Missing You

A year ago I wrote about Thanksgiving (Giving Thanks)--how it has always been my favorite holiday, how the traditions and the family and the food and the memories all wind together like a big pumpkin-colored ribbon, melding into one giant memory of food and smells and laughter and tears.  I talked about how different our Thanksgiving was in 2018, but we still celebrated it, giving thanks for the decades of memories and laughter we had experienced with family, but realizing that it would, more than likely, be the last Thanksgiving Day we would break bread with my parents.  I was right.  Ten days later, you died at home, and six months after that, your wife went to join you.  So for me, this is the first Thanksgiving in 64 years that I have not spent with, eaten with, or at least talked and laughed with, you, my dad. And I miss you.  So much that the food I just ate just sits in my stomach like a giant rock. 

As I watched the preparations and the kids' craft session, and smelled the turkey and the stuffing and the pies all baking, as family and friends arrived and filled the kitchen and the house with laughter and joy and stories, as the wine flowed and the gravy was passed, as the dishes were dirtied and washed and dirtied and washed again, I heard your laughter, saw your face, felt your hand on my shoulder as you said, "Damn it, Barb, I love you."  And I missed you, so much it was palpable, and the tears would just start to flow and I would have to run to another room or go outside just to get away and not have to talk about it.   Ben cooked up the gizzards the way you like them, but they just sat in a bowl on the counter because you aren't here to jokingly fight over who is going to get the bigger piece. I ate one, but it wasn't the same. We had turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes, cranberries and rolls and green bean casserole, and the pie is still to come, but without your raucous laughter and comments about how this turkey was the best ever,  how no one knows how to slice turkey right except you, it wasn't the same. David is wearing your 90th birthday T-shirt from five years ago, and I spoke to Uncle Rob a few minutes ago, but I kept feeling like I was forgetting something, that there was a crucial part I was missing.   

You, Dad.  

I miss you.

Yes, I am thankful.  Yes I am blessed with so many countless blessings and riches.  I revel in the joy and love of my daughters and their husbands, my brother and my husband, my grandchildren near and far.  We have so much, so much more than I will ever deserve.  But I will always, always, miss you on this day more than any other time of year.

For you, above all, taught me the importance of family and love and memories made together.

And for that I am thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.

Too comfortable for my own good

 I have a penchant for yoga pants and sweatshirts and t-shirts and Chacos, and going out without doing my hair or putting on any makeup (except lipstick...I gotta have lipstick, people).  I wake up, start off my day in my PJs, and then change into something that closely resembles PJs--sometimes I find myself in the car wearing my yoga pants/pajamas from the night before.  Either way, more often than not, I walk the dog and head to the gym or stop by the post office in baggy pants, an XL T-shirt, and no socks.  And I am fine with that...at least I was.  Until today when I was walking by a shop and caught my reflection in the window.  

See, this is how most of us THINK we look in "comfortable" clothes.  Hair down, cute top, black leggings or yoga pants, perfectly comfortable in our own skin.  You know it, I know it, everyone knows it...anything goes.  We've seen people wearing what should only be seen in the gym or in bed on planes, at the grocery, at church, and to school.  Because we have this mindset that comfort is okay, there are no restrictive rules about dress or appearance.  As long as I am happy with myself, and I am okay with how I look (act/talk/behave), then why should I dress to impress?  Somehow I think I am more authentic, more true to myself, when I just wear how I feel--comfy, loose, secure in who I am.  

In reality, though, this is how I look when I don't put any effort into my clothing choices for the day.  I look unkempt, baggy or bulging in all the wrong places, dark circles under my eyes, and basically, like I just do not care what people think.  Sure, to me dressing "down" means I am happy, secure in myself, at peace with the day.  But really, I am just too damn comfortable to even try to make a good impression, and it shows.   Forget about how unattractive and unappealing the image on the left looks (if you can). How can anyone take anything this person says seriously?  (Disclaimer:  this is a stock image from a google search of "yoga pants gone bad"...it is not a photo of me.)

Perhaps it's too many years wearing nondescript military uniforms.  Maybe it's the extra pounds I have packed on over the years that make it more challenging to find something that fits.  Or (and here's a thought), I could just be too lazy to spend just a few minutes to put together a halfway decent outfit.  Who knows?  Personally it is probably a combination of all the above, coupled with a pervasive attitude of "I just do not give a shit" anymore.  I mean, when I am feeling vulnerable and sad and insecure and depressed, I almost never let my outward appearance reflect what is on the inside.  Years of spit and polish and ribbons and gig lines and creased sleeves, putting forward that confident and professional image, the epitome of togetherness, not overly made up, no unnecessary accessories. Never let them see what's really inside--make them believe I have all the answers and can face any difficulty--the consummate professional.  Years of coming home and stripping off all the layers, changing into sweat pants and a t-shirt, bare feet and hair down or pulled back into a messy bun, able to just be myself.  

Whatever the reason, the excuse, the rationalization, I have become far to comfortable for my own good.  Sure, clothes are just clothes, they are not the person.  But what I wear does say volumes about how I feel, what my expectations for the day are, and how I hope to be received.  We have all heard the adage "don't judge a book by its cover," but if the cover is not neat and clean and inviting, no one is going to read the book, either.  What I wear, what I say, the expression on my face, how I walk, the tone of my voice, the amount of eye contact, my posture, and gestures--all these present an image of who I am inside, and what is important to me, and how much you matter to me.  How I present myself lends credence to the message I am trying to get across.  And being baggy and tired looking and sans an underwire bra speaks volumes.  I have become too comfortable for my own good.  

Sure, it's important to not be fake, or disingenuous; pretending to be something I am not, or hiding my true feelings, is not right either.  But, if I want to be heard, if I want the person or people who I meet or see to listen to me, to believe that I care about what I am saying, that what they say to me is important, I have to put the best foot forward.  I have to put some effort into caring about what I wear, how I look, and the impression I leave. Yeah, of course we could apply this concept to how we talk, the words we choose, our driving habits, and how we treat others.  But it truly does, for me anyway, begin in how we begin our day, how we wake up, how we present ourselves to others, and the pride we take in covering this book, this walking book of knowledge and life experience and insight.  

So, here's my resolution...no I am not going to burn all my baggy workout pants or ill-fitting leggings.  But, I pinkie promise I will only wear yoga pants when doing yoga, or working out AT the gym (not on the way or at lunch afterward or when I am thinking about working out).  And if you see me in something that resembles pajamas or exercise gear and I am not going to bed or participating in bona fide exercise, call me out on it.  

Please.