It's The Little Things

My dad has been sick for so long, I can’t remember him healthy. The most noticeable symptoms of his illness are his muscles working against his wishes and his mouth gurgling the words as they pass over his lips. There’s no cure for what he’s got. And though there’s medication to treat the symptoms, none of them really do very much. Combined with side effects like extreme fatigue or light headedness, he has chosen to skip all but one med. It’s a muscle relaxer and if this thing is doing something, I’d hate to see him off it.

The drag of his toe as his stiff leg barely bends at the knee and the clank of the utensil against his teeth as he struggles to flex his wrist, those noises are normal. They’re part of what I have been conditioned to expect. So much so that they never cause alarm. Only a loud jangle of furniture followed by a solid thud sets me off. That jumble of noise is the signal that he’s gone down.

In his world, normal means everything takes time. Getting to the car is one minute for me but ten for him. He has to cautiously manage his steps. Because the wrong one can send him in a free fall to the ground. Eating lunch is twenty minutes for me but thirty for him. It takes even longer if his throat muscles decide to tense up mid swallow. That’s when he starts to gag and choke, gasping for air as he tries to remain calm.

It probably sounds weird that this is someone’s version of normal. I’m sure if you were sitting one table over at Roller’s the other night when he started to hack, waves of water sloshing over the edge of his glass as he tried to draw in a sip, you were startled and unsettled. Or when you watched him struggle into the passenger side of the Jeep rental in the Publix parking lot, you thanked the high heavens you weren’t in his situation. I don’t even notice it, at least not the big things. Instead I notice the small ones.

“What happened to your leg?” I asked as I walked into the den in Sarasota, my dad seated at the desk with his face illuminated by the monitor.

“Huh?” he muttered as he pecked at the keys.

“That,” I noted while pointing to a bloodied bruise on his thigh located just below the hem of his shorts.

“Oh, while shaking the bottle to get the conditioner out, my arm lost control and slammed the spout it into my thigh. It left a mark,” he said with a slight shrug.

Crazy, right? I mean, that’s not normal. Not even for me. The release of conditioner should never, and I mean never, result in injury.

A few days later, back in Philadelphia, the city was being pummeled by a torrential downpour. I darted through sheets of rain and into the office, asking coworkers with a view of the parking lot to let me know when my dad pulled up. The water was coming down so fast the gutter by the ramp was overflowing in a steady stream. And since my dad can’t hold an umbrella and use his walker at the same time, I wanted to get out there and shield him as best I could. Forty minutes later, I heard the back door creak open, the slow moan of the hinge signaling my dad’s arrival.

“Shit,” I said as I threw my chair back and ran for the door.

“I’m okay,” he sputtered as water puddled at his feet.

I slid his rain hat off his head and helped him out of his Goretex jacket. Miraculously, he was relatively dry; but from the knee down he was soaked. If I could have wrung his pant legs taught, I would have easily collected a few cups of rain. I pinched his black dress slacks between two fingers and tried to shake the beads of water free. My motion was quick but gentle, aware that an exaggerated tug could lead him to lose his balance. Raindrops splattered across the toe of his shoes and onto the floor.

“Oh dad,” I said with the kind of sigh a parent reserves for a child who has dripped chocolate ice cream on a crisp white shirt. “Why didn’t you call from the car? I would have come out and helped.”

“I’m fine,” he said as he gripped his walker and headed on his way.

I stood there in the corridor holding his rain gear and waited until he was through the doorway leading to his office. Once inside, I knew he was safe or at least safely back in his world of normal.

The truth is, he was fine. He’ll always be fine. Even when he really isn’t. That’s the way it works with him. Nonetheless, I can’t help but notice the little things.

You Win

When I was a kid, I tormented my older sister to no end. I’d crawl on top of her and fart. Or I’d tell my mom something she did just to get her in trouble. I was always eager to make her life difficult. One time I went with my mom to fetch Leslie at a party she wasn’t supposed to go to, a party she had lied about, and from the front seat I taunted her with threats.

“You are soooooooooooooo in trouble,” I said over the bench seat while my mom steered the station wagon home.

“Shut up,” Leslie grumbled.

“Make me,” I responded.

“I’ll make you,” my mom offered.

Another time I told Leslie this girl Melissa, a neighbor and one of her classmates, was prettier than she was. It wasn’t something I thought. It was merely something I said. And I said it solely to jab. I’m not sure why except that this is what siblings do; we poke and poke and poke just for the sake of provoking a reaction.

That prettier comment crushed Leslie. I know it did. Maybe it made her more self conscious about the bump on her nose. Or it made her more attuned to the way her hair curled and frizzed with even the slightest humidity. Leslie didn’t hear that comment as a compliment to Melissa’s appearance but as an insult to her own. I wasn’t evolved enough at six to comprehend the power of my words. Though with age and cellulite, I’ve come to understand better how my comment left a mark.

When I pushed hard enough, Leslie fought back. I will never forget the time I annoyed her so much that she responded by going downstairs and coming back up to relay the situation.

“Mom wants to see you,” she announced with a smirk.

I stomped down the stairs, ran through the dining room and as soon as I landed in the den where my parents were sprawled out on the sectional with the Sunday Times, I pleaded my case.

“I didn’t do it,” I explained as I tried to catch my breath.

“Do what?” my mom asked without lifting her eyes from the newspaper.

“Um, never mind.” I said as I ran back through the house, up the rear stairs and into Leslie’s room where I proceeded to yell at her for faking a tattle tale.

For the most part, when Leslie got to the end of her rope with my antics, she usually put me in my place - literally. She’d plant her hand on my head, lock her elbow and just hold me at bay. I flailed my little arms. I kicked my stubby legs. I grunted and growled but no matter what I did, I couldn’t get close to her. My extended finger tips merely scratched at the air. With my toes curled tight around threads of shag carpeting, my knees quivered against her strength.

Eventually I tired and stopped fighting. At which point, Leslie got bored and released her grip. Sometimes I used that newfound freedom to finally attack. But usually, too tuckered from the struggle, too beaten down by my failed efforts, I just walked away. I lowered my head and scuffed my heels against the floor as I retreated to my bedroom.

That’s how I feel when I say I love you and you linger in silence. Or when I admit belly flutters and get nothing in return. With my head down and jaw clenched, I fight with all my might to reach beyond the space you create. I claw and kick, sometimes thinking I just might reach you, but alas your locked elbow that forces me to the periphery never relaxes. For all the effort I make, for all of the ways I peel back my protection and expose myself vulnerable, I’m tired. Maybe the initial allure of the situation has faded. Maybe I am more aware of my inability to change the outcome. Either way, I think I’m ready to stop playing my role in this battle of wills. In fact, I am so tired, I’m ready to walk away.

Talk It Over

Last week, Bess, Erika and I meandered over to 45th and Springfield to attend Trish Ryan’s local book signing. After excited introductions, the attendees settled in and with Trish at the top of a lopsided circle of chairs, the talk began. But this wasn’t one of those typical readings where the author hides behind a podium and fails to engage the audience. This was one of those readings where the author initiated introductions, spoke about the inspiration of her book, read selected passages, and then turned the conversation over to everyone else.

Relying on the idea of having hope, Trish asked us to share something we wanted to occur. The woman to her left went first, expressing her wish to mend the fractured relationship with her mother. The next woman spoke about wanting to find love. I admitted my hopes of finding true success as a writer. While this exercise could have morphed into a group therapy session with tissue boxes flying every which way, it didn’t. Instead it lingered in that comfortable spot where though surrounded by strangers, people felt safe even when vulnerable.

After the reading, the three of us bid adieu to Trish, piled back in my car and headed off to fetch some sustenance. It was sort of quiet at first. Probably because we were all digesting the evening. Then I spoke.

“That part where Trish talked about how women oftentimes have more hope and faith in someone else’s dreams than their own? That is so me.”

“Me too,” Bess noted.

“Definitely,” Erika offered from the backseat.

When the reading ended and attendees mingled about in the room, I went up to two different people who had mentioned hopes of pursuing writing. Though I’m admittedly no expert in the area, I feel like I know enough to share some thoughts. At the very least, I can educate others about applying to writing programs. But instead of simply naming tools and resources, listing books and outlining options, I excitedly relayed that anything was possible. That if they stuck to it and believed, becoming a writer was an attainable goal. And as far as I was concerned, they would unquestionably find success. It’s the same pep talk all of you have given me. And while at the core I believe it, they are words I’d never say to myself.

Maybe that’s why women feel a need to talk things through. Me babbling about my aching heart or my crippled father has nothing to do with airing my dirty laundry. Sometimes I post my thoughts because I seek what I can’t do for myself. It’s the same reason I hashed out the resurfacing of Alaska with Bess and Sean. It’s the very reason I dragged my mom to the paint store to pick out the correct slate blue for my bedroom or made Allison read a short story ten times over as I prepared it for submission. Sometimes in life I believe in myself without question. But other times I waiver. I stumble, uncertain in my abilities and conclusions. It doesn’t make me insecure or weak. Turning to others doesn’t make me a failure. Every so often I need to reach beyond myself to find the belief and hope I lack. And lucky for me, it’s always been there.

My Purpose (Or Why A Smart Girl Makes The Dumb Decision To Still Work In Retail)

When I started at Banana Republic twelve years ago, I was young and innocent. I believed the world was a good place and I aspired to make it better. Yeah, well, it only took a few years in retail for that ambitious perspective to adjust.

“Mommy, I have to pee,” a tot whined as her mom examined the inside of a handbag.

“Hush it,” the mom answered in between cracks of her gum.

“But mommy-y-y-y-y,” the child continued as she grabbed her crotch with both hands. “I have to pee-e-e-e-e.”

“I’ll take you in a second. Just wait.”

Five minutes later, the kid lifted up her skirt, pulled down her panties and sprayed urine all over the $2,000 Italian area rug fronting the shoe section. The same rug placed atop imported cherry planked flooring.

I walked over to my manager who was helping another customer and completely oblivious to the pee predicament. I leaned toward her ear and quietly relayed the situation.

“Three things: (1) Not all people should be allowed to reproduce, (2) there’s officially piss on the rug, which by the way, I don’t get paid enough to clean up and (3) I’m taking my break - do you want a lemonade from Auntie Anne’s?”

My manager slowly turned her head to glance at the shoe area where the little girl was yanking her panties back up. I meanwhile skipped to the office to fetch my wallet. And in case you were wondering, the mother yelled at the kid before grabbing her by the arm and stomping out in a fit with nary a word about the puddle her offspring had left behind.

Shortly after that episode, I started to really hate people. Even the friendly ones who didn’t have tykes that peed on the floor. To manage my newfound dislike of the human race, I begged to be assigned to the stock room or the register. This way I could keep customer interaction to a minimum. Life was much more tolerable when my only inquiry was cash or credit. Then, a few months ago, I switched stores to follow a good friend who had just been crowned General Manager at a different outpost. The drive was further, the store was smaller and lord knows I didn’t need the barely there pay to make ends meet. But I went. And within a week of settling in, something miraculous happened.

“How’re you doing in there?” I asked a customer with a slight rap upon the door.

“Does this skirt go with anything else?” she asked as she dangled a chocolate, pin-striped, a-line over the framing.

I rifled through the racks and came back with my findings.

“There’s a jacket except I don’t have it in your size. But, this black one which I personally own and adore is the same style in a different fabric. Try it on for fit and let me know what you think. If you like it, I can grab the other pieces.”

She stepped out of the fitting room and twirled in front of the three way mirror. The jacket draped perfectly. From the sleeve length to the waist detailing, it looked like a tailor had made it just for her. That’s when I retreated to the closet behind the registers and fetched the matching skirt and pants I had stashed for myself.

“Okay, listen, I’ve put these items on hold every Tuesday for the last three weeks. And if I don’t buy them tonight but you could have, I’ll feel insanely guilty. So try it all on and if it works, it’s yours,” I said as I passed off two hangers.

“Are you sure?” she hesitantly inquired.

“Oh please, she isn’t buying that,” my manager noted with a giggle as she passed by.

A half hour later, as I strolled back into the store with an iced-tea from the cafe next door, I noticed the customer at the register with the black jacket and matching skirt in hand.

“It worked!” I excitedly yelped.

“Thank you so much for everything. I was out at King of Prussia last night and no matter what store I went into, no one helped me. When I got home, I cried. I’m serious. It was awful. My husband didn’t know what to do with me.”

“We’ve all been there,” I joked as I tucked my wallet under my arm and took a sip of my drink.

“Here,” she said as she held out her business card. “I run events for a winery. Call me the next time you’re nearby and I’ll set you and a friend up for a complimentary tasting.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said as I shooed away her card.

“No, it’s more than necessary. You brought me back from the depths of darkness,” she elaborated as she tucked the card in my hand.

I know clothing doesn’t define us. At the core, it’s the inside that matters. But sometimes the outside has the magical ability to repair a damaged inside. I speak from experience. Two words - Helmut Lang. So as I stood there watching a woman return to her happy place all because of an outfit I put together, I realized I no longer hate people. I also had a better understanding as to why I still clock in at the Big Banana.