to some sort of closure.
Do I need you to know?
I guess, if you’re reading this, I have decided the answer is yes.
So let me start by telling you that it’s going to be sad. If sadness is not on your menu today, maybe don’t read this one. Maybe don’t visit this site for a while.
Because all I am right now, all I have been for more than a month, and all I can see myself being, is sadness.
The reason is that I was going to have a baby in October of 2015, and my baby died.
I didn’t know what that sentence would look like until I just typed it. And now I can’t stop staring at it.
Well, now you know. Now what do you do? What do you say to me?
It’s hard. I understand that it’s hard. I don’t blame anyone for not knowing what to say.
It seems very easy to say the wrong thing. I know that you don’t want to say something that will make me cry.
I know that I might not speak for others in this situation, but I want you to know that no one who has tried to say words to comfort me has said anything “wrong.” I appreciate the acknowledgment that you realize that I am wounded, and in pain.
If you do acknowledge it, is there a chance that I will cry?
Yes. Absolutely. Of course, there is. And a very, very high chance, even after six weeks.
But there is also a chance that I will cry when I tie my shoelaces or when I open the refrigerator. Right now, and for the foreseeable future, tears are just a part of my life. It’s a daily, maybe even hourly, occurrence. I can neither change nor control it, so if you are around me right now, be prepared to see me cry. It’s not from something you said. It would have happened anyway.
So, yes. I know it’s hard to find the right words to say. What I want to hear more than anything, though, is just “I love you.”
After living for almost three months with another tiny person inside me, the loneliness I feel now, each and every day, is like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s just consuming. I have never in my life felt, or imagined, such loneliness.
And I’m not alone, either. Nate is being so supportive and comforting even though he is in pain, too, and we are literally clinging to each other. It’s not that I am alone. I just feel such loneliness and I just want to be enveloped in love. That’s all, really.
“You’re in my prayers” or “I’m thinking of you” are both really nice, also.
What I don’t want, and what, I realize now, is another reason I am writing this, is to pretend like nothing happened. That is what hurts the most. To pretend that nothing happened is to pretend that our baby never existed.
She did. She did, and we loved her so much. We will always love her so very much, with every part of our beings.
So now I know that there are somethings you just don’t ever get over. We will never be the same, but we will be ok. And that is enough for now.
It has to be.
Turn! Turn! Turn!
Item: Blazer. Color/Fabric: Brown, virgin wool. Designer: Max Mara. Where Purchased: The Salvation Army. Years Owned: 2.
Sometimes, things are just harder than they should be. Sometimes I get stuck trying to write something that just won’t work, no matter how hard I try. And then I am blocked, unable to move past it, unable to write about anything else, until I defeat it. This jacket is one such thing.
So… I have been attempting to write this post since my birthday, which was almost six months ago already.
Sometimes six months pass like a heartbeat.
Sure. I had a smidgen of difficulty with my birthday. It was a hard one for me. A milestone, perhaps not to everyone. But a milestone to me.
I could tell that there was a problem when I could not find any clothing, or shoes, or bags, or jewelry to buy with my birthday money. And not for lack of trying! I absolutely tried my very hardest, poring over beloved website after beloved website, eagerly seeking out every summer clearance event or Christmas in July special. But nothing excited me.
The only things that made my blood race and my heart throb were fancy creams and serums, with names like Beauty Elixir and Time in a Bottle.
Yes. Something has indeed changed.
Growing up, I was the oldest in my class, and it was awesome. I was more mature, closer to everything than all of the other kids. I loved it!
Now, though, it’s not so great. I am more mature, closer to- well, everything, than everyone I graduated with.
Ouch. I hate it.
If it was only that, I think I could handle it. But this is the year that I officially lost my hipness.
I am still in mourning, and having a difficult time coming to terms with its loss.
Allow me to explain.
I wore this blazer to a performance of Hair that my husband was in, his second show with the electric, energetic Castaway Players (which you can learn more about here). I went with some of my loveliest and beloved-est friends, Maria, Molly, and Vicki. Instantly, we were all hypnotized by the magnetic energy that was consuming the stage, and feeling rather…old. And somehow, by intermission, we had cast our own version of the show, Hip Hair! It was so-called because all of us were over a certain age, some of us may or may not have had surgery on our hips, and many of us were, in fact, questionably hip. We laughed so much at our aged-ness, and our brilliant casting, and it made a wonderful show even more wonderful!
And later, when I discovered that the Roundabout Theatre Company had something called Hiptix, an attempt to fill their theaters with young, hip, 35 and under patrons, I laughed even more.
But I didn’t know how much it would hurt when I officially lost my hipness. I wondered how it would happened. Would my log in just suddenly stop working? Would I get an email stating, “Dear Mrs. Dotson, I regret to inform you that you are no longer hip, and have lost your privilege to $25 theater tickets”? Would some smug Roundabout Theatre employee casually rip up my cheap tickets in front of my face?
In the end, nothing happened. I keep waiting for some sort of reckoning that apparently will never come. But still, I am struggling, unable to accept that I have been on this earth for as long as I have.
Why, though? I am not afraid. So then what exactly is my problem with aging? I’ve realized it’s a combination of many things. One, sure, yes, the relentless, irreversible ticking of a certain clock. There’s that. Two, the fact that my life looks nothing at all like I thought it would at this age. Which, if I am honest, has something to do with reason number one. Three, the fact that nothing can stay the same for long, and that with every passing year, month, day, I am hurtling faster towards some sort of traumatic catastrophe. It’s inevitable. And already happening. This fall, my heart broke in two places. And I wonder how many more cracks it can stand. The last reason involves concerns over the changing of my appearance.
And that last one truly baffled me. I’ve never been especially fond of the way that I look. So why should I care if it should change?
Somehow, I realized that maybe this is the true matter at hand. If I never had much love for myself in the first place, how much more hateful and critical will I become when I am no longer young (or hip?)?
So I guess I’ve let myself drift into Autopilot again. I had a some lovely distractions, a few shining moments when my heart felt truly young, and I flew. I flew! The return to earth again, though, has been jarring. And now I’m just drifting through days again, not writing anything, not creating anything, hardly even being. Waiting, still, for some sort of reckoning, or maybe just closure. Something to tell me to move.
I guess the answer is that I am the one to decide. It’s time, finally, to grow up. I know that is not the same as growing old.
But I’m not entirely sure what it means to me, to grow up. Does it mean I will write more? Does it mean that I will write less?
I don’t know.
But I do know that today I am younger than I’m ever going to be.
Penny For Your Thoughts!: Part Four
Well, I sit here again in pain, a bird with a wounded wing. I wish I could say that I hurt myself in a way I was proud of, like tire-flipping, or power-lifting, or tumbling, or rock climbing.
But I cannot tell a lie.
My injury came as if in a dream; while I slept.
Which just astonishes me. I feel like my body should know how to do that by now, sleep peacefully, without doing harm. After all, it’s had so much practice!
But alas. One more thing I’ve yet to master.
My point is that I just don’t feel up to dressing up Dottie tonight.
So I thought that perhaps I could just ask your opinion on a matter that’s been troubling me now for quite some time.
Specifically, what is the deal with overalls? Can I pull them off? Can anyone pull them off?
There was surely a time in my life when I loved almost nothing in life as much as an overall.
I had so many versions! Acid washed. Shorts. Skirts. Fun colors.
I wore them so many ways! Both sides up. One side dangling. Both sides down.
Even, on occasion, acid washed, shorts, and both sides down, at once! Like so:
TBT
It was also 1991.
So, although overalls have not quite made the jump into mainstream, every day fashion like leggings have, I still registered quite a lot of surprise when I noticed celebrities attempting to pull them off.
Here’s a fun game! Can you distinguish the 1990’s overalls from the 2010’s overalls? It’s so hard!
Nearly impossible, right??
Well. After Beiber, I was totally ready to write overalls off as comeback I would never, ever welcome, like shoulder pads, or bicycle shorts.
But then some of my friends wore some truly adorable versions.
And some fashionistas showed me that it is possible to look rather chic while wearing them, like so:
And then I became very confused.
But then it hit me.
“Maybe they are good!” I told my completely enthralled husband. “But only if you are in your twenties or under!”
He was skeptical. “I think that you need to be able to pass for an actual teenager.”
Hmm. A valid thought.
Can you help me solve this age-old dilemma once and for all?
The Significance of the Seven Shoes.
Item: Dress. Color/Fabric: Blue/pink multi/Polyester. Designer: Say What? (No, really, that’s the name) Where Purchased: The Salvation Army. Years Owned: 5ish
I love this dress. I found this at Uncle Sal’s, myy most favorite thrift store, with my amazing fashionista friend Lisa. I don’t usually go for knit dresses, since I’m not a big fan of my booty (read here for more info about that). But I really liked the retro style and the colors of this one, and it seemed a little Missoni-esque.
So I took a chance. And I’ve worn it on a few occasions.
The most important was when I wore it to an estate sale.
I don’t know why I wore this to an estate sale. I remember thinking that I wanted to throw on a sweet summer dress, comfy for shopping and cute enough to wear to the theater later. A great idea, but I don’t think this is quite the dress for that. It’s a little too fussy.
But I was with my mom, who said, “There’s nothing wrong with being the best dressed girl at the garage sale. But you might not get the best bargains…”
Words to live by!
Anyway. I have briefly written about this particular yard sale, and the greatest treasure I found there (here). I even mentioned the seven pairs of shoes I gave a good home to from there.
But I did not mention the Significance of the Seven Shoes.
It’s a sad tale that has been on my mind, very frequently these days.
It begins when my mother and I were slowly meandering through piles of junk outside. A woman approached me, staring thoughtfully at my feet.
“What size of shoe do you wear?” she asked.
A strange question, from a stranger. “Five and a half or six,” I answered hesitantly.
She looked up at me and smiled. “Follow me.”
I glanced at my mother, who was wearing the same slightly baffled expression as I was. I shrugged, and we followed the woman into the house.
It was an old house, filled with many well-loved treasures. But she took us to a room that absolutely took my breath away. Rack upon rack upon rack of clothing stood in middle of the room and the walls were lined with shoe boxes. All four walls. All the way up.
As I stood there staring, gape-mouthed, heart thumping wildly, the woman explained. “My mother wore the same size as you. All of these shoes are new, never worn. Look around and try some on!”
Well, what could I do? I tried on shoes.
I could have easily brought home at least fifty pairs. But I showed restraint! I whittled it down to a mere seven pairs! Including my favorite, these shiny, patent leather Cole Haans:
The moment I saw these, I knew we were destined to be together. Forever! They are my ruby slippers, and I cherish them.
But as I tried and considered and rejected and saved, the woman began to tell us a little of her mother’s tale. She had passed away recently. At 56.
She was a nurse who loved clothes, and jewelry, and shoes. She fell in love with pieces and bought them and saved them for special occasions.
Occasions which never came. When she got breast cancer, it attacked quickly and thoroughly.
The woman looked around at all the splendors before us. “I wish she had had a chance to wear all of these.”
I did, too. I suddenly felt terrible, as though I was taking advantage of an awful situation. I felt like the shoes were sacred, like I shouldn’t even touch them.
But the woman smiled at me. “She would be glad that you’re here. She would want them to be enjoyed. I wish that I could, but my feet are too big. It’s wonderful that you wear the same size,” she told me.
And I realized that she was right. And I loved this woman’s mother, with her eclectic taste, with her leopard coats and well made shoes, with her tiger’s eye rings and Victorian blouses.
I have always had a hard time with saving things for the perfect occasion, which I’ve previously written about here.
And now I think of this faceless, nameless woman (I can’t believe that I did not ask her name!), and I think of the Seven Shoes, and I tell myself , “Do not wait.”
Always wear the blouse. Always wear the shoes. Enjoy them and love them, and rejoice in the wearing!
It’s a lesson that I’m not done learning. I still have way, WAY too many pieces with tags still on them.
But still, there is a refrain I can’t let go of. Every day, every hour, every second, every breath. Life. Love. Beauty. Joy.
It’s all a gift!
Be nothing but grateful.
I Am What I Wore 