Getting Steady

Sitting still is the hardest. When I’m anxious or sad, staying in one place is torturous. I need to move. To change positions and scenery. If I change my stance or the way I’m sitting, if I change where I am, then maybe I can shift the feelings that are haunting me.

Vacation—despite the ever-present oppression of family—was, nevertheless, soothing; a much-needed distraction from day-to-day difficulties to which we have returned.

Years ago, I numbed myself to psychic pain. I ate. I drank. I watched a lot of television. Gradually, I woke up and saw that I was actually creating more pain for myself. I started swimming. Then running. That was 30 years ago. The growth wasn’t all linear. It came in fits and starts.

Marrying F. steadied me. Being loved well eliminated extraneous hunger and angst. Since then, I have learned healthier ways of channeling frustration and pain. I’ve come to see them as inevitabilities of living, not as indictments of who I am.

It takes a long time to get steady one’s self. And it’s not fool-proof. Anger and fear and grief still have the power to knock me over. But at least now, I have a better idea of how to get back on my feet.

Faux Pas

His apology caught me by surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” the lifeguard said, as if he’d mortally wounded me. “I’m so, so, sorry.” I stared at him, perplexed. What insult had he thrown at me that I'd missed?

“I’m so sorry, but may I ask your age?”

Was that all? Clearly, he was going to express his shock when I revealed my age. He was going to say that to watch me swim, he could have sworn I was half my age. That not even the teenagers he coaches on the community swim team swim as smoothly, as fast. Clearly he was going to say that to look at my trim body and muscular arms, he would have guessed me to be at least 20 years younger.

“Oh,” he said with a hint of shame, when I said, “I’m 55.”

“Oh,” he repeated, shifting in his chair. “I was going to mention that in the mornings, we have a swim session for seniors. It’s less crowded then.”

The frame froze then. My mouth dropped and hung open for a few seconds. My eyes lost focus, probably because tears were filling them. I swallowed. I reminded myself to breathe.

He’s a kid, I told myself. He doesn’t know. What does he know? To his young eyes, 40 looks like 50 looks like 60. Shake it off.

“Not yet,” I heard myself say, forcing a chuckle. “I’m not there yet.”

Our smiles were awkward. There wasn’t anything more to say. I turned and walked into the locker room, then into the first shower stall, and closed the curtain tight.

Family Vacation: an Oxymoron

We have returned from our yearly summer vacation: one week to reunite with family (F’s), and one week to recover.

Two decades ago, when F. and I were first together, summer vacation was an eagerly-awaited tradition: convening in a cottage on Cape Cod; cooking big, lavish meals, enjoying great wine and staying up late playing games and talking. As the family mushroomed, vacations brought complications—different bedtimes, eating and sleeping habits; a lot of negotiating for a dozen-and-a-half people under one roof.

In 20 years, the ritual has lost its luster. 

Although I enjoy the closeness of family, I am weary of the complications: 18 people are a lot for one house and one dinner table. Meals are raucous (one family has three new little ones, whose whining and crying make pre-dinner cocktails medicinal.) We squeeze together, elbows in each other’s sides. I try to eat as peacefully as is possible with toddlers asking for bites of my salad. It is difficult to savor food among teenagers who eat like lab rats, grabbing seconds and thirds before anyone has finished their first small serving, filling their bellies until they are comatose.

No sooner do the teenagers scarf their dinner, than they vanish to check e-mails and post Instagrams; the adults then have the unenviable task of corralling them to do dishes, which they do feebly, leaving the kitchen a mess. The table is covered with half-filled glasses, strewn with food remnants and half-eaten bananas that draw a cavalry of fruit flies. Stray utensils, cookies and candy wrappers are underfoot.

Meanwhile, the adult children try to reconnect, constantly navigating emotional triggers, buried like landmines in innocent conversation.

I come to the shore seeking peace and restoration. But the older I get, the less tolerant I am of chaos. Perhaps I’m getting cranky in my older age. Or, perhaps I’m beginning to know myself.