The Incredible Shrinking Woman

I’ve always been “vertically challenged,” as my friend Darlene puts it. In practical terms it means I need to keep a folding stool handy just about everywhere in the house. It means I need to stand on a small wooden riser when I play handbells. It means I really need a six-way adjustable drivers seat in the car so I can reach the gas pedal and still see over the hood. It means any pants I buy ready-made are too long, even those marked “Petite.” It also meant I could wear the highest heeled shoes I wanted without being taller than my boyfriends, (although that was always a moot point since my one and only “boyfriend" was a good seven inches taller than me.) It didn’t take long for my son to surpass me in height. At age 12, he was a full head taller than I was, a sobering realization for me in more ways than simply physical. 

I’ve never minded being short, never seriously wished I were tall and willowy like fashion models. Occasionally I’ve longed for an extra inch or so, mostly when I’m in crowds - it’s surprisingly claustrophobic being in a dense crowd when there’s nothing in sight except a sea of backs and shoulders. Overall, I’ve been content with my stature.

But in the past few years, I’ve had an inkling that I was shrinking. It’s not surprising - most of us do lose height as we age. I noticed it first when we lived in our old house and I started having trouble reaching the mixing bowls on the top shelf of my cupboard. Those bowls had lived there since 1976, and I’d never had a problem reaching them before. Until one day, I couldn’t.

Ready or Not

Like most little kids, my grandson loves to play hide-and-go-seek. His version is slightly different than the one I’m most accustomed to playing. He likes to hide objects instead of people. So one of us will hide something while the other one closes their eyes and counts to 10. When we’re finished counting, we’re supposed to shout out, “Ready??” to make sure the object has been sufficiently hidden.

Sometimes when I’m the “hider” I scramble to find a good hiding place for whatever I’m tasked with concealing. “Wait!” I have to call out. “I’m not ready yet!” Connor usually sighs in exasperation, but graciously gives me another few seconds. “Are you ready YET??” he finally shouts. 

“Okay,” I concede, even if I’m not. And he tears off looking for the model car or the stuffed animal or the book or whatever it is we’re hiding on this particular day.

The game of hide-and-go-seek with it’s “ready or not” concept is very appropriate to life, isn’t it? So many times we’re faced with the prospect of change and hesitate because we’re not ready. 

The New January

It feels like I’m getting a New Year’s do-over.

We’ll be leaving the sunny skies of southwest Florida tomorrow morning and heading home to Michigan, where I hear a fresh covering of snow awaits us. I haven’t seen snow - or felt cold winds or seen gray skies - for almost seven weeks. It’s possible that I’ll go directly into shock, or at the least into an emergency case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Interventions may be necessary!

A Fine Balance

So, the other day in a blog post I wrote about “cutting the cord” on social media (Facebook and Twitter particularly). I wrote that I although I value social media as a “big village green” or a place to connect with people from so many walks of my life, I felt that in the current political climate, it was feeding my anger and frustration and affecting my ability to get on with life in a positive manner. I wrote about using the month of February to “detox” myself from Facebook and Twitter, in favor of engaging in old-fashioned personal communications like handwritten notes and letters and I invited readers to be my “pen-pal” of sorts. 

The truth of that post is this: I wrote it about six weeks ago, when I was sick and tired of my own terror over the state of the new world order. I wrote it when I was angry and totally disheartened. I wrote it when I had maybe had one too many glasses of wine on a dark December day. I scheduled it to post at the end of January, and then completely forgot about it until I started getting comments about it in my email box on Friday.

Cutting the Cord

For some time, most especially since the election, I have felt the danger of social media. I recognize my own obsession with it, an obsession I desire and despise in equal measure. What I have loved about it is the ability to connect with people who aren’t within my physical realm, people I don’t or can’t see every day. I like knowing what they’re up to, I like seeing pictures of their family parties, hearing about the books they read, knowing their triumphs and tragedies - all the things we “post” on our FB pages. I realize how much I need this connection. I realize that this need arises from a deep-seated loneliness I don’t always want to acknowledge.  So I’m drawn to this central location, this big virtual village green, place where I can express my “status” - how I’m feeling, what I’m doing, what’s happening in my life - but also a place where I can find out the same things about all of you.