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Time was, we creative women with stylish glasses would reconvene on a monthly basis to share project ideas and give constructive feedback.
Now the mere act of getting together in a public space is the featured activity.
One of the best features of being sequestered for our own good is how much we value getting together once we venture out. And might I add, “venting out.”
I unleashed months of tension that once I got out of my system, I immediately felt a bounce in my mental health. I imagine it like a video game where my character scores some valuable thing and there’s a wonderful increase in health.
None of us had brought any work to share, but we all floated away afterwards with optimistic feelings of how we’re going to tackle our projects. Hopefully, we’ll get to gather our creative minds together on a more regular basis to get back into the groove.
The physical appearance of this on-going pandemic has manifested all over my body: 147 lbs, 35″ bust, 35″ waist, 41.5″ hips, and 23.25″ thigh. Never in life have I ever summarized myself in such numeric terms besides age, but I recently joined a “life improvement” challenge. Granted, the point is both physical and mental improvement. I especially want to lose the pandemic pounds along with the reoccurring negative thoughts.
Yet, the physical measurements are both easier to ascertain while at the same time harsh to read in black and white. I’m well aware that numbers don’t lie, but people can lie with numbers. The lie I may be telling myself about these set of numbers is that they’re the conclusion of an on-going pandemic, middle age hood, and a full time desk job.
I’ve done everything I can to counteract all except the aging part. I’m not obsessed with reversing the aging process–just living through it healthily and pain-free. As far as the pandemic, I’m double vaxxed and considering the booster. As far as the J-O-B, I got a standing desk, which I started off using just for the last 90 minutes of the work day, then the last two hours, and finally close to four hours.
I’m doing all I can to mitigate the curveball changes in the course of pursuing happiness. But those numbers. Once I got those measurements, I felt less attractive. I envisioned the top half of my body as a cylinder and the bottom half as a sphere. Contained within, a restless blob.
As disjointed as that image is, I’m working to reconcile body positivity with getting back into shape and embracing a more positive headspace. Part of the challenge is taking a daily supplement. The upside is that it gives me more energy, better sleep and suppresses the hunger pains, which means the munchies have disappeared. Eventually, the weight will too. The downside, I’ve got one more thing that’s become a part of my morning routine.
I never met my Great Uncle Daniel AKA “Uncle Down,” who was the third child of my Great Grandfather Jesse and his second wife, Great Grandmother Lucy.
Yet, from the colorful stories I’ve heard about Uncle Down, I recognized the vibrant spirit that runs throughout my family.
Fortunately, I interviewed two of my older relatives for the Strange Family Folklore podcast. One of whom, my mother, Velma Mae Roberson nee Strange, reminisced fondly about how Uncle Down’s horse tricks and broom dancing in “Uncle Down, the Horse Trickster” episode.
On the other hand, one of my second cousins, Ted Strange, Jr., who is a year younger than Mom, painted a vivid picture of Uncle Down’s tobacco farming and moonshining in “The Daring Uncle Down” episode.
Two things that both Mom and Cousin Ted drove home was how Uncle Down and his wife, Aunt Carrie, absolutely loved children even though they had none of their own. Secondly, on their fertile property grew a veritable garden of Eden’s worth of fruit. Given Mom’s and Cousin Ted’s descriptions, I can almost taste all that homegrown produce.
The consolation prize of not having videos of Uncle Down’s horse tricking and broom dancing are the firsthand eyewitness accounts recorded for future generations to enjoy.
I’m not into dumpster diving…especially with this pandemic business going on, but I’m all about picking up gently used furniture that is dumpster-adjacent.
Hence, our new circular dining table. As I strolled around the apartment complex on a beautiful Sunday afternoon and talked with one of my sisters, I saw it.
I fast walked back to the apartment to get my car and ask my roommate to assist me with retrieving the table. All I can say is thank goodness I have a hatchback. We put the table into the car, legs first, which my roommate held onto since we couldn’t close the hatch. I drove slowly, avoiding speed bumps.
Now one of the upsides of the being in a pandemic is that I had plenty of disinfectant wipes to clean the table off before bringing it into our apartment. I’d had a card table for a dining table for over ten years. I’m sure part of my fascination with the preowned table has to do with being sequestered for nearly two years. Yet, the energy in that corner of this tiny apartment has been changed.
After we positioned it, I announced, “We’re going to have a shot party on Friday!” Didn’t even have to check my schedule or ask my roommate about hers. When I texted a picture of the table to some friends along with the impending shot party, one friend immediately invited herself.
My roommate had her drink together precisely at 5:01.
I had some other running around the apartment to do. As soon as I got off from work, which I do from home, I had a 15-minute workout on my vibration plate. Then I set the party table.
For my drink, I googled something like “fall shots” and landed on a recipe that included fresh ginger, sparkling apple cider, apple brandy, honey, with fresh mint garnish.
I’d bought a nice-sized piece of ginger for another drink recipe from Mom: whole cloves, a few sticks of cinnamon and chopped ginger. I brought all that to a rolling boil, then let it steep until it cooled. Turned out very strong but still drinkable.
Good thing too. That healthy drink made a delicious mixer for the alcohol I added to make my fall cocktail. Why mix in only ginger when you can have cinnamon and cloves as well?
Although I called it a “shots party,” let’s face it, I didn’t do shots when I was a cute age to do it, so I surely wouldn’t start that up as a newly minted middle aged woman.
I sipped my cocktail with a throw-together meal my roommate and I put together: cauliflower crusted supreme pizza with a biscuit, baked asparagus and pork ribs. OK, so my only contribute was the pizza. Then again, I spotted the table and planned the party. Great thing I don’t have to do everything.
As usual, I cast my vote in person on the first day of early voting.
I worried that I’d have to wait in line with the other people just getting off work around that time. Silly rabbit! No one but other very nerdy voters booked it to the polls on the first day they were open to vote on bonds and proposals.
Nonetheless, I perform my civic duty as soon as I’m able to, no matter how seemingly trivial the election. After all, I want to have a say in the community in which I live. Plus, I wanted to sport my sweet “I Voted” sticker as I shopped for groceries afterwards.
More importantly, I texted my photo to several friends to remind them that early voting had begun, knowing that about half of them wouldn’t even bother, but for the half who would, totally worth it. In this current climate of voter restrictions, who knows how many elections I have before the restrictions take me back to the 60s?
Not just another excuse to dress up and attend a real live event. Thanks to the membership showcase, I saw my first short film, There’s Always Something, up on the big screen.
Additionally, this was the first time I’d met some other board members in real life after many monthly Zoom call meetings. We hugged one another like long lost friends.
After about 30 minutes of boozing and schmoozing in the lobby, we were finally ushered into the theatre.
Took everything in me not to take a picture of my film as it played. I didn’t catch anyone else doing such an uncouth thing, so I played it cool and restrained myself. Besides, the organization had a photographer going around and taking pictures throughout the evening. All I have to do now is be patient and wait for those pictures to be uploaded to the website…of course now that I going to be a part of the marketing committee since I’m no longer secretary, that my very well be my job.
Speaking of jobs, as much as I enjoy my newish full-time job, I think the concept of “full-time” should be no longer than six and a half hours a day. After all, we’re already working in shifts. Plus, with a desk job, even a lucrative work from home desk job, embracing more sedentary hours lead to higher blood pressure and diabetes. Not to mention a loss of time to advance creative projects such as filmmaking.
Technically, I made a second short film, yet this one was also not written by me. I’m still playing with the idea of making animated films out of something I’ve written. Something that can be done remotely and with an inexpensive app or two.
For now, I’m sticking to illustrating since the process is so relaxing, and podcasting. Like the two short films I made, I created two podcasts last year during the pandemic. I began with “CBD & Poetry,” thinking that I’d combine two of my interests just to get my podcasting feet wet.
Mission accomplished! For the first season, I interviewed friends who used CBD. I self-taught my way throughout the entire process and planned out dropping one episode a week as if I were programming a series. I even outlined and researched season two: CBD entrepreneurs.
Then, organically, I began interviewing my older relatives, starting with my mother for what eventually became known as “Strange Family Folklore” podcast. As I questioned Mom about how our family acquired land, that began a series of questions that deserved a series of podcast episodes. Unlike my first series, which I’ve put on an indefinite hold, this podcast is planned on the fly. I still edit it to the best of my abilities, but I don’t dare think of it in terms of “seasons,” but rather an on-going documentation of a part of my extended family.
In other words, I should have been that asshole who took a picture of my film on the big screen. I don’t know the next time I’ll get that chance again. Everything else I’m working on isn’t projectable.
Never been a huge fan of planks as part of my exercise regimen. Granted, I appreciate the beauty of nicely sculpted arms, but other than vanity, never enjoyed the pain of that gain.
Planks sneak their way into many of my virtual yoga-based classes because they come in so many varieties: high planks, forearm planks, side planks (both forearm and straight arm), bear planks, torpedo planks, plank jacks…I’m sure there are many others percolating in the mind of creative sadistic exercise/yoga instructors.
So, on the way to my car to run errands after work, I tripped and fell. First time in a long time I’ve fallen completely to the ground. Normally a stumble here or there, but a full fall has usually left me in a world of pain and months, sometimes years of recovery.
Not this time! This time, I fell into a high plank position. Not the sexy high plank position, but the OMG that “middle-aged woman just tripped and is going to break her hip” fall into the high plank position. Except, nothing hurt. Once I stopped falling, I held the position as I did a quick mental scan. I hadn’t banged my knee, hit my head, fallen onto one of my arms nor knocked out a tooth. I’d landed into an unattractive yet effective plank.
My scraped palms and wrists were the only evidence of the fall. Even the next day, when I thought my shoulders would be in pain due to the trauma of catching that fall. Nothing!
Planks have now been elevated to a survival skill. For once, I’m going to participate in “Planks-giving” come this November. My yoga studio sponsors the challenge. I believe they start off with a 20-second plank during the first couple of days, adding a few seconds periodically as the month advances until one reaches the 5-minute mark by Thanksgiving.
I shared the challenge with one of my sisters, who told me about her chiropractor’s daughter: she regularly holds a forearm plank for over an hour. Of course my initial thought was “Why?” Then again, kudos to her. Most 10-year olds are being as productive or are consuming TV or some other form of media mindlessly.
For now, I’ve stopped cussing in my head when I do planks and look forward to the challenge.
When a member of my creative writing group suggested we attend a quirky poolside talent show at an iconic motel, I jumped on the opportunity.
In real life, I wouldn’t have ever paid such a ticket price, parking fee, and lord don’t get me started on that overpriced watered down allegedly tequila-based drink I ordered before the show. All I can say is, I’m glad I took a picture of the provisional poolside bar as a shortcut to telling my friend what the bar offered. This picture at least proves the appearance of alcohol even if there was no evidence in my cocktail.
Nonetheless, very little could spoil this picturesque evening.
I even slathered on the Skin So Soft just in case climate change hadn’t killed off all the mosquitoes.
Although the host and judges were part of an improv troupe, the entire show seemed improvised. Not a single performer played it straight, which made me wonder how they curated the acts.
The synchronized swimmers performed first.
They achieved synchronicity more by the power of suggestion than actual timing.
Their stilted moves, along with their stiffly serious facial expressions, captivated us all.
They worked the crowd both in and around the pool.
Then the most bizarre talent on the scene did their thing.
As loosely as I used the phrase “synchronized swimming,” this performance I’d characterize as “burlesque.”
They removed the outer frumpy masculine-appearing layers, revealing the fight between bra and breasts.
They removed the outer frumpy masculine-appearing layers, revealing the fight between bra and breasts.
When as many layers that could be legally removed were finally stripped away, they jumped into the pool.
Another performance I’ll call “Elvis-flavored.”
When he first came on the scene prior to the music playing, I had a 50-50 chance of guessing correctly: Roy Orbison or Elvis. Then the Elvis medley came on, I think. It was definitely Elvis. Don’t remember whether it was one song or a few.
Next up: light sticks guy.
Or was it lit batons man? Either way, I was more amazed by the lit sticks, especially the illusion of geometric patterns as they moved swiftly through space.
Followed by a fire dancer.
Who ended up jumping in the pool after a fire hoop twirl gone wrong. That spontaneous pool dive was one of my favorite parts of the show. The sheer spontaneity of following her creative bread and butter.
After all was said and done, I spent around $80 for the evening. My cheap ass normally wouldn’t have spent that much on an outing. However, times have changed. The last time I’d hung out, I’d had a different job and hadn’t yet taken my first data science class. A lot can happen in nearly four months. So, I figure if I only drop about $80 every four months, that’s not too bad.
Mom is the home remedy queen. Something I take for granted until my general health dips. Years ago when she visited me for a week, she battled a ragweed allergy. She didn’t load up on cough drops like I normally do. Instead, she kept making herself garlic shots.
She peels a garlic clove. Minces it in a press. The contents of which goes into a spoon. Then she sweetens it with a little juice and takes it like a spoonful of medicine, which in a way it is.
I no longer drink juice on a regular basis.
As a matter of fact, when I bought two bulbs of garlic, I didn’t even think about how I’d sweeten it.
I had the proper apparatus, which is funny since I hardly ever bother with it.
These days, I either handchop raw garlic or put it in my blender.
Unlike manufactured medicines, I don’t take a full tablespoon of raw garlic.
Three little doses are so much better than one heaping, soul-burning tablespoon of raw garlic.
In the morning, I fill my spoon with water, but for the afternoon and evening doses, I’ve found yet another practical use for boxed wine.
That spout is a controlled way to dispense a medicinal amount into a spoon.
As much as I like red wine, I prefer it without the garlic, but garlic slides down nicely with it.
Although I have cough drops on my grocery shopping list for next week, I won’t need to gobble them down like I’ve done. Raw garlic shots thrice a day should do the trick. I’m limiting it to three small shots because Mom went overboard during the beginning of the plague when no one could be vaccinated. She gave herself garlic-induced dry eyes, which she had to counterbalance with eyedrops.
I’m not trying to give myself something else to remedy. There are already too many fires to take care of.
Never before have I used a birthday to make a conscious effort to improve the quality of my life. The kind of changes that most people make around New Year’s, but then again, I’ve never lived through a pandemic either. Going on two years of being sequestered. Now a combination of middle age bulge and pandemic pounds are literally weighing me down.
I’m not even trying to be girlie here. Recently, a man had a heart attack and couldn’t find a hospital to admit him. He died because so many COVID patients crowded him out. I cannot say that my recent lifestyle change will prevent a heart attack, but it’s better than sitting around and seeing how far and fast my ass can spread.
As much as I like my new job, I’ve sat on my ass for 8 hours a day. A full-time desk job managed to change my body faster than I imagined. I’m not at the place yet where I believe “sitting is the new smoking.” Then again, I’m not going to wait until my excessive sitting catches up to smoking levels.
Adopting a new exercise routine wasn’t too hard, courtesy of the pandemic. My active schedule has been wiped clean, so breaking up my online bingewatching when not asleep or at work is a good thing. Plus, it gives me something new and interesting to think about.
My eggbeater kick has come along nicely. I still can’t quite do it, but the overall pool workout is what I focus on while the weather permits. I only have a few more weeks until the temperature drops or the rainy season begins.
Just in time to level up on my vibration plate. I’ve used that magic machine twice a day during the week and once a day on the weekend. The first thing I noticed when I started using it was how good my joints felt. After about two or three days, I discovered how it helps “detoxification.”
I’ve not had a bowel movement like that since being in the yoga hot room before the plague. Thanks to a mostly healthy diet and exercising on a regular basis, I don’t experience constipation. But this vibration plate, just like Bikram yoga, causes “enhanced” bowel movements.
Call me crude. I can’t help thinking that this is one of the few cases where getting more shit is a good thing.
