Pulling Back the Covers

back yard with red picnic table buried in snow
The picnic table was a great snow gauge

According to my camera, we spent February under a snow blanket. Plush and sturdy for weeks, high thread count, frequently refreshed. Now threadbare.

I’m glad for the gradual melt. The jagged icicle curtain hanging from the gutters fell piece by piece, thunderous but not terrifying. The apple tree below sustained minimal damage.

I’ve been thinking about the joyous thaw towards the end of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. As a kid, I didn’t catch that the story was a Christian allegory. Seasons have always been my religion anyway.

Chicago’s winter-spring (winting? springter?) tends to offer a good test of faith. I have learned to squint for the signs, the reassurances, of warm and lush days ahead. This is the time of year I start scrabbling around the musty leaves left over from fall in search of nodding snowdrops, crocus tips and the knuckles of hellebores.

close up of yellow crocuses and white snowdrops surrounded by dead leaves
From another year, around this time.

Until the first big snow, this winter had been dry and mild. By early January, green tips were starting to dot the sunny spots out back. Too early, even by our seasonal tug-of-war standards. As the snow level rose this month, slowly overtaking our picnic table, I pictured the bulbs being tucked back in. Snug and warm and waiting.

blurry photo of a green shoot emerging from wood chips
Spotted in early January

I’m grateful for the slow melt dripping into the soil instead of running off in a fury to the sewers. Peeling the cover back slowly gives our eyes a chance to adjust.

If you are eager for spring, it’s not too early to look down. Once you find one green blade, more will appear. The muds of March will feel less dreary.

photo of snow and woodchips with small leaves emerging from woodchips
Wild (I think) columbine uncovered yesterday

If you want to remember where and when to look next year, take a picture. It might not be gallery worthy. I have yet to master zooming in on a half inch nub while avoiding my phone’s shadow. But I never regret seeing these blurry artifacts from years past. They give me faith that spring will come.

photo of red tulip leaves just emerging--they look like a baby bird's beak
And if you take enough, you are bound to capture something special. I call this Hungry Baby Tulip Beak.

My Hands are Clean

All this hand washing is bad for my manicure!

(written on the run on my phone and I’m a terrible speller so… Please don’t judge mistakes)

I do wash my hands after using the restroom. However, in most respects I am below average, maybe even bottom quartile, when it comes to cleanliness.

As with the reports of red wine being good for us (anti oxidants),* I seize on news that says we should embrace dirt (depression busting microbes!) and even germs (build up that immunity!). Bathing everyday is bad for your skin? Excellent! I hate getting wet. And my bottle of shampoo has lasted a looooooong time. Good for the scalp and better for the environment.

When black twitter lights up about how unhygienic white folks can be, I sometimes feel seen. For example, I may or may not have been someone who thinks standing in the shower counts as washing your feet. I’m better about that now. When I bother to bathe.

We live in new times. But most of the advice spreading faster than the Corona virus consists of reminders of what we should have been doing all along. Washing hands with gusto, not to virtue signal. Refraining from fiddling with your face. Sanitizing key surfaces. Staying home when sick (yeah good luck with that in our culture). Being mindful of oozing wounds.

I’m writing this while on the train to Midway. Helps keep my hands off the seats and my eyes (though my phone is probably gross). I’m flying to Phoenix for a weekend for a mini reunion with college friends. Spread across three coasts, the last time we converged was maybe ten years ago with our wee children and husbands in tow. I can’t remember the last time it was just the four of us.

Thankfully, they share some of my feral views even if not my sloppy habits. The trip is on, but not without some anxiety on my part.

That I will be kicked off the plane for being perceived as sick. Even with daily allergy rx, I’m usually somewhere on the coughing sniffling continuum. Before I left, I tossed back some cold medicine to try to help suppresses any fake symptoms. I also packed some more tablets but what happens if security sees them and thinks I’m trying to sneak something past them?

That I will somehow get stuck in Arizona. While I wouldn’t mind some extra days of warmth, I’ll be missing my family and I’m administering midterms next week. I prepared by leaving copies of every thing they need at work in case someone has to cover for me.

That I will get sick. Well, I’m not super worried about that but….. I did step up my game a bit. Noticed that the wreckage of a hang nail was getting hot and proto oozy. Scrubbed my hands, put some ointment on and added a bandaid. Stuffed my purse with extra bandaids, two packs of tissues (to be used discreetly of course), two small bottles of hand sanitizer*, and clorox wipes. If I add anything else, I’ll be asked to check my purse as luggage.

I’m at the gate, surprised that the flight is full. The Cubs jerseys remind me that spring is underway. Apparently baseball thirsty fans are not easily daunted. Here’s to the antiseptic qualities of sunshine!

*conveniently skimming the warnings about moderation.

*Not something we usually have. When I went low key prepper shopping this weekend, there weren’t many left on the shelf. I resisted the urge to scoop them all up. Don’t give into panic!

Is it a purse or a suitcase? Reminds me of the diaper bag days.

Very Peri

(Warning–this is very much a TMI post related to my travails of being a middle aged woman. Proceed with caution if you are squeamish about how bodies, er, function/disfunction.)

George Cheers

Got my period this morning and I felt like George Bailey. Made me realize that It’s a Wonderful Life is not a story of crushed dreams, drunk uncles, blustering speeches, and the horrors of high density neighborhoods with neon saturated main streets.* No, it’s an allegory for perimenopause.

In addition to over-sharing about my symptoms on social media, I have been writing haiku about this stage of life. Most of these are from yesterday. Today’s hormone-induced glee and energy inspired me to bring this cycle to a close.*

Sixty plus days
PMS purgatory
Desperate to bleed

george yearning

This was the longest stretch between periods I’ve had so far. While that might seem like a positive, for me it just means more time trapped in crabbiness and bloat. Kinda like George being stuck in Bedford Falls?

Missed cycles, more pounds
Peeing on a stick, all clear!
Relieved. Just pudgy.

george big family

Remember George’s panic when he found out another baby was on the way? It’s so weird to be pushing 50 and heading to the disproportionately pink section of Walgreens to grab pregnancy tests.

Distracted by work
Weak bladder, emerging-pee
Yikes! Pee-mergency


OK, the movie doesn’t say whether George experienced middle aged incontinence, but I bet the director’s cut includes him peeing on the tree he crashed into after his bender.*

Hark! Sore boobs and zits!
The period advance guard
Symptoms I now cheer.

zuzus petals

Yesterday morning, when I told Michael about the stabbing pain in my right breast, he expressed concern. I replied: “No, this is good news! Maybe this means my period is coming!” I felt my chin and my smile broadened, though somewhat painfully. I can’t believe I am now delighted when my cystic acne flares. Just like when George realizes his face isn’t cut anymore, but the other way around, I guess.

Lost my shit last night
Barked at the whole family
I blame the hormones

For the most part, I am patient and conflict averse–for better and worse. But I was a bear yesterday. Spent dinner apologizing to my family, including Brandon’s girlfriend who is one of the most kind and polite people I have ever met. This reminded me of some of George’s temper tantrums. Here he is yelling at the kids after yelling at the teacher and then apologizing to the family and then yelling again when they are frozen in shock at his behavior. Well, at least I didn’t kick anything last night. It’s funny how It’s a Wonderful Life is considered such a feel good movie. There are other scenes where George is a real ass. But, if we look at his behavior through a menstrual cycle lens. . . hmmm.

I despair and shake my fist
Evolution, why??

george at bar

I love watching Jimmy Stewart in action. He clearly knows how low estrogen feels.

New day. Is that the sun?
Dash to the bathroom with hope.
Yes! Hallelujah.


My blues/rage/zit/bloat/give me all the chocolate stage used to peak (or valley?) on the 21st day of my cycle. Sobbing at a commercial? Day 21. Squeezing out the last drops of face spackle because I am such a picker? Day 21. Journaling about what a wretched person I am? I wonder what day it is. Ah, of course. Over time I became attuned to other shifts. Mood plummets after ovulation and surges at the start of a cycle. Then I am energized but also cold. Towards the end, my breasts hurt, my stomach gurgles, and my bowels? I’m glad we have bathroom fans and a steady supply of toilet paper. Maybe this is TMI but I wish I had better understood these permutations when I was younger. And just when I thought I had it all figured out, “The Change” hit. Now I can’t predict anything. Oh well. But I take amused solace that this week the signs were loud and clear. Onward!

*Some problematic messages aside, I am still a sucker for this movie. Cry every time.
*I was also inspired by my favorite writer’s return to blogging. Do you know what all those buttons on your microwave are for? We have missed you, Clare!
*Worry not, I am definitely not spending time in the Depends section of Walgreens either. I just tend to pee-crastinate.

Follow the Water Fountains

I have an impressively poor sense of direction.  One of the many reasons I don’t drive is that it’s just not feasible to pause every block or so to wonder if I’m on track and to pull a U-turn all the times I realize I’m not. Biking, walking, and running are much more forgiving of these lapses. Thank goodness Chicago’s streets are mostly a grid with a very logical numbering system.

It’s curious that I have worked on so many bike maps as part of my professional life considering how much I struggle to use them. Heading south? Unless I can quickly turn the map upside down, forget about it. Left and right is confusing enough when facing forward. But for all my spatial bumblings, I do have solid skills for planning pleasant routes for self-propelled travels. The problem is just remembering them.


Yesterday, I turned a dreaded run into a fun exercise in map making (the time spent planning may or may not have also been a form of procrastination). I’m overdue for getting in some distance and decided to aim for 6-8 miles. As much as I adore the heat, it seemed prudent to avoid the elevated, unshaded Bloomingdale Trail on an 85 degree, sunny, and likely quite crowded day. I considered taking the bus to the lakefront and running on the path and then home. But the lake has no shade either, it would take more time, and the trip back would involve highway and river crossings on major streets.

Sticking with local, tree-rich, residential streets made the most sense. But I needed a route, or else there was a high likelihood of losing steam and sneaking home too soon. So I pulled up Map My Run and created an 8 mile loop that managed to avoid major infrastructure crossings and minimize time running into the westering sun.  I incorporated Drake and Avondale, some of my fave mellow biking routes.* It was a treat not to have to worry about one ways. Oh wait, oops. What about water fountains? A few tweaks looped in some parks and I was good to go. . . with a route I would never be able to remember. Thanks to modern technology, I sent it to my phone. And since I am in no shape to run 8 miles, I was glad for the built-in excuse of frequent stops to check directions.

Here’s some running commentary (see what I did there) and pics. I will definitely do this loop again. Hopefully with stronger legs and less need to look at my phone every few blocks.


A. Oh yeah, feeling strong. Hey, there’s the tween daughter of one of my running friends. Hi five! I’m heading out for 8 miles. Think I can do it? Thanks! Wait, why did I do that? I’m such a dork. And a big talker. Now I really have to finish this.

B. Ugh, I haven’t even gone a mile and am so over this. Oops, meant head over to Drake here. Is the app recording my deviations from the map?

C. Much walking (yay, a break!) while studying the Drake crossing of Milwaukee.

D. Water stop inside the Avondale Park Building. Should have checked if there is an outside fountain for early morning runs.

E. Avondale Ave! I love biking on this low-traffic diagonal hugging the Metra tracks. Major intersections are tricky, but otherwise you can go full throttle. Just be sure to veer off at Central Park unless you feel like hitting the highway. Time to take a bunch of pictures and catch my breath.

If you are barreling down Avondale and just follow the cars, you will end up on the highway. The turn off to Central Park is easy to miss. Exciting!

F. Avondale Ave! Have I mentioned how much I love this street? On this year’s Father’s Day ride, Kevin alerted us to a magical little spot with vegetation arching the sidewalk.


G. Is this the turn? Yes. (Also: Must. Stop. To. Catch Breathe.)

H. Is this the turn? No. One more block. (Also: Must. Stop. To. Catch Breathe.)

I. Private property?? What’s up with this map? Have these fancy folks blocked off the north end of the park? I misread the map. The scrappy park with its old school water fountain was right in front of me.


J. Woo hoo! The app had suggested a Metra crossing I was skeptical of, but hopeful for because it  dodges a tricky, detouring intersection. It was an easy scamper up a relatively short set of stairs and a short crossing of two tracks. However I was waylaid by a couple confused by the confusing signage. Hooray for an excuse to be helpful. . . and take a break.


K. Great, another water fountain! Oh, that person is washing their clothes in it. I’ll pass.

L. Love these little stretches of parkways. (I hadn’t been on Kolmar before.)

M. Ok, enough dawdling. There’s no way to get turned around now. One mile south. A mile and change east. Pick up your damn feet. Zip up the phone pocket. This is supposed to be a *run* not a stroll.

N-P. The final stretch. Time to start ticking off the building numbers. . . .Need to remember to look up why we have this section of streets that start with K. . . . Tripp Street? Hahaha that “trips” up the K pattern. Uh-oh. Getting loopy.

Q-T.  I hate this. Why am I doing this. . . .Oh good. Pulaski is up ahead. Maybe I will hit a red light. . . .Damnit, just a stop sign and everyone is yielding to me. Keep chugging. . . . Oooo, I love these old rusty train overpasses. That’s why I do this.

U. Hark! Mozart Park. I could just take a little water break. Really, Kilgore?!! You are less than ten minutes from home.

V-W. Avers. Running friend mom of aforementioned tween used to live here. Remember those days of regular runs with friends–many of whom don’t run anymore due to injuries and/or realizing they don’t actually like running. Hmmm, maybe they are on to something. . . .No, you are *not* going to walk the rest of the way home in the spirit of “injury prevention.”

X-Y. Just pretend you are close to the marathon finish line. Oh egads, no need to be so dramatic. . ..Just stop thinking.

Z. Home! Phew! No, don’t just plop into the house. That calf stretcher is by the door for a reason.


*Ever since I helped John Greenfield with this Mellow Chicago Bike Map, I have been taking the extra time to plan out bike commutes to avoid the “Oh crap, I’m stuck on Damen again!” phenomenon. For example, I am trying to sear into memory the Drake zig zag to minimize time on Kimball when crossing the highway. https://chi.streetsblog.org/2018/06/25/why-direct-biking-streets-arent-always-the-safest-or-most-enjoyable-option/



All Clear

Here’s the TL/DR version: Check your boobies ( . ) ( . )
(and anything else that needs checking)


When I scheduled my mammogram for June 11, the receptionist faltered. “Are you sure you want to come in on your birthday?” But it was the first available and after last year’s mini-scare I had vowed to never fall behind on screenings again.

As the daughter, granddaughter, and great niece of breast cancer survivors*, I’m in a high risk category. Doesn’t help that I’ve never been pregnant. I was advised to start annual screenings at age 35 because baseline images are key for noticing changes over time. In the beginning, I averaged about every 2-3 years. As I eased into my 40’s, closer to the age my mom was diagnosed, I was supposed to be more on top of it.

But for the last few years, dealing with my brain and some other significant issues has been the priority. My capacity for wrangling with the health care system was strained. I’d get referrals from my PCP and they would expire and ugh now I have to call and ask again? I know that’s a feeble excuse. We do our best in our stumbling ways.

When I finally managed to haul myself to an appointment last May, it had been awhile since my dense boobs had been contorted and squeezed into the x-ray clamps. (If your first mammogram is on the horizon, read up or talk to others about what to expect. Maybe the technology will improve one of these days.)

Because I am in the higher risk pool, my screenings include ultrasounds. I remember feeling a sense of dread when the technician kept sweeping the wand over an area on my right breast. Just being thorough I figured. When she completed her survey of the left side much more quickly, my worry deepened.

The bike ride home was a little shaky. I wasn’t so much afraid that something was wrong.** The heart pounding was about feeling like once again I had screwed up. How could I have let something so important slide? What if my inaction had jeopardized chances of early detection? How could I face my family? Mom and Michael had been reminding every few months. If I was sick, it was my fault. Failure, failure, failure. As always.

When I got the call to return for more testing, I was a wreck. The appointment was initially for the following week, but when I reached out with some questions, they sensed my panic and invited me to swing by the next day if I didn’t mind waiting to be seen. I showed up bright and early.

They wanted to look more closely at my right breast. The lump was probably just a cyst–nothing to worry about. There were also two grainy areas. Calcification? Carry on. Ductal carcinoma in situ? Hmm, that’s what my mom had. Early stage, highly treatable, and she has been clear for 20 years. Probably no need to freak out.

But when they mentioned the two enlarged lymph nodes, my eyes popped. I was quickly assured this was probably nothing, especially given their symmetry–one on each side, same position and size. They asked about other health issues. I wondered if all my brain pills could be a factor. Not likely. They countered: Rheumatoid arthritis? Thyroid disorders? A recent cold? Nope. Allergies? Yes! Maybe it was just some low-key inflammation. I’m a baseline itchy, sniffly person, even with my allergy medication. And it was peak tree pollen season.

Given my family history, they suggested genetic testing and an MRI to get a better baseline. The genetic testing was clear and the MRI didn’t sound any alarms.

Come back in six months. Which I did. No changes.
Come back in six months. That was yesterday’s appointment. I still have the cyst, spots, and swollen nodes. But, they haven’t changed.
Come back in 12 months. A new birthday tradition.

I took myself to the nearby Ann Sather’s for brunch to reflect and start writing this post. I indulged in warm, dense, sugar-shellacked cinnamon rolls–a special departure from my “healthy June” goals. My waitress was statuesque, a little older and grayer, with a sharp, short hairstyle. Noticing the yellow “next steps” sheet in my hand, she gently said: “Looks like you have been to the doctor.” I explained I was celebrating because I had just graduated back to an annual mammogram schedule. She paused. “I’m six months out from treatment and just got my all clear for now” results.

I stammered out awkward pablum about how I was sorry and how is she doing, oh goodness do you mind if I am asking you questions. She was happy to talk. She’s doing well. Chemo had been rough. She lost all her hair. When I mentioned I had been admiring her cut, she laughed and patted her head. “I always keep it short anyway.” On the receipt, I wrote: “Hope to see you next year.”

On the way home, I ran into two friends, fellow Goethe moms. When I cheerfully shared my news followed by a tentative question about whether they are current with screenings, one paused. She is having surgery next week. Early detection. Her words said not too worried. I am worried about what her heart says. But we moved on to chatting about our kids.

One of my best friends from growing up was diagnosed in her late 30’s. When I called last year with questions, I realized I had not been tuned into her ongoing pain about the experience. There are many people, including my mom, who I have not listened to well enough. I will do better.

Last summer, another dear friend got the “come back for more tests” call the same week I did. Biopsies. Surgery. Chemo and radiation. Medication that pummeled her mental health. She marched through the school year serving kids as a school social worker with a smile and humor. She also keeps reminding people: Check your boobies ( . ) ( . )

I am keenly aware of my good fortune to have great health insurance and the scheduling flexibility to make appointments. Even with these advantages, I still dropped the ball. Who wants to go to the doctor, especially when you’re not sick??? Plus, the guidelines around screenings are ever shifting.

Even so, if you have been avoiding that colonoscopy, mole mapping (eek, that’s next on my list), cholesterol test, breast pancaking, or other routine check-ins, today is as good a time as any to pull out your calendar and make some phone calls.

*My mom likes to remind me that all the women in her family got breast cancer, but didn’t die of it. Her mom and aunt were diagnosed in their 30’s, both had dual mastectomies and lived on for decades.
** Per above, I’ve always figured the odds were high I would follow suit, that the question has been more when than if.

June Rules

I use WomanLog Pro to track my weight and period. The consistent irregularity of my period suggests I have entered perimenopause. Ah, ages and stages!

On May 31st, I splurged on the top shelf red wine at Armitage Produce—10 vs 5 bucks. And as the evening waned, I pawed through the bag of “for my students” goodies for some Little Debbie Nutty Buddy Bars.* I even tried to savor instead of snarf them.

Per my therapist’s orders, during the month of June, I am going to. . . I want to say try, but ugh I need to be more ambitious. For the next 30 days, I am going to:

  • exercise a lot more
  • eat a lot better? less? more strategically?
  • write it all down

I have gained almost 25 pounds since last spring, after having lost almost that much in the previous two and a half years.  This 19% relatively rapid increase is a puzzle and is starting to become a concern because the chart keeps trending up. It’s a big shift for my 5′ 1″ inches.

Many variables might be at play. Perimenopause. Having been depressed. Being back on an anti-depressant. Working mostly from home.

And. . . perhaps. . .my dietary choices and activity levels. The truth is that I have been lazy with exercise and lax with portions, sweets, and wine. Last year, stabilizing my mood was the paramount health concern. Mission mostly accomplished, which is why we are reluctant to mess around with the medication. My annual physical is next week, so maybe that will yield more insights.

It’s aggravating to keep gaining weight even as I have eased back into running (but not enough to blame increased muscle on the scale–the waistbands don’t lie). Maybe what they say about age and metabolism is true and I simply need to adjust accordingly, not only in terms of behavior, but also outlook.  If I have to accept a new baseline weight and  build a new wardrobe, I can do that, though I am embarrassed to say it will be emotionally challenging. More on that another day. 

In the meantime, I am going to (not try to) focus on the variables that are very much in my control: what I eat and how much I move. I don’t do well with restrictive rules, so instead of cutting booze, I am cutting wine. Instead of avoiding all sweets, I will stick with anything homemade and maybe the occasional square of dark chocolate. I am not going to freak out about diet, but  am tracking via My Fitness Pal (under Velo_chicago). It’s amazing how quickly calories add up.  And with that, I guess I should go for a run. Wahhhhh!

*It was a three hour class, so I always brought power bars and sweet treats. Next semester, perhaps I should lean more towards fruit.

Writing a Way Forward

When I last wrote, I was desperately trying in my plucky way to hold on, to power through the deep depression that I have been in for a long time.

It didn’t work, and I continued to fall, with a plateau here, a branch there. I haven’t been this low in a while. The difference now is that I no longer have hope that someday I might feel better in any kind of sustained and sustainable way. And so I am more terrified than I have been in the past.

I have been yearning to write, because it is one of the few activities that brings a sputtering of ease, but have hesitated because:

  • There are already so many words in the world, covering this same ground with more eloquence and insight than I can muster (not that it’s a competition)
  • It’s embarrassing that I struggle given all my resources and support (even though I know mental illness strikes all kinds of people)
  • I don’t want to alarm the people who care about me (but I assure you that I am safe and reasonably functional)

Of course, I could just journal privately but blogging keeps me sort of organized and it helps me feel a little more connected. Even if bookshelves and the internet are bloated with the same stories, there always seems to be room for one more.

One challenge is that writing can also turn into a form of avoidance, especially because of my tendencies towards a kind of perfectionism. It’s not that I strive for some kind of seismic prose, but that the care I give to my words is often disproportionate to need and with diminishing returns. The output to effort ratio is way off, and that can lead to another cycle of self-recrimination.

I’d like to experiment with just doing frequent, short, unedited pieces within a 30-60 min (tops) timeframe with a focus more on raw content than overwrought craft.

Speaking of, I should probably stop here and put the laundry away. It’s hard to resist going back to check for sentence structure variety and overuse of forms of “to be” or to look up what we call it when writers overuse forms of “to be,” which I just did but nothing popped out right away so. . . onward. Or onword? Or rather offword? Heehee 🙂 See, I feel a little better already.  (Oh wait, should the w be capitalized in the title of this post???? And egads, I used the phrase kind of at least three times, twice in one paragraph!)

Fall Back into Momentum: Part 4 (Mood Boosts)

It was raw and gloomy last week, so I haven’t experienced the ballyhooed morning sunshine boost, but I did practice acceptance of minimum expectations while making progress on the Must Dos.* Exterminator came yesterday. Mammogram appt is on Tuesday. The feral cat feeding area has been winterized. Because somehow we are already tangoing with temps in the 20’s. Today I hope to dig in the hundreds of bulbs I impulsively bought (on sale!) because the promise of spring flowers helps drag me through winter.

Click the pic for the Chicago Weather Center’s alarming graphic.  “A wintry weekend’s on tap, more like Jan & Dec—then a windy cold blast hits later Mon/Tues.” Grrr.

This garden task is an example of another important category for the To Do list:

Mental Health: Which projects, while perhaps not-essential, will buoy your spirits? The sky won’t fall if I don’t get these all into the ground, but it will feel less gray if I do. Another example: For better and worse, my level of cheer is tightly linked to the condition our home. If keeping the TP stocked is part of scraping by, keeping the bathroom clean helps preserve my sanity.  When feeling overwhelmed, picking a few spots to hold to high standards allows me to ignore–for now–other messes, literal and figurative. Manicured nails, bright lipstick, seasonal decorations, and blogging also add a bounce to my step. Although frivolous, they help fend off the blues.

Clear surfaces
If we keep these main surfaces clear, I can screen out other clutter, even when it means shoving the clutter from these surfaces somewhere else, such as the small counter under the kitchen window sill or the not-shown hutch behind the table. I am also ignoring our filthy ceiling fan.

Another big bang for the buck mood booster can be to tackle a small, odious project that will make you feel like a bad ass while improving your quality of life. Or as Marie W. wrote: “Will I feel more miserable in the long run if I don’t do the thing??” Congrats to her for last weekend’s deep clean of the cat box area: “including the gross mat that picks up litter.”

Ideally, mood boosting tasks are relatively manageable, like planting 20 instead of 200 bulbs! But in the spirit of forgiveness, if I don’t get them all in, I am just not going to worry. I can always donate what I don’t get to. The ground isn’t going to freeze super soon, is it? Oh, please no! I am not ready.

too many bulbs
What was I thinking? At least I did pack up all of the Halloween decorations. . .

*And bravo to Dena K for taking care of the rain barrels before the freeze. A big job, indeed!

Fall back into Momentum: Part 3

For sundial, shouldn’t it be move 100 miles or so?

Huzza! The latest sunrise of the year, 7:25am, is behind us. Mornings will be a lot easier this week with day breaking before my son’s alarm instead of while he’s biking to school.

After a long night out dancing, where we turned the clock back to the 80’s, I used my extra hour to sleep in. It’s a cold, wet, standard issue November day, so maybe I’m overselling the idea that shifting daylight back to the morning can give a productivity boost. I keep walking past the bag of laundry guarding the front door. If I don’t leave the house, I can avoid taking it to the basement.

OK, I did leave the house to drop Miguel off at a bday party and was even able to find the rain pants with minimal scrambling. Success! I did walk past the laundry, though. Oh well. It is not a crisis.

Which brings me to the main principle of the “F It!” approach to goals for the next less than (eek!) two months. But I am switching the alliteration:

Minimums: This is what I talked about yesterday. What are the most essential tasks and routines required to grind through the next few weeks? What are the lowest standards you can hold yourself to? Maybe it’s OK to eat mac and cheese more frequently than you shower.  Some green beans on the side and spot cleaning  and congrats, you’re doing just fine. Give yourself credit for taking care of the smallest, must mundane chores. As Clare reminds, you can always write them down after the fact and cross them off  with a flourish. Resupplied *and* changed the toilet paper!

changing the TP1
Pardon the gendered language, but this was the image that best captured the TP changing continuum.

Musts: Ugh. These are the critical non-routine tasks and projects that tend to easily slip off the daily radar either because they are dreaded or require a bit of effort (real or perceived). Inaction might not be creating problems now, but has longer term risks. Or maybe they are just really critical for other reasons.

My list is heavy with this category, but I am forcing myself to focus on the ones that are the most important right now, such as: getting a mammogram, keeping a mood journal*, paying the annual life insurance premiums, calling the exterminator, and checking all the smoke alarms and fire extinguishers in the building.  Gah I am soooooo tempted to add more, but these are the big ones. And they are doable.

Cracked Caulk
The current window situation in my office.

Uh-oh, I need to add one more: caulking the baseboards and windows. While the sky won’t fall if I skip this job yet another year, it would help our heating bill fall. And I so very much hate being cold. And I promised Michael I would do it.** And I even bought a power caulk gun. So. . . this is a must. Ugh.

Oh, and I am also likely starting a new job in January–teaching a foundations reading/writing class at Malcolm X College. Yay! But also yikes, I need to prepare for that too. There’s a training in mid-December and so I’m going to try not to overthink it this month.

This can be an overwhelming category.

In a few days, I’ll write about other kinds of goals ranging from modest to monumental, but for now maybe I’ll hide under the covers with some tea and cower at all the musts do the laundry and maybe even put it away and then triumphantly cross those tasks off the list. Alas, we are out of mac and cheese. Cereal for dinner?

* More on this another day.
**A note about my wonderful husband. He takes on more than his share of domestic duties, especially considering that he works full time and I do not. I don’t want to leave any impressions that I do all the housework. And he cooks more than I do. Thank you, Michael!

Fall Back into Momentum: Part 2

muddyshoesPart of my mental health profile is an enduring belief that I am an epic failure, terrible person, and overall waste of carbon. I realize this is not a fair or useful way to look at things. It’s a hard mantra to shake, but I am trying.

I have long brandished my irreducible to do lists as evidence of my dismal performance as a life form. So many unmet goals. So many small tasks that take forever. Why has “remove muddy running shoes from the back steps” been on the agenda for almost a month? Why did this even make it onto a list?? Cleaning them will take less than two minutes. I could probably just run in them a few times and let fresh air and friction shake off the dust.

I know I am not alone. Recently I read a piece about “impossible tasks,” those seemingly small things that are challenging to manage, especially when you struggle with depression. It was helpful to see examples of people’s small things: paying the bills, feeding the cats (yikes, I haven’t fed the cats yet today–BRB), taking a shower. Sometimes just scraping by feels like climbing a mountain.

Before we embark on any goal setting for the next seven weeks, I think it’s important to honor the effort it requires just to get out of bed each day. More on this at the end.

clean clothes
Putting the laundry away is one of my many inexplicable impossible tasks.

In Celebration of Long Lists

I’ve decided that all my goals and to dos are not evidence of failure but rather creativity, ambition, and the good fortune of a rich and interesting life. Take that, Eeyore mindset.

The other night I could not sleep. Sometimes my body just craves an all nighter. Maybe it’s a bi-polar feature (feature is more pleasant than disorder), but I enjoy the  clarity that settles in around 3am and tend to have plenty of energy the next day.

I used the time to scoop up all the reminders scattered around the house, flip through my quasi-bullet journal (more on that another day), and joyously brainstorm all kinds of things I need and want to do in the short, medium, and long term. I used a table with columns for task, time, scope, category, importance, and “do stat??” But I mostly focused on dumping out the tasks, categorizing them (such as home, garden, career, civic engagement), and then using the categories to squeeze out more ideas. Entries range from the frivolous (decorate for the holidays) to the formidable (organize the basement, which includes finding homes for all the holiday decorations). From modest (stop gaining weight) to momentous (run a sub-two hour half marathon).

Early Halloween
Seasonal decorating gives me, and apparently Rusty, great joy. . .packing it up, not so much.

I’m at about over 150 items and could add 20 more right now, but I need to hack at some garden tasks (on the list!) because it looks like the weather is only getting worse. Alas, autumn, we hardly new ye.

A few months ago, I was very depressed. It was bad. I was utterly hopeless. I’m still struggling and muddling and might always.  But I am doing a little better and am sort of excited about having hundreds of things to do and accepting that I don’t have to do them all right now and, in fact, could probably get by with doing very few of them.

Which cycles back to not setting ourselves up for emotional evisceration about all that we do not do. Before you make any huge lists, give yourself some credit for persisting, acknowledge that it takes effort to get to work, keep kids and critters safe and healthy, and do the laundry. Extra credit for putting it away before doing the next load.

So I invite you to bloat up your list if you promise to let it lead more to optimism than feeling overwhelmed. Tomorrow I’ll share how I am picking a few, only a few, modest, medium, ambitious, and must-do items before the solstice.