Light and Momentary

Less mad

We're not quite four weeks into 2022 here, and I have been pretty consistent about my resolution to stay away from social media almost all the time. I've been peeking in on Saturday evenings after all the Saturday jobs are done, and that's about it. Here is the #1 thing I have noticed: I seem to have a lot less free-floating anger when social media is not feeding it.

I am definitely less informed. I couldn't tell you who is speculating what about which candidates to replace Justice Breyer. I am sure I would have known a lot more about that if I'd been checking Twitter regularly this week. Perhaps I would have more thoughts about the Russian-Ukrainian tensions; perhaps I don't even know what I don't know about right now. 

We get four print newspapers, so it's not as if I am living a solitary news-free life over here. But there's definitely less rage and snark in the pages of a print newspaper than there is in my Facebook and Twitter feeds. I noticed it on Saturday night, the way a wave of fury snuck up behind me after my time on Twitter and said "BOO! Everything is TERRIBLE!"

I can't assert that it's entirely the social media shift. The people who tell you that frequent vigorous exercise is mood-boosting are correct. (It's kind of a bummer that they're correct, isn't it? Wouldn't it be nicer if frequent vigorous consumption of mocha almond fudge ice cream were similarly salutary?)

I am trying to curate the content I do see on social media, making a point of searching for posts from the people I want to hear from instead of just scrolling through the stuff the algorithm spews out at me. The algorithm definitely has the rage-y snarky part down pat -- not so much, though. with the thoughtful funny content. 

[insert exploding-head emoji here]

I've been reading through Casey Johnston's old Ask A Swole Woman columns, because she is smart and funny and she totally gets all the weird complicated stuff about lifting while female, and this morning I came across one called "How to Prevent Debilitating Soreness."

I have been going back through it, trying to find the quote that will spur you to click through and read it, and I just want to share the entire first half. Here's one piece of it:

Soreness is actually more like the gap between what you did to break down your muscles with exercise...and what you gave them to rebuild themselves in the couple of hours and days following in terms of proper food, water, and rest.

In light of this column I am thinking about all my past experiences of painful muscle soreness, some of which are recorded in these pages. (Does anyone remember my first Pilates Reformer class?)

In a culture that tells women "The purpose of exercise is to make yourself smaller," eating for recovery is not a big focus. I absorbed the idea that I should eat some protein after a run, but I had no idea how much protein is recommended to optimize muscle growth. (A lot. A lot a lot: about a gram per pound of bodyweight per day if building muscle is your focus.) There is not a chance I was ever eating that amount of protein in my Pilates Reformer days, and Casey Johnston's take on muscle soreness makes a lot of sense to me in hindsight.

I am so curious about your reactions to her post, you guys. I feel like men get this advice in the gym but women (by and large) hear that it is better for them to restrict post-workout calories so they can chisel away more of themselves. This is bad advice, it turns out. Take a look at the post and tell me what you think!

The crowded kindnesses, COVID version

Yesterday afternoon we joined an extended family Zoom call, in which people were talking about what they've been up to, and afterward I was keenly aware of how many things we have not been doing. "I want to go to a restaurant," I said a little mournfully. "I want to look at a menu and share an appetizer and think about the specials and have someone wash my dishes without my having to ask."

"We can make that happen!" said Pete.

I thought he meant, "You can stop living such a narrow life and go to a dang restaurant," but what he actually meant was "We can bring a restaurant to you!"

He and Stella put their heads together and created a menu. I heard them in the kitchen: "What does Mom especially like to eat?"

Not long afterward they seated me at the dining room table. Stella was the waitress; Pete was the chef. The menu had an appetizer section, from which I requested the hummus with toasted pita. They brought me a pretty little plate: perfectly toasted triangles of pita, a dollop of hummus, a little glass dish of nice olives. To drink I had a glass of seltzer over ice with a splash of real lemonade.

The menu offered me a number of entrée options; I chose pizza bread with quartered artichoke hearts. Pete washed every dish afterward.

You guys, I felt so loved.

The COVID situation here has been so bad lately. Our official case count, which is surely only a fraction of the actual cases in town, just kept vaulting upwards over the top of the y axis. Our case record had stood since November of 2020, but earlier this month the official tally spiked up to almost four times that previous record. Cases, positivity, hospitalizations-- you name it, we were setting new records just about every day. The hospitals were overflowing.

So we've been living a pretty quiet life over here. We're back to online church with drive-through communion; we're wearing KN95 masks everywhere we go. I suppose it makes sense that if an extraordinarily contagious virus is unleashed in a county that's only moderately vaccinated, there's going to be a lot of viral replication happening. But watching it unfold was still astonishing.

We seem to have turned a corner; cases and positivity are down. Overall hospitalizations are still high, though our local public radio station reports that we have more available ICU beds in part because of a series of ICU deaths. It all feels pretty grim, and I think I will hold off on flipping through any menus in person for a while longer.

But at dinner tonight I told the kids again how much I appreciated their willingness to make my wish happen. And this is the best part of all: Pete sighed happily at the memory, and said, "That was so fun!"

Snails and Pattens

I've told you before that one of the things I love about a long-haul in-depth reading project is the opportunity to get thoroughly acquainted with an author's voice: the snails in Shakespeare, the echoes across Dickens novels. I was reading Sketches by Boz when I said to myself, "Hey, wait a minute, that sounds like Sairey Gamp!" The midwife who comes to attend a birth is described as "a fat old woman, in a cloak and night-cap, with a bundle in one hand, and a pair of pattens in the other, who looked as if she had been suddenly knocked up out of bed for some very special purpose."

Yesterday I looked it up and sure enough, Sairey Gamp, on her first appearance in Martin Chuzzlewit, is described as "a fat old woman, this Mrs Gamp." When she emerged after Mr. Pecksniff knocked on her window, Dickens says, she "had a large bundle with her, a pair of pattens, and a species of gig umbrella." I didn't know what pattens were until I encountered them in Dickens, but the description is evocative -- a woman preparing herself to trudge across mud and sewage without tracking them into a home that will be welcoming a new baby. 

In Sketches Dickens describes himself as a young bachelor, uncertain about the import of the fat old woman's arrival. He was only 24 when it was published. I wonder how much she is based on an actual 1830s London midwife, awakened by a midnight knock, hurrying out with her hands full. I wonder too how much Dickens based his description on the anti-midwifery stereotypes that were brewing even then -- I don't think I'd want Sairey Gamp as a birth attendant, personally.

I remember reading an interview with Liz Phair in which she talked about her first recordings as a library. "I go in there and rip stuff off," she said. I am curious about whether Sketches is something similar -- an early exploration of characters and ideas that will resurface in later works. It might be a little weird to compare the person who wrote Supernova with a person who couldn't bring himself to write the word "childbirth*," but maybe it's true that the creative process works in similar ways regardless of what's being created.

*Check out this piece of circumlocution: "Mrs Gamp had been up all the previous night, in attendance upon a ceremony to which the usage of gossips has given that name which expresses, in two syllables, the curse pronounced on Adam." It's got to be childbirth, right? What else could it be?

Every day is easier than some of the days

So you guys, I am finding it easier to exercise six days a week than I thought it would be. I don't have to answer the question "Am I going to work out today?" I already know the answer; the answer is yes. If I don't do it in the morning, I have to do it in the evening.

This means I don't have to deal with Sad Gertrude. Sad Gertrude is a voice I read about somewhere on the internet (maybe the Salty Running blog? maybe five-ish years ago? too long ago to remember the details) and immediately recognized. Sad Gertrude says, "But it's going to be haaaaaard," when you are trying to motivate yourself to lace up your shoes. Sad Gertrude says, "What if we caaaaan't?" as you are thinking about what your workout will look like. Sad Gertrude says, "Maybe later would be better. Don't we have enough suffering in our life already?" And at least sometimes, a person will just sigh heavily and accede to Sad Gertrude's querulous pleas.

I have hardly heard anything from Sad Gertrude this year. In years past, if I were aiming to work out three or four days a week, she would try to convince me on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday that the four days might as well be W-Th-F-Sa. And then on Wednesday she would tell me that three workouts a week is a perfectly respectable amount of exercise. Maybe you can sympathize; maybe you have a Sad Gertrude of your own. Or maybe my Sad Gertrude has gone to live at your house, because she has been very, very quiet lately. 

All of my previous attempts to work out 6 days a week have felt overwhelming to me, but this one does not, or at least not so far. I think a big slice of it is having good options for home workouts, so that I am not braving ice and snow and teeming hordes of January-ites at the gym, and trying to fit in the workout plus the drive to and from the gym where there is no parking because of all the people thinking that THIS YEAR will be the their year to get fit. Another slice of it is doing less running. I am just not a very efficient runner. It feels like I am working stupid-hard to go stupid-slow. But hey! This year I can jump rope and ride my bike and do Jazzercise and lift weights instead.

In my ideal world I would be getting up at 5:15 so I could work out before the kids are awake, but I do not love waking up at 5:15 in January. So I've mostly been working out in the evening. In my ideal world I would be able to do barbell deadlifts, but our gym is pretty much a seething cauldron of COVID right now. I froze our membership until spring, when I hope the crowds will be sparser and the COVID numbers less grim. I can do dumbbell deadlifts for a while, even if they are much less satisfying.

It is kind of weird that Joe turned me into a person who pines for barbells, isn't it? Have I already recommended @megsquats and @swolewoman to anyone who is thinking that her life could use a few more barbells? I'm always happy to hear about new people to follow, if you have any recommendations for me.

I am the soul of temperance, it turns out

You guys, I have to tell you about a thing I found on the internet today. Have you ever thought to yourself, "That Jamie Gladly is kind of obsessed with the Victorians"? It turns out I am not obsessed at all! Not even a teeny bit.

Today I found a corner of the internet in which dozens of people -- dozens! (dozens as in 2 and a bit, but still: dozens, plural) -- are planning to read the major works of Dickens across the next two years.

That is a gobsmacking commitment to Dickens, my friends. That is SO MUCH DICKENS.

And maybe, possibly, I will take part of the ride with them.

For a while now I have wanted to read some portion of the Dickens I haven't yet read. The problems are that (a) there's so much Dickens and (b) I have found the quality variable in my few excursions beyond the novels. The Christmas novellas, for instance-- bathos! sentimentality! blargh!! 

The club members are reading in roughly chronological order, starting with Sketches by Boz, which I have never read. I love the exuberance and playfulness of early Dickens (Pickwick forever!), so that might be a good one to read with them. I'll sit out the next two on their list (Pickwick and Oliver Twist), since I've read both of those pretty recently, but they are going to be starting Nicholas Nickleby in May. Perfect timing for an #AMDRAL pick, and I haven't read that one since 2010, when I finished up my 10-year Dickens project.

I finished up Eustace Diamonds over lunch today and started Phineas Redux tonight. I don't think I've ever had a Dickens work and a Trollope novel on the go at the same time, but I guess I'll give it a whirl.

Read this book and tell me what you think

Last night I finished book #2 of 2022, Younger Next Year for Women, and I think you should read it. I think you may find parts of it mildly annoying, but I also think you will find it really thought-provoking. I found it so interesting and motivating that I immediately checked out their book on nutrition from the library. That one is not off to a rip-roaring start (that is code for, "whoa, guys, enough with the fat-shaming already"), but I will keep reading for a bit and report back.

First, though, I have to find out what happens to Lady Eustace and Lucy Morris in The Eustace Diamonds. What will Frank Greystock decide to do?? I can hardly stand the suspense.

Advanced Age

Today I was sorting through some papers and from the comfort of my couch I dealt with a check that needed to be deposited. I have known for years that this option existed, but I've always just gone to the ATM (or sometimes to the teller inside). "Elwood," I said to the person in my household least likely to use electronic banking options, "guess what I just did? It's because I'm so hip and cool, just like the kids these days."

"Ah, yes," he said, "that's exactly what the kids these days are doing: depositing paper checks."

We laughed.

**

Today I got the itch to pull out my violin for the first time in a long time, and Pete wanted to talk about the tiny quarter-sized violin that lives under the music room loveseat. "It was mine when I was little," I told him. "I got it when I was four."

"Wow," he said. "So it's REALLY* OLD!"

*Pete, reading over my shoulder, disputes this recollection. He says it was "kinda old," which might be true. But I'll point out that it's entirely possible to say "kinda" in a tone that means "really."

We joked about it at dinner, how he keeps bumping up against the fact that his parents' childhoods fell in an era that feels like the distant past to him. 

**

Tonight he was sitting on the couch next to me and he said, "I know you've been sad today, and I wish I could help. But you don't have to tell me why you're sad if you don't want to." It was a small thing I've been trying unsuccessfully to shake off all day, so I told him. He responded so kindly. He said, "When I come to you and I feel sad, you can always help me feel better. I wish I could do that for you, but I guess it just comes with age OOOHHHHH NOOOOOOO!" He went on, "I was trying to make you feel better and instead I just said you were oooooold!"

But I laughed so hard that I did wind up feeling better.

Brutal, also fun

My dad was a runner back when it was a quirky thing for adults to do. AND, furthermore, my dad was a runner when we lived in Florida and New Orleans, where the heat requires extra dedication. He also jumped rope, in an era when grown men did not jump rope unless perhaps they were making movies about getting punched in the face until they fell down, which he was not.

[not my dad]

When I was little, little like 4 or maybe even just 3, he resolved to teach me to jump rope. This was a discouraging process for Small Jamie, as someone with a deeper knowledge of gross motor development might have told him it would be, and I labored and sweated and failed to connect consecutive jumps. He used to tell the story of the time I flung the rope onto the carport floor in disgust. (Four, I must have been four. We didn't live in the carport house until I was four.) "I'll never get it!" I said amid tears. (Those of you who have been reading my perfectionist contortions for some fraction of the 17 years in which I have been posting them on the web are nodding along here, saying, "Huh, that sounds familiar.") But then I picked up that rope once more, and LO: I could do it. Mysteriously, something clicked.

That night I jumped my little heart out. I still remember waking up in my bed the next morning, too sore to move. I believed for a couple of hours that I had done some flavor of permanent damage to my body, but I bounced back pretty quickly. And from that day on, I was sold on jumping rope.

I never won anything in field day competitions, except once in fifth grade. There was a jumprope relay, and I headed up the four-person team from my classroom. Each girl jumped until she missed, and then handed off the rope to the next girl. The last team with a girl still jumping won the event. But when I started jumping I did not miss; I kept going serenely until every other girl (except my three teammates, who were standing behind me awaiting turns that never came) had stumbled and handed off her rope. I kept going until they told me to stop and collect my blue ribbon, because jumping rope was my thing.

It is no longer my thing, as I learned when I attempted a 20-minute jumprope session tonight. With a little practice I could jump a hundred times in a row tonight, but doing so sent my heartrate up into the 160s. The rope caught on my ponytail, and my feet weren't always quite where I thought they were going to be. So I would jump until I missed, and give my heart a little time to settle down, and jump until I missed again. 

It was hard, from both a cardio perspective and a coordination perspective. But it was also fun and meditative. There's something joyful about jumping, about knowing where the rope will be and moving your body in time with its rhythm. I remember why I used to love it.

Let's hope I don't wake up too sore to move in the morning.

Reading and listening: forgiveness, unforgiveness, the unforgivable

This morning I finished my first book of 2022: Gentle and Lowly. (A disadvantage to reading the Palliser Chronicles is that they do not permit a person to notch new items on her "books read" list very quickly. I am reading Eustace Diamonds every day, faithfully, and there is still so much Eustace Diamonds left to read.) I am not very involved with our campus organization for Christian faculty, but I get their emails. When the coordinator mentioned that they would be discussing Gentle and Lowly, the author's name -- Dane Ortlund -- caught my eye. In my early 20s I learned a lot from Anne Ortlund's books, and it seemed likely that these authors were related. (They are: grandson/grandmother.)

Gentle and Lowly stirred up some controversy, apparently, when it was released in 2020. In a now-deleted review, the folks at Grace To You panned it, insisting that the book needed more table-flipping, more of the wrath of God. (Maybe they should rename their site Wrath To You.) If you are Catholic, you may dislike the book's jabs at Catholic ideas about atonement, forgiveness, and grace. But I found that it spoke to my soul. I read it with my friend Becky, a chapter a day for three weeks, and on many of those mornings one of us would text the other some variation of "loved that G&L chapter!!" I think it is especially valuable for anybody struggling with scrupulosity or a performance mentality (i.e., my value lies in my productivity), or anyone who has struggled with a particular flavor of sin or suffering for a long time.

I have been listening to Gaslighter, the 2020 album by the band formerly known as The Dixie Chicks. (They dropped the "Dixie" around the time that this album came out.) Many of the songs are about the breakdown of the lead singer's marriage. And you guys, I'm finding it really interesting: the songwriting is compelling. The window into a marriage coming apart at midlife stirs up my sympathy. But I also keep thinking about their decision to put it all out there: let us tell you about this infidelity and its aftermath. Natalie Maines has sons in their teens, and it was definitely A Choice to craft an album so full of rage and disappointment WITH THEIR FATHER and send it out into the world.

Last fall, not long after I finished Intuitive Eating, I bought myself a book called Gentle Nutrition. I was excited to try some new things in the kitchen, and a dietitian writing from an intuitive eating perspective sounded really promising. But here's the problem: she loves dill. On page after page, there are pictures of PERFECTLY INNOCENT food with dill fronds sprinkled across it. In list after list of ingredients she tells me to add dill.

I keep telling myself not to be a big dill baby. It's not as if she's telling me to put turpentine in my food. I know how to substitute other herbs for dill; I've been doing it my whole life, because dill pretty much tastes like turpentine to me. I tell myself not to look at the pictures. (I hate dill so much that even the sight of it causes me to make unhappy faces. You should see me typing this post. I look like someone just tried to feed me surströmming with paint scrapings on top.) 

I'm not sure this book is going to work for me after all. 

So talk to me: what are you reading this January? do you have an opinion on the Art vs. Privacy question? do you hate any food as much as I hate dill? Do tell.