Growing up, my Christmases overflowed with the insane hustle and bustle that the holidays are known for. Extended family in town, big home-cooked dinners, church services and a mountain of gifts beneath the tree. It was fun. My memories of those two weeks off in grade school are warm and kind.

My son’s Christmases have not been like that. They’ve been lovely in their own right, but calm and quiet rather than busy and loud. In some ways, they’ve been like any other day, except for no school and many gifts and the whole Santa bit. I’ve also never made food a central focus. We make cookies together and stuff like that, but we don’t gorge ourselves for a month straight.

Sometimes I feel bad about all this. Guilty. I remember how jovial it was having cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents all in one place for a few days. That’s what the holidays are all about, right? That Home Alone-esque scene—people, eating, chaos, laughter. And at times I feel like I’m failing him.

Then I’m reminded that my childhood was mine, and his will be his own. He will not compare the two the way I do. He’s his own person—an observant, independent kid who hates traveling, actually. And just like his mother, he finds being around unfamiliar people to be a very draining activity, regardless of if they’re family. He enjoys doing his own thing, whether that’s playing basketball with the neighborhood kids or drawing by himself. Even on Christmas, it seems.

I’m also reminded that the world is a different place now. It somehow feels less simple, more complicated, maybe because of the digital era. The world is also fucking expensive. Travel is expensive. Gifts are expensive. Not that things like that were cheap when I grew up, but it’s like: Do I want to spend nearly a grand to travel to see my parents over Christmas? Or spend some of that on gifts? Can’t do both. Must choose.

Of course I want my son to grow up with fond memories of the holidays, which are a major part of the magic of being a kid. My son’s recollection, someday, might not be as holly-jolly-in-your-face as my own. But my hope is that he will remember these times as peaceful, merry and bright.

It was December 16, 2019, around 9 o’clock at night. I’d put my child to bed. I’d washed my face. Before zoning out mindlessly with a book or Instagram, I remembered I needed to make a payment toward a credit card statement, as I do every month.

I logged in and typed in my dollar-amount contribution. I’ve opted out of auto-pay for this particular bill in hopes of paying off more and more each month, which has proven moderately successful over the course of the year. I logged out, did absolutely nothing of value, and went to sleep.

The next morning, I went to Starbucks, as I often do. Ordered my usual drink. Very much appreciated the first sip, as I also often do. Then, I got a text. From my bank. Alerting me that overdraw protection had kicked into gear.

The fuck? No, seriously. The fuck.

I logged into my bank account, totally pissed off and without a doubt expecting fraud. Surely, the only explanation. Fraud!

No. My dumb ass—and eager finger, apparently—had inadvertently added an extra zero to my credit card payment, submitting thousands instead of the intended hundreds, rendering me effectively broke.

I called the credit card people. “Sorry!” they said. “Too bad.”

It’s a humbling thing to be a grown woman, raising a child, with basically no spendable money at my immediate disposal. At least for a few days, until I got paid.

So, there you have it. I’m an idiot. I really am. Such a stupid mistake, and if you’re smirking, I beat you to it.

But to my sort of surprise and total delight, my mind, almost immediately after realizing what I’d done, said, “Ok. There’s good in this. Let’s find it.” And there was. A careless mistake will force me to be more mindful of spending habits in upcoming weeks as I build back my reserve, which kind of had to happen anyway. It will force me to be even more actively grateful for the things I spend money on.

And finally, it will force me to never again let a slip of a finger cast such a dire a spell on my financial health.

Every now and then, a confluence of things presents itself so undeniably that ignoring it becomes more difficult than simply accepting the new reality that is being proposed.

That’s a verbose sentence simply to say: Life has a way of guiding itself for the better, unless you and your ego decide to rail against it.

Anyone who knows the current version of me knows I love dance. It’s become “my thing,” in quotes, a means of aligning self-identity with the world around me. And I’ve put it out there, into the world, sometimes confidently, sometimes not. But always with the intention and hope that something, at some point, made someone out there feel one emotion or another.

Recently, though, a series of seemingly unrelated events has led to me decide that my dance days are over. At least publicly. I have other things, fitness related, that I want to do in the 24 hours I’m allotted each day. Things that don’t incite a spiral of curiosity surrounding other people’s opinions, which dance unfortunately and certainly did. A curiosity that, while harmless in a vacuum, indicated to myself that other people’s (occasionally shitty, occasionally vocalized) opinions mattered. And they didn’t. Or they shouldn’t have.

In any case, onward. A subtle shift. Faith in the work. And not bothering with all the other noise.

I like my life. A lot, actually. It’s a good one. Cozy, calm, content. I’ve got several things in my favor. My health, first and foremost, my son’s health, his dad’s health. I have a good job. I live in a great neighborhood in relatively close proximity to a major metropolitan area rich with culture and art. I feel fortunate. I don’t wish for a different life.

But I’m human, and it’s human to wonder “what if” about things big and small. What if I hadn’t taken this job or that one? What if I’d gone to all the parties in college instead of staying in all the time? What if I hadn’t bounced around the country for several years post college? What if I’d taken a different route to work this morning? What if I’d smiled at that older woman at Starbucks instead of remaining glued to this laptop? Maybe it would’ve changed her day, somehow, which would have…well, what if. Endless.   

I don’t find myself meandering to that place often, probably because I see no need. Sometimes, though, it takes on a weird shade of psychological entertainment to flirt with the notion that my circumstances might be wildly different had I made one or two choices otherwise. A butterfly effect of sorts. In the end, though, it’s the kind of thing that’ll drive you nuts if you ponder it too long.

When a “what if” session rolls on through my brain, my thought process usually slows to a natural stop with this quote from author Cheryl Strayed:

“I’ll never know, and neither will you, of the life you don’t choose. We’ll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn’t carry us. There’s nothing to do but salute it from the shore.”

After months of internal dialogue around the subject, I purchased a weighted blanket. And let me tell you, that thing is 15 pounds of my new best friend.

For awhile, the only weighted blankets I found on the market were pretty expensive. And ugly. I can think of several things I’d rather spend a couple hundred bucks on than an aesthetically disagreeable layer of bedding. The weighted blanket trend must’ve caught on though, because Amazon now offers several options for as low as $30. I went with a middle-of-the-line model in crisp white. It’s simple, modern and clean.

I slept under my new weighted blanket for the first time last night, and Oh my lord. God bless, god bless. My sleep was deep, rich and undisturbed. I’ll admit there might be a placebo effect going on, but whatever. I’ll take it.

This morning, I’m thinking about the why behind weighted blankets. There must be a physiological reason they produce more restful sleep—or at least, why manufacturers can get away with marketing that.

My first thought is that it takes you back to the womb. A warm, gentle pressure that embraces and calms, like a wooooosh of a hug applied evenly around your entire body.

It’s why we swaddle infants in their first days of life—a means of comfort and reassurance in the big scary world that is decidedly not the womb. We swaddle them to hush their startle reflexes during sleep, the involuntary thrashing and flailing of limbs. We swaddle them so they don’t scratch their faces as they rest. Pretty much, we swaddle them to save them from themselves.

Last night, my muscles didn’t spasm, my feet didn’t get cold. The anxiety that keeps itself on simmer in those hours mostly dissolved. I slept. Through the night. And the weight of the things that typically wake me up quietly grew free.

I’m sitting at a Starbucks on a fresh October morning, the sun slanting sideways to let a biting breeze have its way. Winter is coming. You can feel it now. There will be no more warm days. There will be no more jacket-less evenings, bare skin bathing in humidity.

I’m drinking hot coffee. The official switch after iced drinks for months.

I’m waiting until the car wash next door opens. It’s been a long time, and my car is dirty in the truest sense of the word—dirt, twigs, leaves, pebbles littering the floor, making me nuts.

I’m wondering why we, as a society, deem a clean car as something you just have, of course. It’s a little silly. Clean cars inevitably become dirty soon again. But we have this thing—self presentation—and it matters, to us.

I’m thinking about the daily maintenance required to be a functioning human being in Western society. Clean cars. Clean clothes. Clean teeth. Clean hair. Shiny. New. Unfettered from the confines of restricted access to clean water and other basic human needs.

I’m packing up for the car wash in hopes I’ve timed it well and and will get to work when I’m supposed to.

I’m hoping today will be a good day.

I’m now able to work out in silence. Finally.

Years ago, I could gather the mental fortitude to train only if I had music pounding through my eardrums. If I forgot earbuds, I’d either trudge through some seriously half-assed effort or call the whole thing off entirely.

Six or eight months ago, I started listening to podcasts. Motivating ones that ruminate on fitness, but also mindset, gratitude and perspective. To my surprise, the talking heads propelled me through workouts, and I’d leave the gym feeling energized mentally—which was only sometimes the case with tunes blasting in my ears.

Then, one recent day, I decided I didn’t want to listen to anything. No garbage top 40 songs that are near and dear to my heart. No guest speakers discussing the importance of positivity. I wanted silence. I wanted to close my eyes and feel my muscles doing the work. The occasional cramp in my right calf or the simmering burn in a quad. I wanted to create a connection between what my body was doing and how my mind controlled it. I wanted to let thoughts wander free, wherever that led.

Since that day, earbud-less workouts have become more common in rotation. Some days, I still want Lana and Lizzo by my side. Other days, podcasts. But the absence of noise in an obnoxiously loud world is without fail the most grounding sound of all.

bike to ferry to the Oakland hills
physical assault in San Francisco
tug of war with a phone
defeat, heading home
no, fuck that, heading back
to class
dance class
diverse
stash keys/wallet/phone
in a cubby of chaos
I’m no good
I’m forgetful
I’m upstaged
I’m not surprised
palm to palm
“you gotta get out of your head, girl”
he says to me
palm to palm
get me out
light blue pebbled leather wallet
gone
phone
gone
keys
gone
stolen

So, yes. That. I dreamt I lived in San Francisco. Went to a class in the hills of Oakland. Didn’t have a car. Biked to the ferry. On the way, a crazy guy on the street yelled at everyone, yelled at me, demanded my phone. I surrendered. He gave it back. Then demanded it again. I escaped. I think he just wanted the fight.

I boarded the ferry. Made it to the class, which was total chaos. People everywhere. A dimly lit space that reminded me of the basement laundry room of my childhood home. In my dream, there were cubbies. I chose one for my phone, keys and wallet—a light blue pebbled leather wallet—all unsecured. So trusting.

I took the class. A dance class. I choreographed. The teaching part was fine. When it came time to actually dance it, I floundered. Fell apart. Totally lost. Everyone else got it, killed it. Then someone else choreographed, a guy. His work was much better, everyone thought so. Open secret.

At the end, during the cool-down and final stretch, the guy placed his palm on mine. Told me to get out of my own head, to get out of my own way.

By then I really wanted to leave. Trying to exit was a mess, like after a show. A maze of halls. Crowds. Hazy. Dark. Materials draped over surfaces, burlap and tulle. The cubbies had been raided. My wallet was gone. Phone and keys, too.

That’s all I remember. But today I’m walking around the halls at work with a naked vulnerability that feels so very unpleasant.

I’m not mad about it, but I’m wondering why. Why now? It’s been 18 years. She died after back surgery. The surgery itself was a success, despite the odds, but she contracted some sort of virus in the hospital during recovery. Not pneumonia, but similar. It killed her.

I was an asshole. A teenager and an asshole with absolutely zero clue how to process death. I should’ve been with my family, at her bedside, when she died. I wasn’t. I couldn’t deal. Didn’t know how. God only knows where I was. Not there, though. Not where I should’ve been. After all the years she’d nurtured me, cared for me, watched after me while my parents were working or going out. That one trip to Kmart when I asked for both the Barbie and the best friends necklace, the kind with the zigzag heart broken in two, “best” on one half, “friends” on the other. She asked me to pick one. I did, the necklace. But she bought the Barbie too.

And I wasn’t there to say goodbye. A life regret, to be sure. But I’ve known that for years. Why’s it coming up now? Why do I stare at her picture in a frame at midnight on a Sunday, tears silently and uncontrollably streaming down my face? Why do I walk into a market on Monday morning only to hear one of maybe three songs on this planet that places me back in her arms? Roaming the aisles of cereal, produce, doughnuts, fighting the sadness, wanting the song to end, wanting it to keep playing over the loudspeaker forever.

It’s hard, sometimes, to surrender to pure coincidence. To not read into the nooks and crannies of daily experience, to not be convinced that seemingly random events are actually shoulder taps, nudges, eventually shoves to get you to fucking pay attention.

Last night, my dead grandmother did not appear in my dreams. Instead, there, I went shopping. For beautiful dresses, designer dresses, expensive dresses. I tried them on, magenta, cobalt, chiffon and short. And in the seconds-long crevice nestled between sleep and wakefulness, my mind scribbled a poem:

My heart’s sweetest fragrance
is the love that echoes
each time I remember you.

As defined by Merriam-Webster: The ability of the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, especially in response to learning or experience or following injury.

I’m interested in the “reorganize” part of that situation. I’m getting better at it, maybe. You know how it is. If you’re in the mood to be pissed off, sure as shit you’ll find a reason to be pissed off. Because you want it. You seek it, you crave it. If you actively look for white cars on the road, you will see white cars on the road.

But what if before looking for white cars, for five seconds, you look for red ones. What if before getting pissed off, for five seconds, you think about something you’re grateful for. And really think about it, you know? Not just like, “Oh yeah ok cool gratitude,” in your pissed off, I-have-to-be-mad-right-now-so-fuck-off state of mind.

Maybe you can train your brain to be not pissed off when you so desperately want to be. Maybe you can train your brain to automatically switch to gratitude when that urge to be pissed off swims up.

All these platitudes float around the ether, on Pinterest, cheaply printed on dumb t-shirts peddled by “influencers.” Platitudes like “The universe is looking out for you.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “Things don’t happen to you, they happen for you.” Um, no. The universe is too busy being a universe to care about you. Nothing happens for a reason unless you assign a reason to it. Things happen, and then, well, there you are.

I don’t know.