I don't claim to understand God. I am not religious and have no faith whatsoever in traditional dogma. Whether God is a guy in the sky, a beautiful sunset or the perfect meal doesn't really matter to me. Yes, sometimes I think God is food. However, I do know the spiritual sense of purpose I feel when I can say, 'this is what I was meant to do in the world.' It's been a long time since I felt that.
As my career in health care has progressed and changed over he past 15 years, I have become more and more removed from the type of human connection I find meaningful. Like a slow leak, it was hardly noticeable at first, overshadowed by my need to conquer the next challenge, and then the next. Denial worked its magic, assuring me that the stale air of corporate life is important, even though it is often filled with activity that is mundane and...pretend. Gone are the days of pulsating drama inside the hospital when I could see and feel where I was needed most and respond to that need in the moment. Never did I feel more radiant and alive. Never have I felt closer to my interpretation of God.
Since my parents died, I am haunted by their unfulfilled dreams and the shortness of life, especially in light of my own quiet desperation. I have explored other work, or moving out of state to find my lost sense of purpose. Then suddenly, an epiphany. Someone else saw it first, as if this person looked inside my soul and spoke the truth that I knew was there, but couldn't clearly see. And the truth, as it always does, set me free.
Photo from desertpeace.wordpress.com
This morning as B-man and I walked our dog, Paige, I got the distinct vibe of iris in the air. Some yards even showed the green stubby beginnings of iris blossoms to come. Irises are pure drama with their unique shape and earthy smell. Think about it this way, how many times have you received a bouquet of irises? They are far too wild to be in the 'Valentines Day/sappy romantic/I screwed up will you forgive me/sorry I didn't buy you cheese instead' category.
Iris stands alone.
And you can't choose iris perfumes willy-nilly, like you might grab Paris Hilton's Heiress (my current guilty pleasure body spray...if you tell anyone, I'll deny it). No, you have to be in just the right mood to wear iris perfumes or they come across all baby powder and dirt, which is a real bummer on the wrong day. Plus, these perfumes are introverts that don't like people all that much. Never wear an iris perfume if you're a compliment whore or you are hoping to get laid. It won't work. Iris perfumes were invented solely to show introvert solidarity.
During our walk I decided on Hermes Hiris as my scent of the day, and touching the frosted blue bottle when we got home made the back of my neck tingle. In true iris fashion, I've played it cool today, doing introverted stuff like making chicken salad, watching the last half of Titanic and sending a few work emails. Now I'm enjoying a glass of red wine with B-man. Quietly, of course.
Picture from pinterest.com
Tonight after work - okay, I leave work early so it isn't actually night - I get in the elevator to go to the parking garage and another woman gets on who is headed for the lobby. I know who she is, but we don't have cause to interact much. She is a large woman probably around my age...mid to late 50's, and she walks with a limp, like she has a bad hip or one leg that is longer than the other.
We both say hello and then this conversation happens:
Her: I'm going for my last electrolysis treatment this evening.
I look at her, raise my eyebrows slightly and nod like I'm interested.
Her: I have a full goatee (she strokes her face where a goatee would be) and I'm used to taking an hour and a half every weekend to pluck it with tweezers.
Me: Oh, wow. (This is my go-to phrase when I don't know what the hell else to say.)
Her: I've already had five treatments and this will be my sixth. After five times I only have a few stray hairs left (her head is tipped back and she is stroking her chin - I'm afraid she will ask me to touch it).
Me: Wow, that's great. (I can't stop saying wow.)
Her: It doesn't really hurt - well, for 15 seconds - except for last time when my face was red after the treatment.
Where's the effing lobby?
Her: Plus, it only cost $400. Four hundred dollars well spent!
Me: That's so great. (I can't stop saying that's great.)
Finally, the bell dings and the doors open. She steps out of the elevator but won't stop talking.
Her: Look, this is my only vanity. I don't wear makeup, I don't do anything to my hair, (now louder as the door closes) but I do have electrolysis on my face!
I smile and nod knowing goatee I will never goatee see her again goatee without thinking goatee about her goatee.
Wow.
Photo from lovewitness.com
Lately, I've been in a funk. A few months lately.
I'm tired when I wake up and cranky after a 20-minute treadmill session. I'm taking longer than I should to get ready for work, then spending all day thinking my make-up is too pale or too bright, and my eyebrows too...something.
Hair is in a constant state of not quite rightness - color too light or too dark or too yellow. Yes, mostly too yellow because my hair is lighter than it's been for years. Or too gray, I can't decide. The other morning, right before I left home for the office, I told B-man, 'I think my blonde hair might make me look older.' He wisely said, 'I'm not getting into a discussion about your hair color - that's your thing.' My son JD and I met for lunch a couple of weeks ago and he said, 'you remember when you bleached my hair as a teenager? That's kinda how you look.' Just put me in a choke hold until I black out.
Plus, I'm not sleeping. Well, there's menopause sleep, where I wake up at least three times each night with hot flashes, then decide that since I'm already awake, I may as well churn over every humiliating moment of my life. There are quite a few as it turns out. After wearing myself out from memory cringe, reading Prevention magazine and skulking on Facebook, I fall asleep for another hour and a half, but not long enough to prevent me from looking like I was on an all night bender.
Having recently changed doctors, I'm in the process of getting everything current, so I'm doing all the good girl tests including blood draw, mammogram, pap test, the whole package. However, I refused a colonoscopy because there are very real risks involved. Have you ever seen those ads for butterfly patches to prevent 'anal leakage?' Seriously. Has anal leakage always existed and no one discussed it, or could it be the direct result of one too many colonoscopies? And what marketing genius said, 'I know, I know, let's call it anal leakage?'
Fortunately there's a viable alternative to a colonoscopy. I can simply scoop a sample of my poop out of the toilet and send it into a lab for analysis. That's right, just drop my shit in the mail. Better than a sharp, probing camera for sure, but reading the instructions for getting the perfect sample is freaking me out. Plus, there's this space station spiraled contraption that I'm supposed to put my poop in. I just stare at it, turn it upside down, then walk away and swear I'll come back to it later. Couldn't I just send a selfie?
The good news is, I like my new doctor. She is young and earthy and we actually laughed together at my first appointment...once I stopped bawling. Soon I will complete all of my tests and re-emerge hopefully with a clean bill of health and the need to manufacture new first world problems, which I consider a personal strength. But first, I have to conquer the 'you've got mail' stool sample.
Photo from twitter.com
A few months ago, I got a new car, which I promptly named 'The Bear.' That's because it feels big and it growls a little being a diesel and all. B-man drove it for the first two weeks because I just couldn't adjust. Behind the wheel, I felt like a two-year-old steering Daddy's grown-up car.
Then suddenly, I fall in love with The Bear. We bond. I even buy white sunglasses to match.
But wait, then I hear something like...I don't know, a low buzz. Yeah, that's it, a buzz. Then I realize that my passenger window is open slightly. I forget about the buzz and reconcile with The Bear.
Until today, when I call B-man right before getting home from work.
Me: Hi - can you meet me outside?
B-man: How come?
Me: 'Cause I need you to drive the car.
B-man: Uh-huh...the noise again?
Me: I don't know, I just need someone else to drive the car.
B-man: Yeah, okay, I'll meet you outside.
We're both in the car.
Me: When I hit 50 mph, that's when the noise starts.
B-man: Are you hearing it now?
Me: So you don't hear it?
B-man: Uh...no.
Me: Okay, I need to get on the freeway...do you hear it now?
B-man: Nothing but ordinary road noise.
Me: You need to drive.
B-man (driving): Do you still hear it?
Me: Well no, not now.
B-man: I think the car's fine.
Me: Pull over so I can get in the back seat.
B-man: Well?
Me: So nothin,' right?
B-man: I'm going to say nothin.'
I feel so much better knowing that my car is fine. It's my mind that's gone.
Image from dreamstime.com
Every time I wear Fragonard's Rose de Mai, it takes me five minutes to remember why I ever bought it in the first place. Top notes are soapy and dowdy... a little too 'Queen Elizabeth' if you know what I mean. I bought Rose de Mai in Baltimore a couple of years ago as I was ditching attending a conference. It seemed perfect then and provided a stark contrast to the salty, nutty smell of the air.
Here at home, it takes a few minutes to get to the good part. Luckily, just before the should I/shouldn't I scrub decision must be made, Rose de Mai changes and gets brighter with a little citrus (berries and a touch of lemon), complementary florals (lillies to my nose) and a lot less soap. In fact, the heart notes are downright fresh. The queen is nowhere to be found.
In the end, Rose de Mai stays true to its muse and is appropriate in all settings. At the office, its crisp, smart attitude sends a clear message that everything is perfectly pulled together.
Photo from fragrantica.com
The world is divided into two kinds of people: those that suffer from motion sickness and those that don't. I get motion sick as a passenger in cars. And in planes, on amusement rides, on buses and in elevators. I've been like this for as long as I can remember, and motion sickness adds extra planning to all travel.
Cruises are out of the question - just the thought makes me nauseous.
Yesterday, B-man and I went to another family reunion...our second in just over a week. Both events have included a drive of two or more hours. Any time we take a driving trip, we plan ahead to decide who is going to drive and at what points. Our conversation yesterday looked something like this:
Me: So, how should we do the driving?
B-man: However - I'm always good to drive.
Me: Yeah, but I don't want to take a Dramamine at 10 am, so maybe I should drive on the way there and you should drive home.
B-man: Okay, you drive up - that's great.
Me: Yeah, but I kind of want to veg and relax today, so why don't you drive?
B-man: Sounds good.
Right before we drop Paige at doggy daycare, and before I take my chewable Dramamine, the conversation starts again:
Me: Okay, I'm going to need to drive 'cause I'm starting to feel sick.
B-man: That's fine, we'll switch when we drop Paige.
Me: Could you smooth it out a little until we get there?
B-man: The brakes on your car are kinda touchy.
Me: I know, but still...
Now I'm driving, but can't stop talking about it:
Me: Okay, this is better...sorry that I suck as a passenger.
B-man: You've always sucked as a passenger - I'm used to it.
Me: Thank God for Dramamine.
B-man: This is great - now I can play on Waze and track your speed and tell you when there's a cop ahead...cause you're such a badass.
Me: Yeah, a real lead foot over here.
B-man: Gotta watch you every second.
Me: Hey, you have to admit I'm a great passenger when I'm drugged on Dramamine and managing the munchies, right?
B-man: You are the queen of munchie management, it's true.
Me: Thanks, hon.
B-man: The exit you need is sneaking right up - you better change lanes.
Me: Thanks, Waze boy, but I've driven this route about a thousand times.
B-man: And if I was driving like you're driving, I'd have to pull over so you could throw up.
Me: Sorry, I'll smooth it out.
B-man: Luckily, it doesn't bother me, just making a point.
Me: It's those sensitive brakes.
B-man: I know.
What makes a successful trip? Dramamine and a flexible husband.
Photo from amazon.com
