On Being (Ab) Normal

"Sometimes I wish I was normal...but then I'd actually have to BE normal...and that would never do."

I posted that as a Facebook status update this afternoon. I'd just walked from Lola Savannah Coffee Lounge to The Grove Wine Bar and Restaurant to use the restroom. It's not like it was a long trip - the two establishments are actually two halves of one whole and are linked by a long bar with an excellent view of the Texas Hill Country. Several couples were enjoying a late lunch and bottle of wine at the bar. And seemingly enjoying each other's company while wiling away the afternoon. I was making my way through as quickly as I could. I needed to get back to work.

Or so I tell myself. Because let's be honest, I rarely get a Saturday off and I could have done something different - met up with friends, done a little day-drinking, maybe caught a movie, talked a friend into taking her boat out. I didn't need to work to get work done; everything I did today could have waited until next week. I worked today because I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself except work. I spent three hours early this afternoon working on the final edit of my third novel. And now, because yet again, I can't think of anything else to do, I'm spending the later part of the afternoon writing this.

I talk a good game about wanting to be normal. What would it be like to enjoy the company of a friend (or more than a friend) while debating whether to finish a bottle of wine on a Saturday afternoon? I have to admit the mere idea makes me a bit nauseous. Sure, I don't like wine but truthfully we could substitute margarita or mojito into that same sentence and I'd still feel over-matched and light-headed. I'd still feel abnormal and introverted and weird.

It's true I wear my introversion like a cloak, wield it like an talisman. I use it to my advantage. Well, to the advantage of my sanity. Work - writing, editing, researching, all outside of my full time job - insulates me from the world, from normal. I do love to work - I love seeing the results of my efforts in tangible form, I love it when friends like what I've written - but... There's been a "but" for awhile now. It's all I do. I work, workout, eat, maybe do a load of laundry, take my dogs out to potty, sleep. And now that I've given up TV pretty much permanently, I can't even pass the time mindlessly binging on Netflix.

I am nothing if not a creature of habit. Work is a habit. And sadly I've done so much of it over the past several years (We can probably go back as far as 2012 when I started graduate school) that I have no idea how to do anything else. Add in that I really despise wasting time. And that I have no ability to relax. Zero. Hell, I can't even take a restful vacation. I still run and work and work some more. Regardless where I am in the world.

I am well aware that this is not normal. Not even close. Sure, I'm about to publish my third novel and today I added "Finish fourth novel" (It's about 80% in the can) to my to-do list, so I'm nothing if not productive. Work makes things happen, but at what cost? If only I could straddle the fence between normal and abnormal, between working too much and working too little... I just don't know what that would look like. I foresee that I'd have to set aside some of my introversion which could potentially jeopardizing my sanity.

So my sanity comes from being abnormal. This is not good news and it doesn't get me any closer to a leisurely Saturday afternoon bottle of wine (or mojito - just go with it). It means that I'm writing this. Surely, we can argue its (non) value as a piece of writing but everyone will acknowledge that it's my way of hiding, not being seen, of passing time that I have no idea how to pass.

Maybe one day I'll get lonely enough to step outside of myself and invite connection? I wouldn't encourage anyone to hold their breath on that one. I had a conversation with a friend this afternoon who has been struggling with loneliness and being alone. She craves, needs, desires connection, constantly. She is my polar opposite. I cannot recall the last time I was lonely (I think it might have been in the summer of 2014 after an exceedingly crappy breakup, maybe). Sometimes, like this afternoon, I get a little wistful and wish I could be more normal, but none of that is motivated by loneliness. I'm getting to the point where, even though my sanity and strength comes directly from my ability to be alone, I actually wish I'd get a little lonely. That I'd actually want, crave, desire connection. I've come close - I've felt it whisper past me - but then I realize it just wouldn't work.

And I go back to work. When I'm working I have loads of company to occupy my mind, thoughts, and attention. Ok, they're all fictional and we have coffee and a muffin in the coffee lounge rather than bruschetta and wine at the bar. Sometimes I use my voice so little I'm not sure what will come out of my mouth when I finally do need to speak (Vacations are notorious for this because I don't even have my dogs to speak to). Sometimes I feel awkward in social situations I've never felt awkward in before. That's when I start to think that maybe I've drifted too far from normal and need to make more of an effort.

Of course then I get light-headed and nauseous. Because what would that look like, feel like? Normal? Oy. So I pull out my talisman, talk to an imaginary friend (Jesus, a character in one of my stories. Please don't panic), and get a coffee refill. Still, I'd love to find a balance one day. Better stated, I love to find something worth finding a balance for. Right now, though, until that day comes, I'll work. And then I'll work some more.

After all, I need to edit and post this and I probably should update my website (www.staceeannharris.com) or design next week's social media ad. Busy, busy, my friends, busy, busy.

There Is Baseball

I posted this about a year ago. I was on my way home to Austin from San Diego on the 4th of July. My dad wasn't doing well and I knew I was facing down some major changes. Fast-forward one year... My dad is doing much, much better. At 90, he seems more vibrant and alive than he has in a long time. He's still here and I am exceptionally thankful. 

~~

In this life I’ve lived, there has been baseball and my dad.

I suppose the sound is appropriate enough. Baseball blaring a little too loudly from the TV. I’m too worn out to get up, grab the remote, and lower the volume. Everything seems like too much today. Driving, thinking, writing this even. But these words – they are important. Because I may want to remember. I may need to remember. One day. Right now, though, I don’t want to think about that day.

My dad falls in the middle of the night. I’m not strong enough to help him up. We call 9-1-1. Cute paramedics, who are male and far too young for me, show up. They check him out, get him back in bed. He’s ok, they say. My daughter is leaving in the morning, my dad tells them. He hates that this had to happen on my last night. His pride is shattered. This is what he’s been hiding from me for a week. His body is failing. I can see that now. His white, skinny legs can’t support his weight, can’t steady him. He has become a child, someone who needs help getting up.

Afterward, I can’t sleep. I mindlessly check my email, surf Facebook. It’s time for a new profile picture. I choose one of me and my dad. He’s younger than I am now; I’m not yet a year old. My dad kneels; I stand. You can’t tell from the picture, but I’m unsteady. If my dad lets go, I fall. It doesn’t occur to me until hours later, in a hotel room near Tucson, while writing this, that we have changed places, my dad and I.

Baseball is still on the TV. I don’t know who is playing. Ah, the Phillies and the Pirates. It’s my first memory, you know. Baseball and my dad. Probably Dodger baseball. The voice of Vin Scully. The Padres (and Jerry Coleman) will come later after we move to San Diego. I should be a Dodger fan and maybe I will be. One day. You can hang a star on that one.

My dad cries this morning when I leave. He’s never done that before. I drive away. Later when I tell my sister – I text her because well, talking – tears burn my eyes and eventually roll down my cheeks. I don’t know what to do. I should go back. I should be there. I can’t do much – I can’t pick him up if he falls; I can’t fix his pride – but I can watch Fox News and old movies with him. Or baseball. We could watch baseball together. Once more.

And yet, here I sit in a hotel room not quite halfway between San Diego and Austin, drinking Angry Orchard Hard Cider from a can. I’m sure my dad is sitting in his chair at home on what will probably be his last Fourth of July. Yeah, I’m a dumbass. Home and work could have waited. Because in this life, there may always be baseball, but there won’t always be my dad.

Sacrificing Red (original post July 2017)

When I was a kid, my favorite color was red. It really wasn't, at least I don't think it was. My mother anointed me with it about the time my sister announced that she liked blue. Easy-peasy, Mom must have thought – one likes blue, the other will like red. Kelly got a blue chair. I got a red one. Kelly got a blue dress. I got a red one. Kelly got a blue bike. I got a – you guessed it. We weren't twins so she couldn't treat us exactly the same or dress us identically so blue and red were how she created a difference between us (Kelly was, and still is, my polar opposite – blond, skinny, and bratty. You'd think that would have been enough).

About every other year I still get something red for Christmas from my mom. A sweater one year, a polo shirt the next. I insist I don't like red; she insists it's a good color for me. What I don't send back to LL Bean, I wear once a year. When I visit her. I'm sure the people of Lindstrom, Minnesota, think I love red.

I know I will miss Mom's red gifts one day. She's not getting any younger. Neither is my dad. Actually, that’s an understatement. My mom is 83 and my dad will be 90 in October. I'm lucky to still have them and know I'm living on borrowed time. When I visit them, which is maybe once a year (Daughter of the Year, I’m not), I swallow the lump in my throat as I hug them goodbye. I always look back and take it all in because it could be the last time I see them alive.

Right after Father's Day, I got an email from my step-mom. "Your dad's not doing well...” After a modicum of planning, I got in the car. Less than twenty-four hours later, I sat on my dad's living room and watched Jordan Speith win a playoff hole with an incredible bunker shot. My step-mom may have exaggerated my dad’s condition – she knows the number of Daughter of the Year votes I usually get – but he’s a shadow of the man I remember him being just one short year ago. While the sarcastic wit and right-wing sensibilities remain (We've segued from golf to Fox News), his body fails him. His hand, when it isn’t clutched to his chest, shakes. It takes a Herculean effort to change the TV channel. Most depressing of all, he can't take one step without his walker.

The last time I saw him, he used a cane when we went out and about. Now, his walker sits by his chair and goes wherever he goes. Sadly, he doesn’t go very far. Kudos to Dad on his walker selection, though. Fire engine red, with big tires, brakes, and a zippered glove box, it's the Ferrari SUV of walkers. At least he looks fast as he cruises to the bathroom.

Is this what the man, who taught me to catch and throw, who yelled "If you can touch it, you can catch it" when I dropped the football, who came to all of my college tennis matches, who saw me win my first 10k, has been reduced to? A spicy red walker.

I wonder what else he has to show for himself. Years of working hard for his family? Two well-educated daughters and me, a part-time novelist and blogger? It's not much. When I look at my parents (My mom has about as much to show as my dad) one word comes to mind – Sacrifice. I rationalize it’s what their generation did. Then I tell myself I'm not selfish and privileged.

But I am privileged. My parents raised me to have choices and gave me the courage and the independence to make them. My mother may have decided my favorite color, but I got to choose just about everything else. I've lived selfishly - pursued my goals, chased my dreams - and my parents have cheered me on from the sidelines. Always. That said, I should probably polish Dad's walker and complain less about wearing red once a year. And realize that whatever I have to show is what they have to show. If all goes well, my next big thing will be a lesbian romance novel. The world may not be extremely excited or proud, but I know two people who will be – my mom and dad.

I'll wear red at my first book signing, Mom. Just for you.

Postscript... Sadly, I wore purple to my first book signing. I think my mom was proud of me regardless.