Hugging

My family, when I was young, was not demonstrative with their affection.  I suppose most families of that era, while not exactly frigid, were a bit cool. Even my Dad's big Italian family members weren't huggers. The German side definitely seemed to think hugs were a taboo.

Understand that I knew I was loved, cherished as a child and a teen. It was much, much later that I heard, "I love you" from either parent. I know it was hard for them.

How I learned to love to be hugged is a mystery. My friends, now among the best 'huggers' I know, didn't start out that way. We greeted with a "hi, there" or a little slap. Not so much as an air kiss passed between us.

Something happened in my generation. Suddenly everybody was hugging everybody. Bosses and strangers till they were introduced, parents and kids, friends, male and female, suddenly entwining.

This is a good thing, I think.

(Unless you know HER, a nameless acquaintance who is suddenly my best friend. She doesn't just hug. She squeezes. She doesn't know when to let go. She invariably deposits her too-much make-up on my face. She is overwhelming. She smells of cigarettes. She seeks me out like a bloodhound. I try to be nice. I like her; I do not like being held in a sadistic grip.)

Hugging has become a generic greeting.

Even though I see it that way, there are still ways to tell if it means anything. There is the 'pat on the back' hug. You know this one. It is the obligatory hug you give when you don't want to hug at all. Sometimes it is accompanied by a gentle push away. There is the one-armed 'buddy hug', usually paired with, ' how ya been?'. There is the 'fist on shoulders' hug, often associated with air kissing, usually given to a young man at his graduation who wouldn't be caught dead having his mother hug him in public.

Then there is the 'real thing'.  The 'friendship' hug, a quick and gentle squeeze, complete with an even quicker kiss on the cheek is part of modern friendship. Men do it, women do it. It shows spontaneous delight in seeing  someone. It means 'I like you', not 'I love you". It is the innocent hug you give to someone who deserves more than a handshake.

There is the 'I REALLY LIKE YOU' hug, a little longer, often accompanied by a slight swaying and a slow parting;  a staring into the eyes, a smile and often a furtive peck.

The best hug, however, I don't need to describe. You know it. It's warm and comforting. It doesn't need a kiss to complete it. You don't want to let go. Your every breath is in sync. Whew......

I know a few people who don't hug at all. They don't like to be touched. I wonder, sometimes, if my family hadn't turned into huggers, what I would be like now. Coldness isn't in my make up.

Want a hug?

Silk Purses

We go through tough times, you and I. We get sick, we have money troubles, we argue, we lose our jobs or our pets or our favorite shirt.  Tough times are what we make of them.

I know I whine and complain. I vent. I retreat into my secret garden sometimes for days on end. Then I tell you about it when I get tired of hearing myself talk. I try to write in generalities most of the time so you can put yourself in my words and apply them to your own life. Same issues, different circumstances.

I've been thinking about my sister. We haven't talked in a long time.

I've been thinking about my friends in Florida who don't know about my heart attack. We used to be close; I'm not sure what happened.

I've been thinking about a job I had that made me feel good, and I wonder if I will find that joy again in my work.

I wonder if I will ever publish my book, or if it will draw cyber dust in the archives of the HP. 

My mind races, thoughts tumbling like an Olympic gymnast. My heart pounds with anticipation. I know what I want. I am afraid, or lazy or unable to get it. It's not always an excuse; sometimes it is a reason.

The optimism I felt as a teen is still there, somewhere, I guess. It has been eroded over the years by whatever got in my way. Sometimes people or living, more often it is my own brain at work.

I ventured into the pet aisle the other day and saw a bag of pig ears. Disgusting things--even the dog thinks so. They got me thinking, though, about an old saying. You can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear. 

The silk purse is elusive, at best, at times,  like the golden ring we hear about. I'm becoming cynical. I wonder if there is a silk purse or a golden ring at all!

Like you, I want everything to go right for once. I want things to move forward and not one ahead, two back. A few wishes to come true, waking up to anticipation instead of worry and wanting. Being free of health worries would be nice, and throw in a fantasy or two!

I got out my dressy handbags--a plain black leather, a tiny gold sequined clutch, a white one with ruffles and a small silver bag. Not a silk one in the bunch. 

There was, however, a golden pinkie ring that I had forgotten about.

Maybe there is hope after all.

About Betty

I once had a doll named "Betty".  I have no memory of how she got the name.  Unlike today, when I know several women by that name,  it wasn't one I identified with back then.

Anyway, "Betty" had fair skin and curly dark hair, big blue eyes that blinked and the cutest clothes I could fashion out of scarves and safety pins (till Mom waved her magic needle). "Betty" and I spent many happy hours together before "Barbie" arrived.

What  made me remember Betty?

A simple photo sent by an old friend.

I am not one to take pictures, and I have precious few. But there are moments when time stands still...when a childhood friend sends me a picture that remarkably resembles my cached memories.

In an instant, I was eight years old again, happily content with my hoards of inanimate friends. Hours on end playing 'house' or 'beauty pageant' or 'boyfriend'. Too young to understand what sex was all about, too little to have an ego of our own, we projected our fantasies into miniatures of ourselves that were beautiful beyond words and successful beyond our dreams.

I wish I hadn't given up 'Marjie' or 'Betty', 'Barbie' or 'Tiny Tears'. It would be so lovely to be rich or poor, glamorous or trivial at one's every whim. Imagine if our innocence could stay forever; if we could fly; if we could subsist on nothing more than  being happy!

I think back on the stories we played out. They were unscripted. They had no moral at the end.  There must have been something real in the staging--it couldn't have come from the baby inside, could it? The laughter was real, the drama was real. 

I don't remember when I put my friend away for the last time.

A little girl came into work the other day (clutching an iPod)  and I asked her if she would like to color. She may have been eight or nine, but she rolled her eyes like a grown-up. That's for babies, she said, way too cynical and snotty.

Well, I told her about another childhood friend who kept a coloring book and crayons on the coffee table (I don't know, but suspect, that her present canine probably ate the last one). Every friend who came to visit colored a page. The little girl didn't take the crayons I offered, sort of snorted, and preceded her mother to their table. A few minutes later their server came for  a child's menu and crayons. When I peeked at her, she was stoically concentrating on the picture. Maybe she learned a thing or two about how good it is to be a child. She had no idea that she was making a memory.

Small memories, be they of a doll named 'Betty', or a first kiss, or a special friend make everything better. I think that tonight I will color instead of playing computer games, and if I can find a curly-haired, fair skinned doll with big blue eyes I think I'll name her 'Betty'.

Energy Versus Ambition

I am healing from my acute (Nothing cute about it. Trust me.) illness. Physically, except for pain unrelated to the heart incident, I am fine. The meds I was given to strengthen my heartbeat have been adjusted and readjusted. They still need some tweaking.

I have more energy. My naps are shorter. I am cooking more than I did and enjoying it more than I have in months.  I'm once again walking, and staying up fairly late. I can't sit still. Only one thing holds me back.

I have no ambition.

I thought the drive to 'do' would come back with the energy part. Nope. My brain (perhaps having been deprived of its blood flow) has stagnated. Hubby wonders aloud if I had a lobotomy instead of heart surgery.

I have no ambition. In my mind I am weeding and sowing, decorating and cleaning out closets. In reality, I look at it and sigh and check my phone and my email. I play slots online. I make lists. I fill up Post-Its (which reminds me...I need more). I complain.

I get in the car to go shopping (mostly window), or to the lake or around the cemetery or to the Y. I have ice cream, or stop at the coffee shop, or go the park to schmooze with the critters.  

I have the energy to go places and do things as long as it is what I want to do. I have no ambition to look for a second job, or to finish the PDFs for my book or to clean out the laundry room. My body is willing. My brain is lazy.

 I probably need caffeine, but that's another story.

I'm tired of paperwork and doctors and bills and pills. I want to just have some fun, play a little and forget responsibility for awhile. I have the energy now.

I haven't the ambition.

Losing in Life

Losing a person you love, a job you enjoy, a beloved pet is hard enough when it is by death. Expected or not, it leaves us with an empty hole that seems to take forever to fill.

What could be worse?

Losing in life.

Death brings its own conclusion. The closure helps us to deal with the stages of grief, and most of us fare pretty well, resigning ourselves to the fact that ending  comes after every beginning, and it always comes too fast. There is some preparation for the inevitable, even  relief in some circumstances, but it is never easy.

Losing in life is much harder. You know the one you miss is out there somewhere. Maybe disappeared, never wanting to be found. Maybe your emails or phone calls are ignored time after time, till the hurt first becomes unbearable....then turns to apathy. You feel like an afterthought.

What went wrong? That's the question. 

Sometimes the answer is 'nothing'.

You could keep on trying to reconnect. You could beg forgiveness for sins unknown. You could send a gift for a special occasion (or no occasion), or an invitation. You could ask mutual acquaintances for updates. You could send a note or show up if you know where that missed one will be. 

You could forget and move on, hoping for the best, expecting nothing in return.

The hurt doesn't go away because there was never an ending, only a postponement.

Whether you have a wake-up call of your own demise or the inkling of someone else's leaving (by this, I mean not just death, but going away), the answer is the same.

Life is finite. Death is final. Estrangement needn't be.

Music to My Ears

I love music.

I'm not a huge fan of country or heavy metal, although some of it stirs me. Give me classical when I'm busy, or rockabilly when I'm cruising. Different music for different moods.

Some music makes me angry, but I don't know why. It isn't the lyrics. Maybe it's the pitch, or the incessant pounding that accompanies some of the modern stuff (it can't be called a 'tune').

I don't read music, but I can't stand hearing the same chord over and over. I easily recognize a wrong note, or a melody that isn't the way I remember it. I am a rock purist.

Once I get a few gin and tonics down, the fun begins--give me that old time rock and roll. There is a place for Jackson Browne, and there is a time for Santana and Dr. Hook, but it's the beat...the beat that makes me tap my foot till I feel the need to jump out of my skin and on to the dance floor. I'm not much of a dancer....but I love to feel the drums as I move my feet, the guitar as I bounce, the keyboard as I attempt to carry a tune.

Music can soothe me when I'm sad or angry. It can bring back a memory of days long past, maybe of a wonderful summer as a kid, or a cozy winter night. I shiver when I hear some of those songs...the memory becomes so strong.

Music can calm the nightmares, enhance our worship, bring joy to us when nothing else can.  It's not an easy feeling to describe. It just is. Music can inspire patriotism. It can drop us to our knees in happiness or in sorrow. There are songs that make me laugh out loud, and some that make me sob. Music fills all those little pockets of my soul. It makes me whole.

There  is music everywhere. Listen to the music in the hum of the wind, the chirping of the songbird, the sweetness in your love's voice. Music is all around if we listen for it.

I love to go dancing, preferably to a live band. There's something about swaying to "Unchained Melody" or "I Can't Help Falling in Love" that gives me the warm fuzzies. Don't speak, just let me feel your heartbeat and your warm breathing against my face. We don't need ballroom costumes or fancy moves--just someone to remind us when the song ends......