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SEEING RED
By Judith Cullen
It happened. Placid “me”
blew my top. I got myself so upset I
couldn’t eat dinner. I went from
erupting fury to wanting to curl up in a ball and weep in less than twelve
hours. The next morning, I looked back
and wondered where all that came from. Why it is that about four times a year I blow my top?
Three symptoms came to me upon reflection:
- I am “a
woman of a certain age.” I hate
that! I don’t mid being my
age. In many ways it is a grand age
to be. It’s certainly no better or
worse than any other age I have been.
It is just where I am now. I
hate the excuse. It feels so lame and trite to even say it. Yet damn
near every woman I know who has been through it says it is utterly real. Oh
great!
- The
inherent tension of my current living/working situation. I’m a 52 year old woman living like a college
student. My work space is 18 inches
from where I sleep. So I am almost
always either sleeping or working. Nearly all my work is at the
computer. My volunteer work, my
professional work, it’s all right there.
Sometimes I feel there is an invisible umbilical cord connecting me
to the CPU. I check my aging tummy
for a USB port.
- I am
not good at just “hanging out.” I
never have been. I have
witnesses. I always need to do
something, work towards something.
And when I don’t – when I take a reasonable break by taking a nap,
watching a film, or some such I end up feeling guilty. I could, after all, be doing more.
So I made a decision that morning. I decided I needed distance. A vacation would be great, but I am
poor. I know the prevailing image of
poor people is that they loll about lazily with time on their hands. This is a fiction. The reality of being poor in the United States
is that it consumes a lot of time and effort just being poor, much less trying
to get ahead. I am one of the busiest
people you might know, and I do not have a fulltime job.
Since the bulk of what work life I have, my volunteerism,
and my professional development (not to mention my writing) is tied to the
computer, I decided to take a day trip away from my computer, or any other
computer. I went downstairs. I took the book I have been reading. I left the laptop upstairs. It was tempting to take it with me as this essay
began writing itself in my head immediately.
No, no! I had to make myself walk
away entirely.
I sat down in the living room and the cat swiftly curled up
next to me. This was nice: good book,
purring cat, summer breeze through the window.
In this very room, many years ago, I used to play musical theater soundtracks
on the stereo and act them out – making the triumphant entrances and exits,
playing all the good parts. I was
LaLume, Nelly Forbush, Maria VonTrapp and every single Nun all at the same
time. I didn’t seem to have a problem with relaxing back then.
As I opened my book it occurred to me that it was on a
summer’s day just like this one many years ago that I sat on the back porch of
this very house and, after having attempted it several times, became utterly
absorbed for hours on end in Harper Lee’s To
Kill A Mockingbird. I became so
drawn into the story that I was completely transported from the physical world
around me. After hours passed, and I stopped reading, I sat there blinking for a few moments, not entirely
sure where I was. When did I lose the
ability to disconnect like that?
I read on into the collection of short stories I had been
reading, enjoying several stories in
succession without being dragged down by the siren call that inevitably comes
when I read in proximity to my bed.
Later on, after lunch, I repotted some of Mom’s plants that were root
bound or threatening to escape their pots.
I repotted a poinsettia I had been given at Christmas that was thriving
despite all likelihoods to the contrary.
Then I spent several hours sorting a two foot stack of recipes my Mom
had been collecting over 70 years, and organized them by general
categories. I drew the line at alphabetizing
them. They got put away in a single
large, empty cookie tin in their organized groups. Mom joined in the fun, and we found several
recipes we hadn’t seen in years and might want to make again.
Then I went and got Fish and Chips for both Mom and I, and was
finally back upstairs after the dinner dishes were done. It had been seven hours that I had been away
from the computer and the “rest of my life.”
I felt a lot better.
I still find myself contemplating why I blew up. I still wonder when I lost the ability to
relax and just “be.” Looking at my time
away from the computer it is easy to be skeptical as to whether I was really
relaxing. After all, I didn’t really “goof”
around. Yet not a single one of the
things I did were things that I had to do,
and I felt a tremendous amount of satisfaction having done them. Mom and I enjoyed chatting, and I read her a
section of the book I had been reading.
I let the cat go outside with me when I was re-potting the plants on the
back porch, and she got to joyfully munch, sniff, and roll in the grass. It’s a
pleasure she is denied most of the time.
My everyday placidity has its price. If I were wholly placid, none of this would
matter and I would be disengaged from the world – unaffected by it. That is not the person I want to be. I feel, often very deeply. My efforts to channel those energies are not
misguided. Someone who is helpful, non-judgmental,
and easy to get along with is also someone that I would like to be.
I think the thing I learned most of all of this was that I need
to give myself a break. Yes, I need to
get unplugged from the machines once in a while, just as much as your average
wired teenager. I also need to forgive myself for losing my temper. How dare I be human! Someone who loses their temper only four
times a year is not an emotional basket case, no matter what age they are. I still need to get better at diffusing the
building tension that comes from being accommodating, tolerant, and giving
people the benefit of the doubt. I need
to sort more recipe cards.
. . . and chocolate: lots more chocolate!
(c) 2014 by Judith Cullen
