Look good or feel good

Like so many people over the past few years, I've lost the will to groom. The Covid era has bludgeoned all desire to look good right out of me. When all anyone sees of me is my Zoom image, they might suspect I'm chronically disheveled, but they don't actually have to see the frayed cuffs, the tattered underwear, or the lack of proper pants. As a rabid introvert, I'm okay with that. These days, I'd rather feel good than look good. 

Truthfully, I've never been big on grooming for the sheer joy of looking good. I've always had an ulterior motive, which, of course, is that I wanted people to notice me and accept me. When I was younger, I used to dress for everyone around me, so that I could be loved, accepted, or admired. Sometimes that meant dressing the opposite of what they might have wished—that is how I tested the depth of their love (sorry, Pop). Either way, I dressed for others. 

Now I don't care what other people think, so it doesn't matter what I look like. Because I don't care (and because of Covid), I opt for comfort. That means wearing pajamas, essentially. I wear butter-soft long-sleeve XL cotton/polyester scrub tops on top and men's cotton jersey pajama pants on the bottom. I have six tops and three pairs of pants.

If I really cared, I could do something about it. The mall is right across the Rillito River, only a short hike away. I can see the Forever 21 sign from the bike path. Walmart is equally close, if I am looking to save pennies and don't care what I buy. Target is nearby as well, if I'm looking for something in the middle. There is no lack of places selling clothing for me to buy. 

The reason this issue is on my mind is because I'm going to be doing some traveling soon. I will be seeing old friends in California and family in Oregon. That means people will judge me by my appearance. That is what people do, it's normal. I don't really care to please, but I also don't want to offend. 

I used to be able to make just about any garment you could imagine. Even though I've hated to sew since I was nine years old, I always liked designing in three dimensions. However, the only time I would make clothes for myself was when there was an occasion with a deadline. I'd buy the cheapest fabric I could get away with, eyeball the pattern, cut corners on the cutting, stitch it together as fast as possible, wear it once to great fanfare, and then throw it away when it faded, tore, shrank, failed to fit, served its single purpose, or went out of style. I'm not proud of my contribution to the wastestream. And don't get me started on the many acrylic paintings I have dumped in the trash. Oh, well. At least I recycled the stretcher bars and frames. 

My distaste for sewing and my desire to wear a certain garment is like the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. The battle has been going for years. When I was younger and I could still see, the force was stronger. I would begrudgingly make myself things to wear, as infrequently as possible, mainly because I was ostensibly in the fashion business. Dressmaker, dress thyself! But if I needed a strapless black velvet gown with a mermaid tail, lime-green vintage chiffon sleeves, and a built-in push-up bra, I could deliver. Now, however, the mmovable object is very set in her ways. Bras of any kind are not on the radar, nor are dresses, mermaid or otherwise. 

Even though I have a crummy old plastic sewing machine that still works, the idea of using it to sew clothes for myself makes me want to head for Walmart. It took massive amounts of willpower to sew seat covers for my Dodge Caravan out of the cotton dropcloths that used to be my curtains at the Love Shack. I was almost proud of the job, until I realized I hadn't allowed room for the airbags built into the sides of the front seats. R-i-p-p-p, went the seamripper. Oh, well. Story of my sewing "career."

Speak of which, career is not a word I would apply to my worklife. My former job as a seamstress-slash-dressmaker-slash-failed-fashion designer was one of my least favorite mistakes. On the family Zoom today, my sister reminded me that I'm a volunteer, not a victim. In other words, I chose my path, a fact I cannot deny. Of course, I thanked her. It's so helpful to be reminded that I will never find bread at the hardware store, no matter how many times I try. 

Meanwhile, the problem remains. This is how I know I'm an artist. I want to wear certain designs, and I cannot find them in stores because they don't exist except in my mind. I want them, but not enough to make them. And so I wear pajamas. 

Who cares to admit complete defeat?

Dumb question, right? You would say, gosh, Carol, nobody, if you put it like that. But what are we talking about? Defeat is the flipside of success, and both defy definition. After you've seen both sides and all points in between, what does winning or losing, defeat or success, have to do with anything?  

Speaking of winning and losing, yesterday I stood outside the chain link fence at the Rillito Race Track, twenty feet from thundering hooves. What a unique way to spend a Saturday afternoon, standing in the blazing sun trying to get my phone camera to focus through a chain link fence. A big dude in a sweatshirt trotted by just inside the track as the horses were going down to the gate. He saw me and yelled, "Miss, no cameras." As if I were a person who knew how to use a smartphone camera. Jeez. I should be so lucky.

Each thirty-second quarter-mile race is followed by thirty minutes of track grooming by a fleet of noisy trucks towing farm implements, so it's a long wait between races. I wilted after one race. As I baked and tried to get my camera to focus, I wondered how many of the racegoers were betting? I had no idea. I never heard loud cheers or groans from the stands, and leisurely racegoers in blue jeans and cowboy boots seemed to arrive and depart at all points during the half hour I stood there, as if winning or losing or even watching the track didn't matter. Maybe they came for the hotdogs, popcorn, and Mariachi music. 

The race track published the results of the first race day on their website. March 12. Temperature: 75°F. Track condition: Fast. Two horses were in the doghouse: Izanami veered in sharply after the start, jumping the inner rail and losing its rider, and Zinmagic shot the backside gap and unseated its rider. The stalwart stewards of the track reviewed the race and decided each horse caused its own problem and placed both horses on the Stewards’ List. Not sure what that meant. Probation, probably. One step from pony detention.

Today I walked 2.5 miles along the bike path to the sun circle. It's a Stone Henge kind of structure, surrounded by scrubby desert trees, prairie dog holes, and housing developments. There was no sun at the sun circle. We seem to be stuck in a cloudy, cool, windy pattern. However, to make up for the lack of sunshine, there was a man named Ken, who was resting on one of the brick seats next to his fat-wheeled bicycle. He saw me and launched into a story about the soltices and how the light comes through openings in the standing brick columns and shines across the circle onto columns on the opposite side. I rested my legs and listened to my new friend natter about sunlight, wishing we had a little more sun and a little less wind, and when he started telling me about his parents and their high school yearbook picture, I took my leave and walked the 2.5 miles back to the trailer.

Is it really complete defeat? I think just continuing to publish this blog means I have not given up. This blog is my Kilroy was here, my lifted leg, as it were. This blog is my modest contribution to the zeitgeist of existential angst over bank meltdowns, too much snow, and not enough civility. Yes, I read the news. If I had more money, I might actually care. Meaning if I had more to lose, if I had more skin in the game. However, I rarely rant about anything beyond my all-encompassing preoccupation with self. I'm in a closed loop of fretfulness. My main fear these days is that my brain is permanently broken and nowhere on the planet will the barometric pressure be stable enough restore balance to my inner ears. 

Am I winning or losing or somewhere in between? Is it possible to know? 

On a geological scale, we are all losers. Blip, and we're gone. Who cares? People in the future will not know most of us existed, except in aggregate, nor will they care. They won't know you, they won't know me. They won't miss us at all. However, on a spermatozoamaniacal scale, we are all winners. After all, we are here. The proof is in the pudding. And there's no denying somebody is pooping in the bed, and I'm pretty sure it's all of us. 

Now is it time to admit complete defeat?

Failing to plan might not be so bad

It might be spring. It's hard to tell, weather is a variable phenomenon here in the desert. Last week it snowed. Today it was 75F. Wet or dry, it's a great relief to feel warm. However, humidity is low, as you can tell from the artist's self-portrait. I need to drink more water. 

One sign that it might be spring is the changeable Rillito River. I walk along the river bike path almost daily. Yesterday, to my surprise, the Rillito deadended in dry sand at Oracle Road. I mean, it simply disappeared, just soaked straight down into the dirt, leaving plastic bottles, tents, and shopping carts high and dry in the channel. I'm not used to seeing rivers just vanish into the riverbed. If the Willamette did that, Stumptown would go insane.

Speaking of going insane, once again, I find myself in plan-and-wait mode. This seems to be a recurring life pattern for me. Always waiting for something to end so something new can begin. It's clear I have a hard time being in the here and now.

Didn't some old-timey dude say something like failing to plan means planning to fail? Old Dude, that is not helpful, even if we all agreed on a definition of failure. The ultimate "failure" is death, but all the planning in the world won't save us from death. What about the things that can't be anticipated? What if I get dementia and can no longer make decisions, as seems to be happening to a college friend? Or what if I keel over from a blood clot, which happened to my childhood friend when she was 51. Or remember cousin Dave, who succumbed to a heart attack at 61? Or my father, who met his end because of a heart problem at 77. 

I used to think my odds of living to 100 were pretty good, considering I've never smoked, I don't drink, and I don't eat meat. I don't think that any longer. I think it will be a miracle if I make it to 75. 

On the bright side, the one who lets go of the most possessions by the time death comes knocking is the winner. I fully intend to win that contest. You can donate the trophy to the thriftstore on my behalf. Thanks.

Speaking of useless trophies, I've learned some new words in relation to my vertigo issues. Peripheral versus central. Peripheral pertains to my inner ears. Central encompasses the brain, the spinal column, the eyes, and the ears. Peripheral problems turn into central problems if they go untreated. It is possible to have problems with both at the same time. I've consulted Dr. Web, M.D., and their colleague, Dr. Google. I'm pretty sure I have both.

Even though I'm doing the next logical thing (heading toward the coast to see if my head will settle), I don't have much hope, honestly. I'm afraid my brain is broken. The good news, brains can be retrained. The bad news, it takes time. My vestibular system might be out of whack for while, even when I'm living in my car on the beach at Leo Carillo State Park. Maybe Death Valley is my next option. Warm, dry, and 282 feet below sea level. 

I'm tired of planning. At some point, you just have to take a chance and go.

Fear of freedom

During the several years I was waiting for my mother to die, I daydreamed about what life would be like when I was finally "free." Free of obligation, free to come and go, free to pick up and leave, free to say no. I had contingency plans for contingency plans, trying to manage and control how it would all go down. Of course, that is always a futile quest, but it relieved my anxiety to plan in excruciating detail for the day when I would finally be free, when I could pack up my meager belongings, and drive away from all my problems.

Well, wherever we go, there we are, so you probably aren't surprised to hear that all my problems came along with me, dragging behind my minivan like a scuzzy half-deflated parachute. I thought Tucson would be a place where my creativity could finally flourish. Find a little apartment, enjoy the endless summer, and make good use of my time to write and volunteer . . . perfect, a lovely idyllic dream. 

Tucson didn't turn out to be paradise. You've heard it all before, so I won't bore you with the recap. You remember it all much better than I do, I'm sure. I have to write it out all over again just to remember it, as if I'm watching someone else's biopic. Suffice it to say, rents are too high, summer is sizzling, and after two years, my inner ears have still not settled. This week the ENT admitted she hasn't a clue, which means she thinks I'm crazy. 

Two friends I've recently met in real life (who do not know each other) have looked at me with envy, saying things like "You could go anywhere, you could do anything, you're free." These are friends who have some or all of the elements of modern life: money, family, property, obligations, routines, and commitments. They are not free, or they don't perceive they are free. They have security, safety, resources, a home, and they feel trapped. They would trade all that for freedom. So they say. I wonder how the stars in their eyes might dim the first time they had to poop in a bucket. 

I felt trapped while I was waiting for Mom to die. And let me just say, I didn't want her to die. I wanted her to be my mother forever, because I never grew up, and I still could really use a mother. However, the hungry baby bird she turned into toward the end needed a lot of care and feeding. I knew the moment would come eventually. She was 91 when she finally kicked off. But she could have lived to 100. I would have been there, right to the end, no matter what, still dreaming of freedom and planning my escape.

Be careful what you wish for. In my irritable chafed wizened life, I didn't really imagine that unlimited freedom could have a downside. I just wanted out. Maybe if I had unlimited resources, total big-ass freedom would be heaven. Maybe someday I'll find out. In this incarnation, however, my freedom is not absolute. I have three big constraints: my health, my car, and my bank account. It's the king hell bummer trifecta of puny-ass freedom. Poor man's freedom. Freedom to drive as long as there is gas in the car and I remember to take my blood pressure pills.

In Tucson, I traded my freedom for a series of ledges on which I could wipe my brow and catch my breath. I fought off roaches and ducked bullets at the Bat Cave. Now I hunker inside a safe but stultifying gated community and dream of my next launch into the stratosphere. At this time I have no ledge to land on. All I know is, I'm headed west. As I my heart pounds and my ear crackles, I am organizing my few possessions. I'm breathing each moment, ignoring the washing machine in my head, wishing I had half the energy of my dynamo housemate, and wondering what the hell I am doing.

I just got off the phone with a friend. Maybe a ledge in the San Fernando Valley has found me, I don't know. More to be revealed. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, I whine, but I'm getting things done. I pulled up my britches and bought my own ISBNs. I learned how to format an epub book (for the second time) and uploaded it to a place where librarians might see it. I paid cash for two crowns (and had them installed). I defeated the check engine light with a bottle of mechanic in a can. I walked two miles without falling down once. I started my taxes. I ignored the one inch of snow and celebrated the return of 70F and blue sky. Life happens in the moment, I know. I have to stop trying to run ahead, but old habits die hard.