Becca Rowan is a writer and the author of Life in General, a collection of essays about mid-life as experienced by an American woman in the 21st century. Becca loves creating connections by sharing stories on her popular blog.
I did it. I just said NO.
Someone called with a request for a substitute in the handbell group I used to play with - four hours of rehearsal on Monday, most of it standing.
I said NO, clearly and unequivocally.
Aren't you proud of me?
Thanks for all your encouragement. I couldn't have done it without you. (smiles)
Fooled you. I don't have any.
I do have some very achy muscles, a very burned out brain, and a growling tummy.
Mysterious set of symptoms, eh?
Not really, when you consider I've been wearing this five pound monster boot on my left foot for the past 12 hours, typing my way through 892 pages of medical records, and going straight from work to a rehearsal where I had to stand on my one good leg and ring handbells for an hour, thereby missing dinner.
So who's the wise one here? Certainly not Becca.
Because Becca, who (on a very good day) calls herself a writer, has one absolutely vital word missing from her vocabulary.
Oh, come on, you all know what it is.
Go ahead - say it for me.
NO.
Sorry, I can't possibly finish this record review today.
Sorry, I can't substitute for you in bell choir tonight.
Sorrry, I can't.
NO.
Alas, I've covered this ground before here at the Byline, and I apologize for my redundancy. I allow myself to do far too much, to my physical and emotional detriment, because I never learned to say NO.
Of course, when I was a little girl growing up, I wasn't allowed to say NO. Like every other two year old on the planet, it was my favorite word. NO, I won't take my medicine. NO, I won't go to bed. NO, I won't come in. NO, I won't eat those creamed peas. Yet society tells us we much squelch that tendency in our toddlers - don't let them get away with saying NO to everything - they must learn to capitulate, to bend their will to yours, to please you at any cost.
Perpetually the good student, I learned the lesson all too well.
So here I am, 50 years post terrible twos, and I can't seem to say NO to anyone.
Except myself.
Oh, I'm really good at that.
NO, I can't leave the housework undone and put my foot up for the evening.
NO, I can't spend all afternoon reading a book.
NO, I can't let my husband do the grocery shopping for me.
NO, I can't ask my co-worker to take on some extra assignments.
Yes ~ I bet you do that too.
So here I am, achy, tired, and hungry - all for the lack of a two letter word.
Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe tomorrow I'll sleep late, or just lie around the house in my pajamas all morning. Maybe I'll go out for breakfast instead of going to work. Maybe I'll order a big, gooey cinnamon roll.
Maybe I'll say YES to myself tomorrow.
What a wise word that would be.
He has a rather goofy grin, don't you think? The man in the moon, I mean. Kind of slack jawed and spacey (sorry, punning again), similar to a circus clown or someone who's just a bit deranged. As a child, I often stared up at him, his friendly face beaming down during those summer nights we sat on our front porch, me in my nightgown with a blanket wrapped round my shoulders to ward off the evening chill. It was a summer time ritual in my family, the porch sitting thing. I looked forward to it with a great sense of anticipation, for even though I was called in at dusk (along with the rest of my neighborhood playmates), while they were sent to their dark and lonely bedrooms I was allowed to stay up with the grownups and sit on the front porch.
And watch the man in the moon.
What was he doing up there? I wondered. Was his smiling face beckoning me to come up and visit? After all, Neil Armstrong had recently walked around there - I had seen him with my own eyes on the blurry black and white TV screen, bobbing about like a puffy marshmallow floating atop a cocoa mug. And I would squinch my eyes very tightly, hoping I might be able to see a glimpse of that American flag he planted so proudly amongst the rocks.
No flag. Just that silly smiling man in the moon face.
But Walter Cronkite had suggested that one day space travel might be commonplace, sometime far, far into the future - perhaps in the year 2000! - people would rocket around to stratospheric space stations in much the same way they already flew from coast to coast. I stared deeply into the night sky, wondering if I might spy one of those bubble topped sky vehicles like George Jetson drove, whizzing between the stars.
No space cars. Just myriads of twinkling, starry lights.
Meanwhile my eyes would grow heavy lidded and tired as I burrowed deeper into my blanket, my head would wobble a bit as I struggled to keep it upright on my neck. The voices of my mother and grandmother became remote and fuzzy - "I just never did see the likes of it," my grandmother would say, her soft Southern drawl cadenced like a lullaby, "all those children of hers runnin' round nearly nekkid..."
Oh, she's talking about the O'Reilly's I thought sleepily, whose seven children were allowed to wear their bathing suits all day long during the summer.
I wonder if you had to wear clothes on the moon? I might think, sneaking one last peek at the man in the moon.
Maybe that's why he had such a goofy grin on his face.
for more writing that's out of this world, go here
The past few days have certainly been enlightening ones, for having a disability, even one as minor as a broken foot, illuminates all those areas of life we take for granted - like running up and down stairs, meandering through the mall, even treking out to the mailbox - things I'm acccustomed to doing quickly and thoughtlessly, now require a great deal of effort and planning. Even though I'm off the crutches (and wearing this monstrous moon boot contraption) steps are slow, awkward, and painful. And boy, I've come to appreciate the drive-through window more than ever. This morning I was able to drop off a prescription (I've succumbed - I'm filling the prescription for Darvocet they gave me in the ER), go to the bank, and get coffee, all without getting out of the car.
Yes!
So I've been thinking a lot about the people I know who deal with chronic, long standing disabilities, and how life is so much more difficult for them than us able bodied souls. Most of them are unfailingly cheerful, positive, and life affirming, which inspires me more than I can say. Of course, I'm thinking in particular of one of my blogging friends, whom many of you also know and love. Whenever I'm tempted to feel a bit sorry for myself (and my boot!) I just think about Tammy and I'm suddenly infused with the warrior spirit!
I'm also thinking about the ways in which this injury might be a little payback for me, for the irritation with my husband (who has chronic foot pain due to peripheral neuropathy) for walking so slowly last week when we were in Disney World. And sometimes I get impatient with my mother, too, whose age has slowed her footsteps to a (for me) painfully slow pace.
Now, I myself am moving painfully slow, in every sense of those words.
Life is all about perspective, isn't it? About learning by walking in another woman's shoes (pardon the pun). Along with my new boot, I've received a lesson in humility this week, one I'm going to be learning for the next six weeks if my orthopedic surgeon is to be believed.
But for now, I'll just happily hobble into the kitchen and start dinner.
How about you? Has life ever taught you a lesson in humility?
Today's Words on Three Word Wednesday: Glass ~ Question ~ Token Shelly lifted her glass, placing it directly into the beam of sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window. Pure gold, she thought, admiring the clarity of wine pooled at the goblet's base. A practiced flick of her wrist sent the liquid into a gentle pirouette, releasing the grassy scent she especially favored. Dipping her nose just slightly over the rim, she inhaled, letting the complex aroma permeate her nasal membranes.
Only the closest of Shelly's friends dared ask her out for a drink, knowing full well there was no such thing as just a token glass of wine where she was concerned. Wine was serious business for her - after all, it was her livelihood. Running the vineyard her family had owned and operate for the past 75 years was a legacy she took very seriously.
Wine was more than just a business - it was a labor of love, wrapped in her warmest memories of times spent with her mother and grandfather, traipsing through the arbors in early fall, asking question after question. Her mother would sometimes become annoyed with her, impatient with the constant interruptions of a small girl who wanted to know why certain vines bloomed in the fall, and what the bad worms looked like, and how could they make white wine out of green grapes.
But her grandfather was always the soul of patience, kneeling beside her on the grassy hills, cupping his hands full of tiny grapes, showing her which ones were progressing as they should, teaching her how to determine which were not getting enough sun, or were becoming too moist.
For nearly 20 years, the vineyard had been the focus her days and nights, the recipient of all her affection and dedication. "So here I am," Shelly thought, "just me and the vines." She turned from the window and set the glass down on the black granite counter-top. "How insane of me to think that gestating the perfect bottle of pinot noir would be as satisfying as having a family."
She felt the soft brush of Samson's fur, his lithe feline body winding round her ankles. Reaching down to run her palm over his smooth back, she felt his spine arch appreciatively under her touch.
"I know, I know," she reassured him. "I appreciate how much you love me." The cat protested slightly as she scooped him up under her arm, retrieving her wine glass and stepping out onto the deck overlooking the sloping green hills of the vineyard. "But no matter how smart you are," she continued affectionately, "you can't run the vineyard when I'm gone."
For that was the big question on Shelly's mind these days, the question of legacy, of who would inherit her love for the vines, of who would continue creating the wines of which her grandfather had been so proud.
Dark eyes roaming the vista spread before her, she felt a familiar sensation of peace flooding her body. Though Shelly usually eschewed the California "feel good" philosophy, she had to admit this land had healing powers. The pride of ownership that flowed through her veins was as intoxicating as the finest vintage in her cellars.
"And that will have to be enough for me," she thought, taking a delicate sip of the Chardonnay she had poured a few minutes ago, before her thoughts had turned melancholy. The rich buttery flavor set her taste buds alight, and as she gently chewed the rich liquid it released its aftertaste onto her tongue. Sighing deeply with pleasure, she turned her back to the sunset, and went inside to refill her glass.
"That - and this," she said, lifting her glass into the waning beam of sunlight.
