September 04, 2005

8:45 p.m.

Heart Shapes

When I was at Rose and Mike's on Friday evening, Rose reminded me that the following day, which was yesterday, was to be the third anniversary of my mother's passing. So yesterday evening when I had eaten and had a glass of wine and read some of the new Harry Potter, and gone over my new song, I did something I have possibly never done. I called a friend and invited him over for a glass of wine, to cheer me.

It's mostly that I usually have no friends in the neighborhood. My across-the-hall neighbor from my last apartment used to come over sometimes for a glass of wine, or he'd invite me over for tea or something, but we weren't really friends, we were just neighbors being friendly. I wouldn't have trusted him with my fragile secrets or anything. But Wes now lives nearby, and I suddenly didn't want to be alone on my mom's Passing Anniversary, so I called him up and asked what he was doing. He came over in about fifteen minutes and we had a lovely time, just talking and sharing our lotto fantasies and drinking some really fine J. Lohr Cabernet. Wes has been a songwriter for probably over 40 years, and I played him my new song complete with a blank space where an elusive word needed to go, and with a bit of thought he came up with something totally appropriate, which not only scanned correctly but referred to my mother. So there's a bit of her in the song now. So regarding yesterday's entry, "sing me a pretty lullabye" is now, "sing me my mother's lullabye." There actually was a lullabye that was passed down from mother to daughter for some generations, and mom taught it to me when I was young, and though neither Rose nor I have children, we still remember it. It's totally un-P.C. to sing it now, as it contains references to people of color that are now considered demeaning -- but I think at the time, in Savannah, Georgia, it was just the way things were framed, and it was never sung as anything other than a gentle means to get a baby to sleep.

Anyway, Wes was right on top of it, and it gave me hope that maybe indeed it's possible for us to collaborate on something, sometime.

And today, instead of repainting the kitchen ceiling, I muscled my bike into the car and drove over to Rose's, and we went to the rail trail and had a damn near 20-mile ride this afternoon. It was taxing, as I haven't ridden most of the summer, but what a glorious day, and good conversation and revelations, with me stopping every so often to take on water or rest my aching thighs. She has a thing I think is called a Llama Pack, or a Camel Pack, which is just a little backpack of water with a tube over the shoulder that can be sucked on at will, while pedaling. No need to stop. Good idea.

We also talked about weight and middle age; she's now 49, and I almost 47. Things are different now, and changing all the time, it seems. Matter redistributes even if you don't gain. But she finally put back a little that she lost on Weight Watchers a couple years ago, so went back on and tried the Core plan which didn't work for her at all, so is back on flex points. She's been really diligent overall, and I know she has a huge appetite and hates having to manage her food portions every damn day. She calls it her second job. I've put back a little too, over the last year, though I've continued to be in the normal range... and I find I just can't get as obsessed as before about being waifish. I'm frickin' almost 47, for Pete's sake. I don't have to look like Bjork. "My waif days are over!" I declared, and she breathed a hugh sigh and said, "I'm so glad to hear you say that." She always thought I was a little too thin. I demand to be strong and muscled; I demand to have good wind; I demand not to outgrow my clothes. But I really want the cake, too.

It's just indicative of a larger change, I feel. Before my eyes, a new self image is evolving. To my surprise I'm starting to accept getting older. It's almost a relief. I told her how relieved I was not to be having sex now, and she said cheerfully, "And maybe by the time there is someone you want to have sex with again, you'll be through menopause and you won't have to worry about birth control!" Now, that's something to look forward to, hey?

So I sit in my blue office (I love color, I love this deep aqua blue and the Santa Fe Gold door that leads to the yellow bedroom) and think about how lucky I am. I'm growing my hair again (I will see it through this time) and having long hair dreams, about once a week. By next year, a whole new me. A new me that I hope won't be afraid to invite complete strangers into her living room to give them Reiki treatments. That's my next big task, after finishing the painting. How to Build a Little Business.

Dar, meanwhile, is officially his own master now; he plunked down the final large check to buy his portion of the cleaning business last week. I hope he can find someone soon to take a couple of days a week; he hasn't had two adjacent days off in years. Next month I'll go with him on his annual pilgrimage to Salem, to light candles for all the burned innocent.

The last note is that when I parked behind the house today, after our ride, I happened to look down and amongst the small bits of gravel was a heart-shaped rock. That brings my collection up to 13.