The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 101

I've been trying to figure out exactly where and how I contracted this virus. 

I wasn't careful out in California. My goal was to make it there, enjoy every minute, and let the chips fall where they may. I purposely didn't wear a mask on the plane home (I announced) because — if I was going to catch it — if I hadn't already had it at some point in the last two years — then this next week was the perfect time to get it.

And so, here I am. Thanks, foreshadowing. You're swell.

To be clear — there were others on the plane who masked the entire time who also got it. And there were even more who were unmasked all day every day who are magically in the clear. I don't actually think it was the plane. I think it was the public bathroom in San Francisco. But it also could have been a random cough by a passerby anytime, anywhere. It could have been just simply in the air. 

Sometimes I wonder if it's all security theater.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

Even so, I sequester myself outside from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., coming inside only to pee, get the kids out of bed, or find something to eat while I hold my breath in the kitchen. The other 12 hours I sit on my bed, watching Netflix on my computer propped up on a laundry basket, or try to sleep. It might be security theater but it also might not be and I'm still going to trust the medical professionals and science.

I don't feel particularly good, but I don't feel particularly bad. I'm vaxxed and boosted, and I'd been exposed 1000 times before in my job and in my own home, so I'm sure I've got a pretty high immunity to this asshole. Mostly, I'm just tired. Climbing the stairs makes me out of breath. My back is sore, both to touch and to move, like I got in a good workout whilst also getting sunburned. I've got a cold, but it's more annoying than horrible, making me cough at inopportune times, making me sound like a smoker, making my nose run — not enough to blow, just enough to endlessly wipe on my disgusting sleeve. 

And I feel guilty. Guilty that I wasn't careful around my mom. Guilty that I had a long, joking (unmasked) conversation with the pharmacist and my son at the counter, arguing about the metric system, before I came home with my 8 free COVID tests and immediately tested positive.

And I'm bored, but not so bored that the exhaustion fades away enough for me to get the mulch down and weed the garden. I'm bored enough to feel put out that no one can hear me in the house unless I call them on the phone, and I just need to make sure that they took the pizzas out of the oven. I'm bored enough to scroll through my email, but not bored enough to overcome the malaise and respond. I'm bored enough to pull up a crossword puzzle, but I'm too tired to actually do it.

And I know that I am so very, very lucky. I am so privileged to have an outdoor space to sit, to have had access to vaccines, to have had this week of vacation time with very little on my plate, and to have a partner who will step up and take my daughter to practice and my son to get his glasses fixed, even if he also has to ask me how big to chop the onions, as if I have an actual recipe for anything I cook. I still make the coffee for him after he goes to bed, although I am careful not to exhale.

I am one of the lucky ones. Over 1,000,000 people have died in our country alone. I have no underlying conditions. I'm healthy and relatively fit and only just pushing middle-aged. I'm vaxxed. I'm middle class in a middle class community. I'm white, with a history of health and longevity and prosperity in my genetic makeup. 

This will just be an inconvenience, and then I will get on with the rest of my life.

And so...I am annoyed. I am bored. I am not feeling 100%. 

But yet, I am totally fine.

Trying to Get My Mojo Back, part 1

Part 1: Relearning How to Read

If you've been following me at all on Facebook, you know that I've been posting about my own 30-day challenge — a challenge to get my mojo back. Merriam-Webster defines "mojo" as "a magic spell, hex, or charm; magical power." And my mojo is gone.

One magical power I used to have, a lifetime ago, is that I used to be a reader. I read voraciously as a kid — under the covers with a flashlight, sitting on the floor by the christmas lights, in a tree, in the barn, down by the river. I read any book I could get my hands on —The Narnia series, Rebecca (both Maxim's first wife, and also of Sunnybrook Farm), Little Women and Little Men, Harlequin romances with the sexy scenes Sharpied out by my Oma, The Thorn Birds, the entire Love Comes Softly series, the books in my Grandma's bathroom (next to her secret cigarettes) that would fall open to the sexy scenes if you laid them on their spines.

I used to love to read.

But then I went to college and had to resort to reading CliffsNotes to make it through the reading lists of my classes while also trying to maintain relationships and work 30 hours/week. When I did read, it was to try to connect with my future husband, to read what he loved, so that I could love the things he loved (spoiler: it didn't work). And when I became a teacher, even that reading disappeared, replaced by panicked-reading of the books I had to teach, milk creates of journals, reams of research papers and personal narratives and short fiction stories where the protagonist always dies in a car crash on the way to prom.

Two decades ago, when we were all children, I was in a book club. Sometimes I read the book; sometimes I didn't. Usually I was speed-reading the night before our book club meeting, desperately trying to finish, so that I could both drink wine and talk about the book the next night. But book club petered out, as book clubs do, when people got married, had kids, moved away, got other jobs, got other degrees.

And now I need reading glasses.

For the last decade, I've vowed to read at least 2 books every summer, at least 1 book on winter break. That's it. That's all I read. I don't even enjoy it anymore, the eye strain and the terrible metaphors and the terror of finishing a book, knowing it will be over soon and I'll never see those people again. Over the last decade, I've fallen in love with The Poet X, East of Eden,and There There; I read Holes because my son said it was the greatest book of all time, I tried to read All American Boys and got bored, and I read scores of books as I changed schools and changed grade levels and changed curriculum. But each book was a chore, a task I had to force myself to do, a job.

So, this summer, I am going to try to get my mojo back. I'm going to try to rediscover the joy of reading. I'm going to try to read because I want to, not because I have to. I'm going to try to read books I've wanted to read, books I've impulse bought, books that have been suggested to me, books with the sexy bits still intact.

So far this summer, I've read:

The Orphan Keeper — A good book, not a great one. The true story of an Indian boy, kidnapped, sold, then adopted in America, I was hooked on his story, the story of resilience of a little boy trying to navigate a system he didn't understand. And then the boy ended up in America, adopted by a well-meaning family who had no idea that the boy had a family back in India, and I wanted to keep reading...until the book skipped a decade and suddenly the boy was a man. I wanted to learn about how he survived American middle school, how he navigated high school, how he bonded (or didn't) with his adoptive family, but instead the book skipped all that, and focused on his return to India as an adult. I wanted the story of the child.

Americanah — Just go read it now. You're welcome.

Oranges are Not the Only Fruit — Love, love, love. I love this quirky little girl, her obsessed mom, her imagination, her unique perspective on the world. I wanted to read it again as soon as I put it down. I wanted to look it up on Sparknotes, afraid I was missing something brilliant, and I wanted to not care that maybe I misinterpreted something because this was the book I read and this was what I got from it.

So far this summer, I've put down and walked away from:

Funny in Farsi: A Memoir of Growing Up Iranian in America  — I wanted to love this book. It came highly recommended, and I tried, for about 40 pages. And then I realized that I was dreading the book, skimming pages, trying to finish...and that's no way to read a book. I hated the narrator, hated the way she talked about her parents, told her funny stories that, to me, felt more mocking than loving. I wanted to read her experiences like I read Amy Tan, with awe at the beauty and pain at the tension, but instead I was skimming it like Foxnews.com, just trying to get through it and make sure I don't miss something in the narrative, but hating every word on the page. Finally, I put it down and walked away.

We Want to Do More Than Survive: Abolitionist Teaching and the Pursuit of Educational Freedom — I'll come back to this one. I want to read it, and I'm learning a lot, but I don't want to think about work right now, and this book forces me to think about the students in my room, and how to be the best teacher that I can be for them. Right now, I don't want to think about the students in my room; right now I want to relearn how to love reading. Right now, I don't want to think about the enormity of my job; right now, I just want to read.

I have many more on my list this summer. I still want to read:

A Dream About Lightning Bugs: A Life of Music and Cheap Lessons. — I love Ben Folds. I've listened to his life story in music. Now I want to read it in prose.

Murder on the Red River — A student recommended this. Unlike the other recommendations I got this year (Anna Karenina?? Just, no.) this one seemed worth a shot. Plus, I really liked the student, and it's a genre I don't usually read. I'll give it a shot.

The Long Walk — I hate horror but I love Stephen King's writing, and I was promised that this one wasn't scary. I started it last summer and had to put it down when school started. I want to pick it back up again.

Firekeeper's Daughter — I bought this last Christmas as a gift to myself, and then another one was gifted to me this summer. I've been waiting for the right time to read it, a time when I won't be interrupted 100 times an hour, a time where I can just read it cover to cover, even in a single sitting if that's how I want to read it. I plan to take this one camping, when I can be off the grid, laying in a hammock or on the beach...and I can just read.

You Can't Be Serious — I read somewhere that this was a great read. I'm hoping it is.

There are another 45  "I want to read" books on my "want to read" shelf...but for now, I am trying to learn how to read for pleasure once again. I am slowly building reading stamina, slowly trying to beat back the guilt of sitting and doing nothing for hours at a time when I should be cleaning or working or paying attention to everything and everyone else in my life — and I recognize the irony of putting "Relearn how to read for pleasure" on my to-do list — but right here, right now, I just want to get my mojo back, and rediscover my love of reading and my ability to get lost in a book.

Today, I wrote.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Tomorrow, I'm going to read.

Imposter Syndrome

They see me as the expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie is here with a writing workshop for you and she’s going to teach you how to write for college.” 20 eyes look at me resignedly…they don’t really want to be here. They are tired. They don’t really want to write. They’d rather be somewhere else. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. I am the expert of nothing in this space. And yet, here I am.

I didn’t sleep well last night. I am exhausted. I heard the rain, felt the thunder. Couldn’t get the song on auto-repeat out of my head. My fitbit says I got 4 hours and 5 minutes of sleep. How do I reach 10 kids I’ve never even met about “college writing” and get them interested in something? I wouldn’t be interested in that workshop, not then, not now. I have no idea what I’m doing in this space. I’m not even sure I know anything about how to write. I’ve always been nervous before a new school year begins —Can I hook them in? Will they think I’m funny? Will they trust me enough to go on the journey with me? Do I have what it takes?— but this is even worse. I have 3 hours to reach 10 kids.

I am an imposter.

They see me as an expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie from Chippewa River Writing Project is here to lead Write Across America activity today.” Oh dear. I can’t get my sound enabled, my mic is a hot mess, there’s a dump truck driving down the road and the lady next door decided to choose this moment to mow her lawn. I have my doctorate in ed tech and I’ve been running zoom meetings for years and today I can’t figure out how to enable co-host, how to get the video to play with sound, and how to get my neighbor to pick more convenient times for her yard work.

I am an imposter.

I tell them I’m a runner. I have a running girl tattooed on my ankle. Just 3 years ago, I hit 1064 days on my running streak before I broke my ankle. I was heavy then. I’m heavier now. I still list “runner” on my bio, but I know that my occasional slow jogs aren’t much. I probably couldn’t run much more than a mile right now. But I stubbornly hold on to that title. I am a runner. I am a runner on back roads in the country, where no one will see me, no one will judge my form. I hear their voices in my head…”awww, look at that fat old lady trying to run.” 

I am an imposter. 

“You’re such a great mom,” they tell me. I look at them out of the corner of my eye…if only they knew. My daughter didn’t come out of her room yesterday, even though her Nana was there to visit. My son hung up on me when I called him, mad that I’d ruined his summer by following his doctor’s orders and forcing him to go to physical therapy. They don’t know how to do laundry, how to do dishes. I hide nothing from them and they know about the world…but they don’t know how to make pancakes or mow the lawn. They drop the F-bomb every third sentence, even in front of Nana, when they should know better. They argue with me about everything. They are smart and passionate and compassionate and active and they were on their phones for 14 hours yesterday.

I am an imposter.

I wonder what it would be like, to see me through their eyes, the people who think I know what I’m doing. Am I smart? Mean? Fat? Old? Cool Mom? Weird? Lazy? Driven? What do they see?

Would I like me?

I think, through their eyes, that I might be kind of bad-ass. That’s a strange thought…me as bad-ass. But I think maybe that’s what they see.

I think, through their eyes, they might see me as strong and capable. As unique. As a pretty woman who doesn’t look bad for her age. I’m sure that the first thing they see is my weight, but what if it’s not? What if the first thing they see is my heart? What if the first thing they see is my soul?

I think that, through their eyes, I might be okay. I might be an expert. I might be capable. I might not be an imposter.

I think that they might be kinder to me than I am to myself.

Our Country 'Tis of Thee

We are not a Sweet Land of Liberty. We never have been.

I want to find the will to celebrate our country, but it has been a difficult few years around here, a difficult few weeks. 

States’ rights to force birth now mean more than a woman’s bodily autonomy. 

We have more rights to own a gun than we do to own our own body. 

We’ve lost the division between church and state; we now uphold a man’s right to publicly pray to a Christian god on center field with his high school team at a public school football game under the guise of free speech. Guns and Prayers. 'Murica.

18% of the country controls 52 senate seats.

It’s hard to find things to celebrate today. 

Highland Park, celebrated home of Ferris Bueller and Kevin McAllister, tried to celebrate today, but another white guy with a gun (or 4) decided that, once again, people needed to die. A Fourth of July parade turned to chaos when 7 people were murdered and another 45 were wounded by a white guy with a gun.

Purchased legally, of course.

This was what the Founding Fathers wanted, right?

Liberty and Justice for All.

If I hear Lee Greenwood sing his anthem one more time, I might vomit. Because, until I know that I’m free — free from being murdered at a parade by yet another guy with a gun…free to take care of my own body as I see fit…free to love who I want and how I want...free from being murdered in my classroom…free to speak the truth in that classroom about the history of our country and the institutionalized racism and misogyny that continues to destroy us all…

Until I know that I am free and that we all are free — I am not proud to be an American today.

Tuesday's Thoughts and Prayers.

It's Tuesday.

I sit in meetings after work, planning the summer professional development offerings. "Restore, Reconnect, Rejuvenate." We’re attempting to create an opportunity for teachers, dragged out from the —last year— the least few years-- to try to find themselves again, to remember why they do what they do.

And then I refresh my browser and see the news. 14 children dead. 1 teacher dead.  The shooter is dead.

Another fucking school shooting. Another 18 year old with access to guns. Another disenfranchised, angry, obsessed young man. Another one.

I pour a drink and I lay down on my bed, pull the quilt over my head, even though it’s too warm for a quilt. I lay there in the dark, breathing in my own carbon dioxide, and think about trying not to think.

I go for a walk later with my daughter. We talk about the shooting. 16 dead, plus a teacher. We talk about the fight at her school today that resulted in a kid being wheeled out in a wheelchair. We talk about the kid who insists on dropping the N word as he enters the room, and the kid who is so disruptive that no one can even begin to concentrate on the worksheet. We talk about her school year, her future, the debt she will accrue in college, the relationships she hasn’t had yet. I have managed to keep her alive for 15 years and 50 weeks. 

18 dead, plus a teacher.

My son wanders down, pulls out a frozen pasta mix, puts it in the pan. He is watching some YouTuber, an obsession I will never understand. I tell him the news. Another school shooting. Fuck, he says. That sucks. He goes back to his phone, watching the latest takedown of Dr. Strange and the Multiverse. He is suddenly taller than me, his voice suddenly lower. His feet won’t stop growing. I have managed to keep him alive for 13 ½ years.

18 dead. 2 teachers. The math is fuzzy. The numbers keep climbing.

We sit down and watch a Thor movie. I can’t do reality right now. I can’t do real people. Superheroes are all I can handle, all I can emotionally lift tonight. 

It’s a senseless tragedy.

Thoughts and prayers.

I tuck my own kids into bed, knowing that —no matter how hard I love them, no matter how many tools I try to give them— their lives are at the whim of some future angry, disenfranchised young man, some guy with a sense of futility, coupled with anger at being wronged, some guy with access to guns— their lives are not in my hands. I literally can’t keep them alive.

Tomorrow, the alarm will go off and I’ll get everyone up. Make coffee, make peanut butter toast, make oatmeal. I’ll remind my son to take his band uniform to school. I’ll hug my daughter and tell her there are only 12 days of chemistry left.

19 dead plus 2 teachers. Their summer vacation would have started in 2 days.

Tomorrow, I’ll thank my partner for recognizing that I just couldn’t face anything resembling reality. Thor was as deep as I could get.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to school and try to reassure my students that they are safe. I’ll email the counselors again about that one kid who scares me, with his angry eyes and his silence. I’ll email his mom again, begging her to get him some help, begging her for reassurance that he is okay. I’ll tell him I’m proud of him, that I see that he’s trying. I’ll try to make eye contact, to see into that darkness, to try to connect.

19 dead plus 2 teachers. Many more hospitalized. Tomorrow, the numbers will probably be higher. 

It's Tuesday.

Thoughts and prayers.

Never Punch Down

 Seems like everyone has an opinion on Will Smith’s actions at the Oscars.

But I think I might be on #teamsmith.

Hear me out: Violence is never the answer. But words cause irreparable harm as well. A slap across the face stings for a bit. Words last a lifetime. Both are wrong. Both are human mistakes.

I feel like Will Smith is getting some heavy criticism for things that are inherently more about him than about his actions. If Jada had marched up there and slapped Chris Rock…would we be overwrought about her physical violence? If Patton Oswald had marched up there to defend his (late) wife’s reputation…would we be so quick to judge? How much of this backlash is because Will Smith is hot, successful, and—wait for it—Black? 

There is a whole lot of “non-violent” rhetoric coming out of the blogosphere. And I want to agree. An eye for an eye makes everyone blind. Turn the other cheek. Violence is never the answer. 

But why is bullying from the stage okay?  

Chris Rock should know better. You never punch down. You always punch up. And if taking cheap shots at Jada and Will is okay in your book, then who is off limits?

If someone had mocked my man or my kids or my mom or anyone else that I loved from the stage on national tv…are we required to just sit there and take it? Suck it up because violence is never the answer?

I find it very strange that white comedians like Amy Schumer, Kathy Griffin, and Jim Gaffigan are suddenly “triggered” by Will Smith’s violence; Jim Carrey is “sickened” and would sue for $200M if Will Smith had slapped him. These people have the right to their opinions, but it is strange that they are so physically affected by an action that was not directed at them and is literally not about them at all. Chris Rock has a history of mocking Jada Pinkett Smith from the stage in very public fashion. If this was a roast of Pinkett Smith, then she should be expecting the attack. But at the Oscars? Why does Rock get to throw shit at her? Why does he feel the need to belittle her? And why are a bunch of white people all up in arms about his right to do so?

I don’t know what I would do in that situation, and I’ll never have to know. I’m not famous. I’m not in the public eye. I’m not dealing with a very public autoimmune disorder, and neither is my partner. But even more than that—I am not Black. No one is policing my actions or expecting me to be the poster child for all white women. And I just don’t think that we have the right to police the relationship between two Black men with decades of history. We don’t get to arm-chair judge the actions of one man, in a very emotional time, who slapped—not punched, but slapped—another man across the face for insulting someone he loved. 

Will Smith could have taken Chris Rock to the floor. He didn’t. His awards speech later in the night conveyed how emotional the entire situation was. His apology the next day was not only well-written, but it was honest, it owned his actions, and it recognized his errors.

Maybe we could all just give our hand wringing a rest. There are real villains in this world destroying real lives. But at the end of the day, Chris Rock is fine after being slapped. And frankly, he deserved to be shut down. Because the harm that he causes with his words is more violent than any slap across the face that he received.

Photo by jurien huggins on Unsplash

If we really feel the need to pass judgment on this situation and insist on non-violence, then we also need to look in the mirror and reflect on what non-violence really means.

Words cause harm.

Words have consequences.

We can do better.

The 10 Year Challenge

I swear, the 10 year challenge is some sort of corporate mindfuck, like Sweetest Day or Mother’s Day, meant to make us feel inadequate and drive us to spend money on things we don’t need to fill our self-esteem void. No one—I repeat—NO ONE looks and feels better after 10 years of a well-lived life. We may tell ourselves that we look wiser, more zen, more in control—but we are also older, greyer, lumpier, wrinklier, closer to death. Every 10-year challenge photo collage on my feed is conveniently followed by ads for fixes for menopausal symptoms, work-out programs, intermittent fasting plans, and comfortable bras. 

We are being played.

It’s impossible to avoid feeling inadequate, if we compare ourselves to someone 10 years younger. That’s 10 years of living, 10 years of hopes and dreams and struggles and frustrations and anxieties and illnesses and disasters and joys. Just look at the dust on the top of the ceiling fan blades. Multiply that by 10 years. That’s a lot of dust. That’s a lot of life lived.

I look back at 39-year-old me, and I was a hot mess. Single, trying to keep 2 kids alive, trying to pay the bills on a single salary, trying to keep up with an impossible workload, trying to be “fun enough” for a leadership team of childless men—that woman was thin and gorgeous, sharp angles and intense eyes. I see those pictures and I can’t believe how beautiful she was, a red-headed powerhouse who wore heels on purpose. 

But I’m not sure that person is someone I want to compare myself to. She was stunning. But she was also hanging on by a thread. Her best friend rescued her on the regular, as she locked herself and her kids out of the car, out of the house, lost her keys again and again in the snow. Her patience was as taut as her calves; she punched walls late at night out of frustration, trying to get her kids to just go to bed; her students thought she hated them, because she couldn’t keep the exhaustion and frustration out of her voice and off her face, as they asked a question she’d already answered 6 times, and then complained about having to read a book in English class.

I’m not that woman anymore. My students still complain; I still get frustrated. That frustration still shows in my voice and on my face. And yet, they tell me regularly that I approach them with honesty and compassion, and they thank me on the regular for my understanding and grace. I’m not the teacher I was, thank god. My own kids no longer scream at bedtime; I don’t punch walls anymore. I don’t take long walks outside in the dark after they are in bed, just trying to remember to breathe, while desperately hoping the house doesn’t burn down while I’m gone. I’m not the mom I was.

I know that, ten years from now, my kids will be out of the house and my workload will lighten substantially. I won’t be kicking out 100s of dollars a month to pay for clothes for kids who won’t stop growing, and to cover sports fees and school fees and music lessons and batting lessons and McDonalds. In just a few more years, I won’t have to get up at 5:30 in the morning if I actually want a warm shower; I won’t have to fold 8 loads of laundry every weekend; I won’t have to try to put food on the table that will appease all of the likes and dislikes and allergies and abhorrences in the house. In 10 years, my house will be paid off and I won’t have to work 3 jobs to pay the bills. 10 years from now, I will be 59. Maybe, when all of this current responsibility is gone, maybe I can get back to the size 12 that I was 10 years ago. Maybe that’s when the comparison picture will make me feel like I’ve come into my own, that I’ve finally aged gracefully. And yet, 10 years from now, the chin(s) will be lower, the wrinkles deeper, the skin more transparent, the hair greyer, the ads for bladder slings ever more prevalent. 10 years from now, will I be good enough?

David Foster Wallace, love him or hate him, mused about “making it to 30, or maybe 50, without wanting to shoot yourself in the head.” (Spoiler alert—he didn’t make it.) but he did tell the story about the two young fish that now lives as a tattoo on my forearm.

There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, "Morning, boys, how's the water?" And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, "What the hell is water?"

If we are so busy comparing ourselves to who we were—or to who we think we should be—we are never allowed to appreciate who we are today. There are so many things I want to do this year, the year I turn 50, and so far I haven’t managed any of them very successfully. Life got in the way.

But life is the water we are in.

I don’t want to waste this year of my life, comparing myself to who I was, or who I think I should be. I want to live this year of my life—right here, right now—and appreciate this water for what it is. I want to learn to extend the grace to myself that I try so hard to extend to my kids and my students and my partner. 

Photo by Steven Lasry on Unsplash

I want to look in the mirror and appreciate the beauty that is looking back at me, not because of who she was or who she might someday be, but because of who she is today.

Maybe that’s my 10 year challenge.

50 Things - Week 1

2022 is the year I will turn 50.

It’s strange, because from the outside, it looks like I’ve lived an incredible, privileged life, full of so many experiences --so much education-- and surrounded by so many amazing people. And inundated with so. much. stuff.

And yet, as is the norm, from the inside looking out, it feels like a life not yet quite lived. A life where “too much” doesn’t just apply to my personality, but to everything about me. Too much stuff. Too much obligation. Too much weight. Too much debt. Too much to do. Too many sleepless nights.

This year, I will turn 50. Even in the best possible Betty White scenario, my life is half over. 

So what do I want the next 50 years to look like? And when will I start making that happen? What are the things that I realistically can do --or not do-- to live the life that feels truly lived, and not just survived?

50 Things to Do Before I’m 50

1. Move intentionally for 50 minutes each day. Walk? Run? Dance (like a formerly Baptist white girl)? Channel my inner Jillian Michaels? Shaun T? Billy Blanks? Jeff Galloway? Adriene Mishler? What does that 50 minutes look like and how in the hell do I make it happen? Stay tuned…

2. Get rid of 50 items of clothing. Don’t pretend that I’ll have time to sell it. I won’t. I really should just delete Mercari and Poshmark. Maybe I’ll do the hanger thing. Maybe I’ll Marie Kondo the closet. (we all know I probably won’t do that.) Maybe I’ll just get rid of stuff that isn’t comfortable. I can do that.

3. Break the “Shopping High” addiction. Do. Not. Buy. Clothes (or shoes) in 2022. Do Not. (Except for bras and running shoes. But I will not buy impulsively. I will not buy online. I will not.)

4. Drink 50 oz of pure water each day. Not coffee. Not tea. Not Coke Zero. Not Seltzer. Not Vodka. Not water with vodka. Just pure water. Drink it. (And then drink the other things.)

5. Write 50 blog posts. They don’t have to be good. They just have to be. Look, a list! Blog post #1 done.

6. Lose 50 lbs. I know, I know. Weight loss should never be a New Year’s Resolution. But I’m tired of feeling run-down and I know why I feel this way, and I need to value my own health more than I value a drink or some fries or my pride. 

7. Go to bed (on average) 50 minutes earlier S-Th. 50 minutes means more sleep, less alcohol, less mind-numbing. Rest more.

8. Make an extra $50/week through subbing and save it for something special. Maybe take that trip, finally, with the girls. 

9. Make an extra $50/week through freelance and pay down debt. 

10. Do something technology-free for 50 min/day. Meditation? Reading? Going for a walk? Put the phone down and just exist in the world.

Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash

The other 40 things? These are T.B.D. Maybe I’ll document them. Maybe I won’t. But I don’t want to just survive 2022. I want to truly live it. This is the year I will turn 50 and I want to remind myself that I matter.

This is week 1.

Untitled.

It was late at night when the phone rang. 

My roommate’s little sister sat next to him in Chemistry. One of her friends died.

We talked about what it feels like, to see this happen over and over and over again, to see it get closer and closer and closer.

“Why?” I asked. I didn’t need to finish the question. She knew. Everyone knows the rest of the question. No one has an answer. No one ever has an answer.

“Anger.” That was the best answer we could find. And yet, we mused, no matter how many times we have been ragingly angry, no matter how many times we have survived physical, verbal, emotional, sexual violence, we have never decided to kill people. That’s a white guy response. Overwhelmingly. Another white guy. Why?

It could have been anyone.

But that’s not true. My middle school son, a white guy with outbursts of uncontrollable anger, does not have access to guns. We work with a therapist. He’s learning to be aware of his body, of when his heart starts to pound, of when he feels anger building. We talk it out, every night. His day, his frustrations, his joys, his insecurities, his anger, his laughter. I curl up in bed with him at night, a full body hug, as he cries, apologizing for the plate he broke in anger. He does not have access to guns. 

It’s not anyone. It never is. It’s a specific person at a specific moment in time. Usually a white guy. The signs were there. They always are.

And yet it happens again.

Today, at school, the kids are quiet. Their eyes are serious and sad. The room is silent. Occasionally a student looks up. Makes eye contact. Looks down.

“Are you okay?” I ask. 

My friends there, they were in the group chat as it was going down. It just kept blowing up all day. All night. Helpless. Scared.

Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. Just sad.

I’m fine.

I know.

I know.

I check the news again, looking for answers. Make it make sense.

My students check their feed. They text their mom. They make eye contact. They put their phone down.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I get it. You can text your mom.”

I scroll my feed, looking for answers.

I want to hug them all, each and every one of them, an awkward, uncomfortable hug from a middle-aged not-huggy lady, because I want to tell them that I am here. That they will be okay. That they are safe. I want to give them assurances that I don’t believe.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell them.

The bell rings.

Time, Time, Time...

13 years ago today, I was wearing an ice-diaper, staring at the biggest baby I had ever seen IRL. He looked like he'd eaten the other babies in the nursery; he was full-grown and so serious, compared to their shriveled hands and crying old-man heads. He was brave and beautiful. 

I walked out of the hospital at my pre-pregnancy weight. That's how big that kid was. And his heart was just as big. He loves, fiercely. He plays, fiercely. He rages fiercely. He turns in circles in the center of the room, telling a story about his day, picking up this thing from here and setting it there, picking up that thing from there and setting it who knows where. He gives me a full-on hug, still my snuggle bear, and he wanders upstairs to watch grown men squeal on YouTube, while I rescue the remote from the bathroom and a dog toy from the kitchen counter and his phone from the back of the couch.

In 6 years, he will be gone, suddenly an adult. 

I am not ready. 

Only this year, have I felt the ticking of the clock, as my kids grow into their futures. They have both started to settle -- just a bit-- into their own skin. Puberty is a fickle bitch and it has not been -- is not -- will not be easy on these two. They both sense and see the world for what it is. They call out injustice. They pick up on what is not said. They see hypocrisy and greed and they see beauty. They are both already taller than me. And they both reject societal standards of beauty and femininity and masculinity and sexuality. They are who they are and they dare you to ask them to be anyone or anything different. They refuse to cave to your pressures. 

But n 3 years, she will be gone. In 6 years, he will be gone. I won't have to feed them fast food in the car as we drive to practice; I won't have to stock the pantry with Cheez-Its because at least it's something they might eat. In 6 years I won't have to check the fridge for the remote. 

Photo by Delia Giandeini on Unsplash

Time is flying off the shelves like toilet paper.

Currently, my house is a disaster, my me-time consists of bourbon and Hallmark movies and laundry, and there is a single Rick and Morty sock on the piano. 

In 6 years, this chaos will be gone. 

I'm not sure I will ever be ready.