Tonight,
there is a “meet-and-greet” for Jared Sloane, the city council candidate from
my district in Fort Worth who I have chosen to vote for and support. Some may
remember reading about his visit to me last week. After great debate with
myself, I am not going to the event. Christian asked last night if he’s taking
me, and I said, “No, you’re representing me.”
My
inner debate was about getting out and resuming my life vs. comfort. The
reception is on a front porch in my neighborhood; one of the hosts assured me
it was two steps up to the porch or up the slanted driveway. When I thought about
it, I realized that maneuvering my walker up even two steps would be awkward
and, briefly, attention getting. I could imagine conversation stopping while Christian
and I labored to get me up those steps. Then on a porch, people would undoubtedly
be standing, visiting, as they do at a cocktail party. I can’t stand that long,
so I’d sit in my walker and, as a friend said, I could talk to everyone’s
navel. It all sounded awkward.
But there
is of course a larger issue. I am too comfortable, too content at home. I
lecture myself—and then I wonder if I’m okay with it, why is It wrong to want
to stay home? I am fortunate that my isolation is broken not only by family but
by guests. I keep busy writing, reading, and cooking. Oh yes, I’d like to eat
in restaurants, but I’m still cautious about that, preferring patio seating,
not ready for a restaurant with a hundred per cent occupancy. And I guess I’ll
get back to in-person church, but it’s so easy to go to church at home in
comfortable clothes. But otherwise, the wider world doesn’t call to me, and I
can’t figure out if it’s my need for mobility assistance or an increasing
tendency to be a recluse.
The
very word “recluse” has a negative connotation for me, with echoes of Miss
Havisham from Great Expectations. When I think of recluses, I think of women
(why not men?) who withdraw from the world and become embittered and lonely—and
I don’t think that’s who I am. I have a lively (some would say too lively)
interest in the world, especially politics. I enjoy all my online connections—well,
most of them—and, with a nod to all who slam Facebook, checking it every
morning is one of the ways I start my day.
I do
think my mobility problems complicate the issue. I finished a round of physical
therapy today, and the therapist complimented me on my progress. The problem is
not mechanical—my new hip works well, my legs are strong enough for a woman my
age. No, it’s atrial fibrillation—my heart doesn’t get enough oxygen to my muscles,
and I get winded easily. Four weeks ago, walking sixty feet did me in. Today I
can walk about a hundred—but that’s not even a city block. And I must go slow
and take such deep breaths I sound like the puffing of the little engine that
could. It’s no wonder sitting at my desk is easier. And going places is a lot
of work.
Now
that quarantine restrictions are breaking down, another aspect of my life is
changing. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob are all resuming the busy social lives
they had before Covid confined us to quarters. I have been spoiled having them
here for dinner almost every night, but I sense that changing. Many nights when
they are gone, I invite a friend to visit, sometimes for happy hour, sometimes for
supper. In fact, this week my calendar is full every night (including a Zoom
lecture I want to hear—Zoom has been a blessing during quarantine).
I am
grateful that I am, as I advised a friend, walking on the sunny side of the
street. Instead of complaining about being desperate to get out, as some of my
friends did for months, I’m grateful for the comfort of my cottage and the good
things about my life. But my mental picture of Miss Havisham still nags at the
back of my mind.
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