Month: March 2024

Today I went to my chiropractic/physical therapy appointment at a new place I’m trying. I really like the doctor; he is clearly explaining what’s going on with me and what I need to do to be balanced and pain-free again. He has a bit of an edge and a sense of humor I find appealing and refreshing.

He hooked me up to a machine that he said would open up my hip area and create space between discs. That sounded like a good idea; I’m pretty much up for anything. He turned on the machine, offered me a blanket, dimmed the lights and said, “Go ahead and take a nap.”

As Stevie Wonder crooned through the speaker, the machine started to tug me toward the bottom end of the table.

Within 10 minutes, I had to remove the padded strap around my chest lest it end up around my neck, and I started plotting my escape from the contraption if it proved necessary.

Finally, the timer went off, and the receptionist came in.

“I’m not sure this is right,” I told her.

She wasn’t sure, as she was pretty new, and said she had to wait for the beep to unstrap me. Luckily, the doctor returned and confirmed that this was not, in fact, how it was supposed to go.

He explained that I was supposed to exert sufficient resistance against the machine so that I wouldn’t slide down the table. I politely pointed out that I didn’t get that direction. He said this happens sometimes.

What does this say about me? Am I a frog in a slowly boiling pot? I spent the drive home distracted from my audiobook and wondering if this means I’m too passive. Maybe I should be more assertive in general. Would a more assertive person have naturally resisted the tug of the machine?

You can bet I’ll beat that thing next time I’m strapped to it. It’s going down.

I drove Edwin back to VCU today, and it was clear sailing the entire way. I had to pinch myself a few times because this is not the I95 I know. Door to door took us 1:40.

He ran into his dorm to drop his bags while I waited in the car.

“There is literally nobody here,” he reported as he hopped back in the car. After all, campus had just opened at 10:00 AM, and it was 11:00. When we returned to his dorm after lunch and a stop at the grocery store for a few staple items, the building was still silent. Except for the young man at the check-in desk, we saw nobody.

As he put away his groceries and started unpacking, I asked him what he was going to do with the rest of his day. He pulled out his phone and checked Life360.

“Well, these friends are almost back to campus, but these people haven’t left home yet.” I peered at the screen and saw a small cluster of young adult faces approaching Richmond from the north; several other faces dotted Alexandria and Arlington, and I think I spotted a few approaching from the south and east.

“I think I’ll do some studying for my math test and then meet up with people.”

As I gazed out the window, I got a sudden twinge of that Sunday afternoon feeling the first few hours back in the dorm after a vacation my freshman year. I missed my bedroom and the comforts of home. Studying and papers were awaiting my attention. It took me a bit before I readjusted, but inevitably, as I reconnected with people and didn’t have to explain to anyone where I was headed at “this hour,” I perked up and reveled in my independence. I imagine that’s sort of what Edwin is experiencing today.

We are having a rare family night on this rainy evening. Maxine is tired from this morning’s SAT test, and Edwin has had enough late nights to tire him out.

Chris and I suggested going to dinner at Peter Chang and were met with no resistance. Usually it’s a fight between pizza, Indian, Ethiopian, sushi, etc.

We chatted about school, summer plans, Edwin’s living situation next year, and TV shows. A few arguments flared between the kids but weren’t too contentious.

When we asked them what we should after dinner, Edwin suggested watching Fantastic Mr. Fox. Maxine expressed great enthusiasm. Chris and I were in, as well.

Two for two! This is rare.

I am sometimes tempted to joke around with the students, but it is a very slippery slope. You can’t just partially uncork a champagne bottle or invite the genie out of the bottle for just a few minutes. I am reminded of this whenever I get a little loosey goosey in the classroom. If I crack a joke, get a little silly, or throw caution to the wind and answer a tangential question, they are off to the races.

My natural inclinations are to tease, be teased, and above all, to laugh. What more hospitable environment for this than middle school? Alas, I have a job to do, which would be nearly impossible if I gave into these whims. It would be chaos. The trick is maintaining a balance we can live with: a quiet undertone of humor with clear boundaries. The occasional uproar is inevitable and acceptable.

Edwin is home for spring break and has made the most of his time off. He has gone downtown to art museums and cafes, taken the train to Charlottesville for the day, and had friends from high school over to play video games and watch movies. Right now he has about six 19-year-olds in the basement.

As I get ready for bed, they are gearing up for a night out. They’re heading to Decades, an 18+ nightclub in Dupont Circle that has six floors. Each floor has its own DJ playing music of a certain decade and style. I’ve threatened to show up in 80’s gear, but the truth is I will be in a deep sleep before they even snap on his underage wristband.

A friend in the neighborhood who moved to Florida last summer is in town for a few days. She sent out a text on our women’s text chain Monday asking who could get together for dinner tonight. A flurry of texts later, we had a respectable potluck taco bar planned.

We gathered at 6:30, each bearing a yummy contribution, chatted, laughed, ate, reminisced, laughed some more, and headed home at 8:30. Now, that’s a good Wednesday evening.

I ran into my friend, Ron, this morning. I had dropped Edwin at the Alexandria train station for a day trip to Charlottesville to visit friends and had a free hour before an appointment, so I went to Misha’s Coffee Shop in Old Town. Whenever I’m there, I look for my high school friend, Andrea, who is co-owner, but no luck today. However, I ran into her dad, Ron, who had stopped in for his Tuesday morning pastry pickup, so we sat down and caught up.

He and his wife have pretty much been family since my senior year in high school. They stepped in when my older sister died suddenly when I was in Jamaica with Andrea for spring break. They arranged our emergency journey home and stepped in to alleviate the ensuing chaos swirling around our grieving family, which included my three-year-old niece, who was bewildered by her mother’s absence.

They were there at our prom, taking pictures of us with our dates and lending us their red Kharmann Ghia (license plate “Sugar Mag”). Ron made homemade pizza every Friday night, and they hosted my boyfriend’s punk band in their basement before we left for college. They hosted my bridal shower; Ron wore a tux and passed out hors d’oeuvres on a silver tray as Paula poured champagne cocktails.

Paula began an annual tradition of taking my niece, Natalie, to dinner and the ballet at the Kennedy Center on their shared birthday. They delivered birthday and Christmas gift bags every year for all of us without fail until they retired and needed to be more frugal. More than half of our Christmas tree ornaments are from them; elegant champagne bottles marking every New Year’s, official White House ornaments, and glass ballet dancers hang alongside Maxine and Edwin’s preschool laminated handprints.

As we sat at the table in Misha’s, I realized we were being watched when Ron pointed to the backseat of his car that was parked out front. There was their pampered little baby, Brandy, staring right at us. Brandy is their cocker spaniel and the fourth one they’ve had since I’ve known them. First they had Jude. When Jude passed, they got Jojo, then Lady, and now Brandy. The passage of time is funny; it can be measured in minutes, years, decades, and in cocker spaniels. I’ve known and loved them and been loved by them for four cocker spaniels. That’s a good chunk of time.

I see daylight savings peeking at me at me from the end of this week. I’m not ready.

I haven’t had my fill of long, dark nights or burrowing under fleece blankets on the couch in the evening. I don’t feel finished shivering as I make my way down the cold deck steps to roll back the hot tub lid and lower myself into the whirling, steamy water. I want a slumbering garden a good month away from needing tending.

Alas, I am at the mercy of the march of time, not the other way around. I wondered the other day how many years behind we would be if I had the power to stop time whenever I wanted. How many times would I have hit the pause button to linger endlessly on the beach? How many hours would I have stolen to grade papers and still have a whole weekend ahead of me? Sneaking in another hour of sleep before the baby wakes up would’ve been a regular habit. I think we’d be at least a good 10 years behind.

I wasn’t expecting the warm weather this morning, and halfway through a morning walk, I had my vest in hand. Three-quarters of the way home, I had my sweatshirt tied around my waist and was wishing I had opted for the capri-length instead of full-length leggings.

When I got home, I surveyed the front yard. I had cut down raggedy old stalks the other day and left all the dried seed pods intact in case some birds were still finding food in them. I hadn’t raked all winter; I knew that a leaf layer is good for the soil, but I also learned that butterflies rely on leaf coverage for laying eggs.

As I stood in the sun, eyeing new green life peeping through dead leaves and daffodils standing tall and buttery, I decided it was time to cut down all the dead growth for good and welcome in the new.

I gently scooped away leaves where they had piled up on each other but left a layer for the butterflies. I wonder when it’ll be safe to remove them. I’m not in a huge hurry, since I don’t have mulch yet.

I’m taking my time, one or two layers at a time.

I’ve been widening my music listening choices to include country. I’ve listened to bluegrass before, mostly when a colleague started loaning me some of his and his wife’s favorite albums a number of years back. I enjoyed them and appreciated that they wanted to share them with me, but none of them truly stuck.

Then I heard the country supergroup The Highwomen. Four successful country music artists came together to write and record their album: Brandi Carlile, Amanda Shires, Natalie Hemby, and Maren Morris. We were on a long weekend winter getaway with two other families a couple years ago, and our friend put on the album. As we listened to the song “Crowded Table,” literally crowded around a long pine table and playing games with our kids, I was struck by the beauty and power of these women’s voices. They are striking on their own but transformative together.

There’s always room at the table for something (and someone) new to love.