Stay of Execution

Domestic Update

It's official.  Housemate's Boyfriend is moving in, as is his Yellow Dog.  In some ways this is a mere formality, because they've been here for months.  I appreciate the rent money and contribution to utilities.  In other ways it's an adjustment.  This house, which is just right for two people and one dog, is...cozy with three people and two dogs.  The daily bathroom negotiations are now slightly different because all three of us actually live here.

Meanwhile I'm talking to some folks who have a big rambly farmhouse right next to the sailing center.  I'd like to rent a room there, to minimize the driving to and from Portland in the middle of the week.  It's a 50 minute drive, and with gas being where it is, it's worth some money to avoid that commute.  I don't want to leave Portland entirely, because my social life is here.  But a place to lay my head nearer to where I'll be spending my days makes sense.  And it gives me a place to be alone, and will leave the happy couple with some privacy as well.   If this apartment works out, I'll have a woodstove and a big, glorious field, a pond with lily pads, and the rocky shores of the sailing center a 2 minute walk away.  They're cool with my dog being there.  I hope it works out.  I'd rather pay some rent than spend that money on gas. 

Question

Is it a good thing or a bad thing that I am on a first name basis with my furnace repairman? 

15 Things: Being Brave is Better

I started this 15 Things thread a few months ago, to reflect on the things I've learned since I started writing this weblog.  In retrospect, I was climbing out of a hole back then.  I had a bad winter, dark and depressing.  Part of the reason winter was hard was because I was afraid.  I was alone and afraid of being single, afraid of my own loneliness.  I had a health issue that scared me more than I wanted to admit, an ominous presence in my consciousness every day.  And I was afraid to let go of the law, and its promise of a secure, respectable, profitable profession.  I was pretty sure I didn't want to practice again, but I wanted to keep that as a safe fallback option, so I felt I had to walk a careful line, in case I wanted to go back.  It felt dangerous to admit the truth: that I'm creative and that I need to spend a fair amount of time outdoors.  At times in the winter I was hanging on with a brittle smile and a too-loud laugh, just trying to hold it all together.  I wished away my instincts and my fears and my longings, trying to pretend they weren't part of me.

I keep learning this lesson, but it's a hard one.  It's so much easier to admit who you are, admit what you're scared of and tackle it, than to cork it up.  Why does it feel so much harder?  I don't know.   

I do know that this is the life I have.  I might as well try to fix things that are broken, to get things that I want, to make things happen.  There will be time later to revert to a safe course if this doesn't work.  I'm trying to admit what I know and what I don't know, what I want and what I know to be a trap for me.  I'm trying to take risks even when I'm scared.  I'm trying to be more fluid, to let myself respond more.  It feels really good.  The more I do it the easier it gets. 

Over the past couple of months some acquaintances have exclaimed, "You look radiant!  You look so healthy."  It has happened three or four times, with different people, or I wouldn't remark on it.    Something shows, I guess.  I feel happy and healthy, comfortable with myself.  I have things to do -- lots of goals --  but I don't feel so much like I have things to prove.  I don't think I realized the extent to which I was chasing external goals for a long time.  Seems strange that this is what I should be writing under the heading of "Being Brave," but it feels like one of the bravest things I've done is walked away from the practice of law, in order to discover how to be myself. 

What To Wear To Work

I'm extremely busy with the start of the sailing season at Bowdoin.  It's a seven-day-a-week schedule for me that will last through early November.  There's a lot to learn: the quirks and procedures of the administrative bureaucracy; the needs and special features of our sailing center (which is a fantastic place to sail, and picture-postcard lovely); and the personalities and dynamics and skill level of the team.  I've been coaching on the water for the past couple of days, and have met maybe 2/3 of the team so far.  It's a busy time.  I'll be scarce around here, I think, until we settle into the new routine.

I just scanned Carolyn Elefant's latest Blawg Review, and her link to a post by a law professor speculating about wearing jeans in the classroom reminded me of one of the strangely hardest changes: the new dress code.  I'm accustomed to putting on 'work clothes' for work, and while doing so being conscious of the signals I want to send: poise, professionalism, a certain education level, adherence to a fairly conservative set of conventions, etc.  It took some thinking and doing to dress like a lawyer, and even when I dressed in "business casual," I was careful about looking professional, put together, classy, etc.  I didn't always succeed, but I always paid attention, and always had a low-level background awareness of how I was presenting myself.  Do I look like a lawyer?  I would think, when I looked in the mirror each day.  So it is with this habit of awareness that I still get dressed, especially for things like department meetings. 

But my department is the athletic department.  The coaches dress like coaches.  Of course they do.  Sweatpants and shorts, sneakers or flip flops, t-shirts, with or without collars.   I showed up to the department meeting last week feeling risky in my soft loafers, jeans, and a long-sleeved blue shirt.  I needn't have worried.  A part of me still gasps a little bit when I show up to my office.  "These people are at work," some little old lady in my head clucks disapprovingly when I see coaches dressed like athletes, talking in the coffee room, flipping through their mail.  It will take a while to shake the lawyer mentality entirely.  I do have a lanyard for my whistle, though, and started wearing it around my neck yesterday.  Today I'm going to try to pick up some Bowdoin athletic wear: a warm-up jacket and a polo shirt.  I'll fit in soon enough. 

Vet Visit

We went to the vet this morning, where Belle suffered all matter of indignities willingly, for a couple of treats.  She got poked and prodded and stuck with needles.  She's gained some weight from the last visit, so we're on a diet.  She's got a yeast infection in her right ear, so she gets medicine.  She loves her heartworm pills.  The bill came to $357, which seems absurd. 

Something You Haven't Thought Of In A Long Time

I bet you haven't thought about the first time you played a harmonica for a long time.  But I bet you remember, and I bet if you think about it for two minutes you can taste it again, the metal and the wood and some old stale smokiness.  I bet you can remember how you stretched your lips around the metal and touched your teeth against the hard surface and wondered if you were doing it right.  You were a kid, I bet, and I bet when you think about investigating this harmonica you'll remember the room you were in, and where you were sitting: the old white couch with the arms starting to get dingy.  You sat perched on the arm, didn't you, holding that cool, dense, metal harmonica in your hands (this way, on the side?  or maybe cupped around in front, like you've seen in movies?  you're not sure, so you try it a couple of different ways.).  Did you run your tongue along the bars to see what they felt like and tasted like?  I bet you can remember the feeling of your tongue running across the little square openings, like running a stick along a fence, and the way the gentle scrape tickled the side of your tongue.  Did you get a little bit short of breath after you puffed out the first tweetwirrrtweee tones?  Were you grossed out when a little trickle of spit came back into your mouth from the bars? 

The Garage

My car's battery died unexpectedly and inconveniently yesterday while I was on campus.  The ice hockey coach had jumper cables, though, and although it took some maneuvering to get his truck in a place where he could reach my battery, we started her up.  I drove to my garage to get a new battery. 

My dog was in the backseat and jumped out delightedly when we got to the garage.  She roamed around through the weeds behind the Saabs and Volkswagens and ate some of the long grass.  I wish I had a word for her lumpy hop, her front legs smooth and quick and her back leg loping along behind, with an up-and-down motion that's different from a dog with two back legs.  She came in to the garage with me and we discovered a young beagle who started baying at all of us, excited as could be.  He was tied in a back office, and around him were shredded cardboard auto part boxes and discarded bones.  He nearly pulled one of the file cabinets down trying to jump up on me.  We all got acquainted, and the head mechanic decided the beagle was too excited to stay in the building.  I volunteered to bring my dog back outside but he wouldn't hear of it, and dragged the beagle out to the back. 

Belle wandered in and out of the office and the back doors of the garage.  Do all mechanics love dogs, or is it just these guys.  They bent over her, rubbing her ears and back while she wagged at them and steadily licked their forearms.  "Oh, missing a leg and an eye both?  Do you call her Lucky?" they called to me.  "C'mere, Lucky, ain't you a good dog?"  I sat talking to the garage owner, about batteries and transmissions, about fuel prices and American foreign policy, about bear hunting and vacations, about dogs.  Belle wandered back in and sat panting at me.  The garage owner filled up a styrofoam dish with water, and she lapped it up, spilling some of it on the floor.  She lay down on the tiles behind the counter, at the feet of the garage owner.  I sat on the sofa, reading the paper. 

A man came to the door and Belle bristled and began barking at the intruder.  She got off the floor and stood about four feet from the door, her hair up in the funny mohawk she gets when she's trying to look brave and threatening.  She barked steadily, her tail wagging.  An older man with a grey beard came in and crouched down and she started licking his forearm, her hair still up.  "There's a good dog, aren't you?"  He delivered some car parts and left.  A few minutes later a customer came in and again my dog barked as though she owned the place and the customer was there to slit our throats.  Again the customer patted her and she leaned into his legs, wagging and looking up at him with adoration.  A mechanic came through and found a dog treat for her.  She settled back down near the front counter, near to the garage owner but where she could keep an eye on the door. 

When we left they said goodbye to me but two guys came out and ruffled her fur and patted her head.  "See you later, Lucky."  She trotted ahead of me and jumped up into the backseat, ready for the next destination. 

Are You On A Date?

I was out to dinner last night with a gentleman.  This being Portland, we ran into someone we both know.  For me, she's an acquaintance, one of those "oh, that's a familiar face, I'll smile and wave and then go sit down and try to remember what her name is and how I know her," folks.  He knew her much better.  We stopped by her table, and she and I confessed we couldn't remember one another's names and pieced our way back to the last time we saw one another, and then we all chatted for a bit.  She then looked back and forth at the two of us and blurted out, "Hey, wait a minute -- are you two on a date?" 

We both demurred, lightly.  No, not a date, just getting a bite to eat after sailing.  Nothing to see here.  The truth was, I wasn't sure.  We settled into our booth and proceeded to have a conversation that felt a lot like a conversation we might have had if we'd been on a date.  It got me thinking about how you know whether something is a date or not.  I have very little idea. 

Question

Does young grass grow faster than old grass? 

I have some areas in my yard that used to be hedge that I seeded with new grass this summer.  It grows much faster than the rest of my yard, which is a hassle for mowing.  Is there any hope that this is just because it's young, or is it a faster-growing variety.  In other words, am I doomed?

Training Update

Ack.  What training?  I haven't run in a week.  I'm reaching the stage where I don't have the desire to run -- it doesn't sound like fun at all.  Tomorrow, I run.  Oh, sheesh.  Tonight, I run.