Super Tuesday and other thoughts

          Watching the returns tonight, after having to shush two women (one of them my daughter) in my living room. Just my opinion, but I am pleased to see Joe Biden doing so well. I love Bernie’s ideas, but I don’t think they’re practical. I’m not sure he’s thought out the financing, and I’m quite sure he’d never get his program through Congress. What we need now is someone who knows how our government is supposed to work—you know, checks and balances and all that stuff that the trump administration has cast aside. Someone who can effectively begin to reverse the damage done to our country economically, internationally, environmentally, morally. So I’m for Biden. You may differ with me, and that’s okay—unless you think trump is the answer to our problems. I draw the line there.

A conundrum I’ve been thinking about. What’s more important to you? The way the world sees you—your house, your car, your clothes? Or the way you see yourself? Maybe that’s your integrity, values, etc. I think, like social awareness, that putting more weight on how you think of yourself comes with age and a certain kind of self-confidence. But I sure do like a new outfit, a new haircut, someone who tells me I don’t look my age. Maybe the ideal, like a lot of things in life, is a middle ground.

Totally different topic: I have switched from election returns to HGTV. Yes, me, who never watches TV. But friends turned their house over to designers for a makeover, and I’m watching the result, which is truly spectacular—more open, cleaner and more streamlined. Touches I would not want but are them. I don’t know that I would ever be so brave as to leave it all in someone else’s hands, but they are delighted with the results and I can see why. The makeover required that they move out of their house—six weeks? Some long period. And that in itself was a major undertaking. But now they are settled back in—a new space in an old house. Truly intriguing.

Sophie and I are at war. This morning she woke me at 5:30, 6:30 and 7:45. Aside from yelling that I would strangle her (oh yes, the guilt), I decided maybe the poor baby had a bladder infection. I vowed to watch her the entire day. And I did. I watched her sleep—on the floor, on both of her favorite chairs, on my bed. She only roused herself occasionally to go to a new spot. This was clearly not a dog in distress. After feeling horrendously guilty for yelling at her this morning, I switched tactics and had long, serious talks with her while rubbing her ears. I’m not sure either technique impressed her. Right now, about nine-thirty at night, she’s happily enjoying the night air, and I’m sure I’ll have to bribe her to come back in. We’ll see what she does in the morning, but I sure would like some morning sleep.

I’ve had a nonspecific case of the blues this week—maybe anticipation of a book signing trip this weekend to San Antonio which I’m actually looking forward to but I do not travel easily. Or anticipation of a speaking engagement next week. More likely it’s the widespread panic about the corona virus and uncertainty about Super Tuesday. Today I managed to do most of the work of organizing my 2019 financial information for the accountant, which should be a relief. Next on my agenda is to work on my notes for the talk. Logically I should be feeling happier. We’ll see if my heart can follow my head.

How about you? Ever have trouble reconciling how you feel with how you think you should feel?

The wisdom of an old horse

My brother has a mare, Blondie, who is forty-one years old. Yes, that’s a very old horse. Her blood lines trace back to the first registered Quarter Horses, hence the name Blondie. Every time I visit I expect her to be gone but there she is grazing behind the house. Pastures are so green this year, you’d think she’d be fat, but she’s skin and bones. She’s well cared for, fed and watered, but just has that old-age skinniness that some get (alas, I get the opposite). She seems quite content, always glad for a nose rub. She must know that she is no longer beautiful and that her days of running across green pastures are over, but she clings to life.

John and his wife, Cindy, live on a road that makes a loop back onto the state highway with only a few houses on it, so there’s little traffic on the road. But Cindy told me one day Blondie was grazing in the pasture beside the house, close to the road. A car stopped and the people stared at the horse for so long Cindy was afraid they would report animal cruelty.

It strikes me that there’s an analogy there. Blondie makes no apologies for her looks or slow movements. She accepts who she is at this stage of her life. It’s an attitude I’m working on. To people who wonder why I work so hard at my writing, I want to say, “I am who I am.” Same answer to people who questions my anxiety symptoms—no, I won’t ride in an elevator alone. It’s who I am.

I told friends of forty years or more last night that my new motto was “I am who I am.” Phil said, “We’ve always known that about you.” That startled me, because I feel I’ve spent a lifetime doing and being what others wanted. It’s only with age that I’ve learned to be forthright and honest—like calling a doctor’s office to ask if someone would come walk me across the parking lot (now Phil and his guide dog are going with me). But there’s a fine line to draw there—I can easily become too reliant on others to do things I’m perfectly capable of doing. Like asking son-in-law Christian to carry out recyclables because I let the bin get too heavy. Now I just do it in two trips.

I told my brother recently that while physical therapy improved my walking a lot, the need for it made me feel fragile. He, some six years older than I, replied, “We are fragile.” I don’t like to think of myself that way, but the truth is I’m probably a wild mix of strength and fragility. I am who I am. Gosh, it took me a lot of years to get there.