Interlude - Between Middle Age and the Golden Years

Interlude

Fuzz Balls and Dust Bunnies Beware!

It’s Time for Spring Cleaning

They started out as tiny specks atop Dixie cups full of dirt. Jeff and I call them our “babies”, the hundreds of flower and vegetable seedlings we’ve been nurturing since late January. Just like the human version, though, they start out cute and harmless, and before you know it, some of them have grown into monsters that take over your home, your life, and whatever shred of sanity you have left. And we love them anyway.

The flowers and long-growing vegetables needed to be transplanted into larger containers to survive the last few weeks until planting season arrived, and a whole new batch of Dixie cups had to be seeded. We were running out of time and, even worse, space.

Which is why I was crawling along the baseboards, under tables, and behind furniture, in a quest to eek out space for a temporary home for the hordes of green things now bursting out of the spare bedroom. What I discovered, rather than creative and resourceful plant-starting space, was that my winter lethargy had taken a terrible toll

on the house.

It happens every year, of course, but somehow that first moment of realization is always a shock. Hibernating from New Year’s Day until the spring equinox is not a homemaking method that Better Homes and Gardens would recommend, apparently. While I was sleepwalking through life, my living space had morphed into the set of a horror movie. Clutter accumulated. Dust settled on every available surface. Cobwebs materialized out of thin air and created bridges between ceilings, light fixtures, and tall objects. The dust bunny population had exploded right under my nose.

“How could you?” I shrieked at the bunnies in abject disbelief. “We had a truce! I thought you were my friends!” Before I could think better of it, I’d already started arming myself for war. Détente was over, and I prepared to annihilate the invading forces.

One thing led to another, as it often does with me, and next thing I knew, spring cleaning was officially underway. Historians tell us the annual ritual originated back in the days before natural gas heated our homes through the long, cold winter. With roaring fires spewing soot along with heat for months at a time, our ancestors felt the need to sweep the premises top to bottom at the first opportunity. They’d throw open the doors, let in the some fresh air, and scrub until the cows came home. Somehow, humanity has never evolved to a point where the gene responsible for this manic behavior could adapt to modern needs. Like watching the latest episode of House instead of spending a week in a cleaning fugue.

Like it or not, it’s what we do. Every spring, people the world over make a fresh start, turning their homes upside down and committing acts of chemical warfare against unsuspecting germs that thought they had a good thing going. Me, I look at it as penance for past and future sins. God, and all of Chicagoland, thanks to this column, knows the chores that go undone each winter, mostly because I have just enough energy to dress myself (most days), get a meal or two on the table, and eventually drag my sun-deprived self back to bed at night. Making matters worse, with all those babies that will want to be moved to their new home in the garden come spring, who has time for housework once our frost-free date rolls around?

There is no getting around it. Spring cleaning is a necessary evil for most of us. Like an annual mammogram, you hate to think about it but afterwards, you’re glad you did it. So, armed with disinfectants, dust-suckers, polishes and cleansers of every kind, I was determined to wipe out dirt (the bad kind) and clutter in our lifetime.

In a matter of hours, I managed to asphyxiate myself while cleaning the bathroom, threw my back out while washing the cabinet tops, twisted an ankle while climbing on the counters to reach said cabinet tops, and scared the heck out of the neighbors two houses down when I screamed after discovering that the spider population, like the dust bunnies, had exploded while I hibernated all winter.

This created a dilemma for me. See, I inherited an almost Buddhist-like attitude toward living things, thanks to my mother. She often quotes English poet William Blake, who said “Everything that lives is holy, life delights in life.” Nice sentiment, except when you’re pulling weeds and feeling guilty for it. And also it becomes a problem when faced with hundreds of multi-legged creatures, a can of Raid in your hand, and your ethics go to war with your essential need to feel creep-free in your own home. Mama, forgive me, but creep-free won...again.

At this point, my eyes were watering fiercely, the neighbor kids were crying hysterically, I couldn’t breathe, and my back was determined to stay crooked for the foreseeable future. The clutter had multiplied thanks to the entire contents of the closets now sitting in the middle of the room, waiting to be sorted, and I couldn’t hobble through the mess on my throbbing ankle to get to the gosh darned bathroom, where I hoped the chemical fumes had abated so I could wash the Raid out of my eyes, take a load off my feet, and escape the utter chaos so I could figure out what the heck to do about it all.

What was I thinking? Plants like dirt, right? The seedlings would have been perfectly happy to live along the perimeter of every room, coexisting peacefully with the fuzz balls and dust mites. This wasn’t the Second Coming, for Pete’s sake, it was gardening, one of the few endeavors in which dirt is considered a good thing.

There is a lesson to be learned here, friends. At our age, who knows how long before these mortal remains are laid to rest in Mother Earth’s embrace, surrounded for all eternity by - you got it - dirt. If Nature had intended for us to be germ-free, we would have been born with anti-bacterial soap coursing through our veins. Though noble in a Calvinistic sort of way, the war against dirt will never be won. This whole spring cleaning thing seems a bit futile from that perspective.

Fortunately, I came to my senses then. I donned my Hazmat suit so I could mop up the puddle of dead spiders. I hobbled to the pile of closet guts and sent it all back from whence it came. Opened the windows to 35 degree air and shared the toxic cleanser fumes with the neighborhood.

And then I took my crooked, aching self to the couch, where I plopped down to do what I should have done in the first place.

I picked up the remote. Dr. House was waiting.

Walking the Fine Line

Between Passion and Obsession

A happy heart is a healthy heart, at least according to researchers at Emory University. Study participants who were most content showed the lowest incidence of cardiovascular disease, especially in the second half of life. Made me wonder how old curmudgeons like us can, after a lifetime of gloom and doom in some cases, give up the habitual bile and find a little joy in life. Seems our lives may depend on it, friends.

Could it be mere coincidence that Valentine’s Day falls during the dreariest time of year? I think not. I’m at my most curmudgeonly as January creeps ever so slowly toward spring. Snowed in, frozen over, and cooped up for months, we all crave something just a little over the top to wake up our stupefied psyches and put a spark in our souls.

At my age, it isn’t the promise of romance that grabs my attention, though. These days, nothing short of outright passion can break through the winter lethargy and make my heart sing. Please remove your mind from the gutter, if it has ventured in that direction. I’m referring to passions most often pursued with clothes on. Nothing wrong with the other sort, of course, but hopefully, most of us figure that out long before the golden years are upon us.

No, I’m speaking of a more G-rated kind of breathless excitement. Passion, aside from the most common use of the word, refers to “a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything”, according to my dictionary. It is powerful and compelling, almost impossible to resist, like my newly acquired passion for homemade potato chips. Passion is the emotion that fuels all our must-have, must-do, can’t-live-without-it moments. Which is why most of my wardrobe doesn’t fit at the moment.

Implied in the word is the inevitable call to action, the delicious surrender that accompanies the choice to immerse ourselves in the object of our desire, to become one with it, without compromise or regret. In the case of the previously mentioned chips, this would involve many pounds of Yukon Golds (sliced paper thin), and enough oil to make your heart want to pack up and leave home. Also, it’s more fun to get your partner involved in this passion. Then you won’t have to clean up the God-awful mess alone.

Passion shares a very fine line with obsession. Think of passion as the fair-haired child, the over-achiever in the family who makes real those dreams that others merely flirt with. Obsession, on the other hand, is the black sheep of the family. She broods, consumed with envy, hiding in shadows while Passion lives the life of glory. When Obsession finally lets go and does her thing, it’s like Mount Vesuvius erupting on innocent bystanders. We hide our obsessions like an ugly secret, lest those innocent bystanders decide living near an emotional volcano is too risky.

Think of it as passion on steroids; too much of a good thing, usually isn’t.

My passions are legion, and more often than not, they cross that fine line into obsession. I admit this freely, since trying to hide the fact is futile. After 10 minutes in the same room with me, most people get nervous. They carefully put distance between us, like a camper caught unaware by the grizzly who stopped by to forage. With no sudden moves, their eyes never leaving mine, they back-step themselves to the door and relative safety. Then they run like the dickens, never looking back. And I don’t get a lot of repeat visits.

“Wait a minute,” I holler cheerfully after them, “I was just about to offer you some chips - I made 18 pounds of them last night!” As their car peels out of the driveway, I wonder how I failed to hide the maniacal gleam in my eye, yet again.

See, I know it’s there. And I know what I’m like when I give in to passion. There’s no stopping me, and I probably wouldn’t appreciate it if you tried. I’m a creativity junkie and I live for the rush. Sure, an addiction is an addiction, whatever the substance, and I admit that I am powerless over it. But don’t bother planning an intervention or dragging me off to a Fill-in-the-Blankaholics Anonymous meeting. I like having all the benefits of being an addict, without the nasty, life-threatening side effects. And it’s less expensive than drugs. Usually.

Besides, it’s not like it’s contagious. You have nothing to fear if you’re presently a normal, balanced sort of person. On the other hand, those with latent obsessive tendencies of their own should approach me with caution. Two passionate personalities spending time in close proximity, even if one has deluded himself into thinking he’s sane, has the equivalent effect of what happens to subatomic particles being hurled around in a supercollider. The word ‘explosive’ comes to mind.

Take Jeff, for example. He was a happy-go-lucky guy when I met him, mellow as a smooth cabernet, contentedly going wherever his whims and circumstances led. It drove me nuts. How can a person live without plans, and lists, and a Life at a Glance wall calendar? Somehow he had muddled through, until fate threw us both into the supercollider and BAM! Ripples from that particular Big Bang are still making their way through this unexpected universe we created.

It started innocently enough, as these things always do. We had some common interests, and when we became a couple, it seemed logical to explore them together. One thing led to another. Passions were ignited; obsessions soon followed. Before we knew it, our own personal Vesuvius was spewing magma into every nook and cranny of our lives. It hasn’t stopped yet.

I’m not talking about occasional bouts of manic creativity. If you are any kind of artist, it’s to be expected. No, this is full-blown anarchy here. Suddenly our life was full of exhaustion and dehydration brought on by marathon sessions at the radio, karaoke-induced hospital visits, and pod people taking over every inch of floor space when we got carried away with the seed-starting project.

People like me should come with warning labels the way our prescriptions do. “Caution: Proximity to this person may cause confusion, light-headedness, susceptibility to mania, and in rare instances, irreversible mental problems. Do not use if you suffer from creative fugues or obsessive-compulsive disorders. If you experience creative euphoria or a sudden urge say ‘What the heck, let’s do it’ while in contact with this person, seek help immediately. But don’t expect too much; modern medicine still can’t work miracles.”

So, yes, there is a downside to surrendering to the muse and indulging one’s passion. But it’s a small price to pay for a healthier heart, a happier spirit, and an abundant supply of homemade chips.

Forget the Resolutions:

Start Working on The Bucket List

January 2009

The new year crept up on us again, just as it always does, full of promise and potential, a bona fide tabula rasa upon which we will chisel our glorious future. No matter what imperfections, shortcomings, or outright screw-ups have been born of our past efforts, the new year gives us the chance to try again. The sky’s the limit, right?

And it scares the bejesus out of me. Because with every fresh start, there comes the possibility of (gulp!) falling flat on your face.

My resolutions were amazingly similar from year to year. “Get organized” was always number one on the list. January 1st would find me dressed for the war against clutter, and my enthusiastic, sweeping efforts would leave years worth of stuff strewn in piles in every room of the house. The city would earn a little extra on garbage pick-up that week, and quite a few boxes would be added to the already impressive pile of stash in the garage. And I still can’t find my dang car keys half the time.

Making resolutions starts as a good intention and inevitably becomes the worst kind of self-inflicted punishment. After all, if Ritalin couldn’t fix my ADD and make me organized, resolutions are a pretty sorry back-up plan.

I’d tell myself it was a step toward self-improvement. Instead, I began to feel like the czar of self-degradation. “You are STILL disorganized!” my inner czar would accuse. “After all these years, you STILL procrastinate! And you STILL haven’t killed off the dust bunnies! Are you going to get with the program, or do I have to come back next January to point out - AGAIN — what a slacker you are?” Inevitably, the czar did return, year after miserable year. Same mistakes, different decade.

Seemed to me there had to be a better way to make use of the fresh start that each new year offered - a way that, perhaps, would build on my potential without shining a spotlight on the perennial flaws. But the dust bunnies were closing in, the clutter was waiting to be rearranged, and naturally, it seemed like a good idea to put off thinking about it for awhile. Resigned to the inevitable, I’d pour a glass of wine and wait for the czar’s next visit.

The real change began when I entered the empty nest years. Alaina, my middle child, had just graduated from high school and was excitedly preparing to leave for college in California. I’d first visited California on a business trip when I was her age and fell in love with the Pacific shore. I decided I would build my career, get successful, and eventually move to the land of my dreams. But I never did. Making resolutions about annihilating dust bunnies suddenly seemed trivial in the context of the big picture.

I mulled over the big picture that night, mourning the doors that had quietly closed somewhere between youth and middle age, when the real point finally hit me. I’m not going to live forever! Oh my gosh, why didn’t anyone tell me?

The shock eventually wore off, revealing a world that looked a lot different than it had when I believed Mick Jagger’s assurance that time was on my side. My friend Anne had recently experienced the same epiphany, so the two of us spent some quality time with our good friend Jose Cuervo, sorting through the rules of this new universe.

Know what we figured out? Sweeping changes don’t change a thing. No matter what we resolve at the start of each year or what we vow when we lay our heads on our pillows at night, we are still the same individuals when the sun rises in the morning. Imperfect and blundering, perhaps, but once you accept who you are, you’re free to do something different, create a more pleasing experience, live a meaningful life instead of focusing on the inconsequential.

Also, we decided housework is futile. Scientists say cockroaches are the one species that will survive when the ozone is depleted and radiation from the sun wipes out all other life on the plant. They’re wrong. Every homemaker knows the truth. Dust bunnies will outlive us all.

So instead of making annual resolutions that will be broken inside of 30 days, I now have a bucket list - things I want to do before I kick the bucket. That first list, the one I composed with the help of Anne and Jose, has evolved quite a bit in recent years. For example, I no longer feel the need to do fouettes , a really cool spin that ballerinas do so fast that their faces blur when you watch them. I would, however, be thrilled to do crazy things like open a window or shave my legs without pulling my back on a regular basis. Hope springs eternal.

I’m making some real progress toward living the list. Although I haven’t earned advanced degrees, made a significant contribution toward the body of knowledge in psychology, or created a living legacy that will serve as a tangible, permanent symbol of my commitment to truth, justice, and the American way (and I’m sure Jose’s influence went a long way toward that particular aspiration), the list has definitely guided me toward living more fully. I laugh more, love more, fill stolen moments with music. I sometimes speak Spanish to my very kind and patient neighbor, something I’ve wanted to be able to do since I was 10. I learn new skills, give my creative passion a lot more reign, and if I still have more projects in progress than completed, at least I’ve learned to love the journey more than the trophy at its end.

Will this new way of being allow me to die happy? That remains to be seen - in the very, very distant future, I hope. But one thing is certain. The czar of self-degradation has finally retired, the dust bunnies are now my friends, and life has become a most joyful dance, even without the fouettes.

So as this new year gets underway, you will not find me engaged in the annual reorganization of stuff, nor will I examine my many flaws or attempt to reach perfection in this lifetime. Instead, I will spend my time hugging my daughters, smiling at strangers, and enjoying the beauty in the world around me. I’ll make music with Jeff and laugh with friends and appreciate the solitude of my own company. And when the day is done, without guilt or reservation, I’m going to pour a drink and cozy up with my new best buddies, the dust bunnies.