A week or so ago I was having coffee with a friend. Although
she’s someone I’ve grown close to over the past dozen years, due to our schedules,
we rarely find the time to meet.
In the middle of our shared (and to my mind anxiety laced)
conversation about what’s happening to us professionally (because, just as with
your teeth, if you’re not whitening, you’re yellowing, professionally if you’re
not moving forward, you’re sliding back) my friend suddenly blurted, “Did you
ever think that you’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing?” That
was interesting. I should say here that my friend is not overly given over to
emoting Zen sentiments. She is neither a hippie, nor a yoga student, and, as
far as I know, has spent zero time in an ashram. Instead, she is the kind of
woman who can tell you the difference between a sports coat and a dinner jacket,
and what cutlery to reach for when they pass the cheese plate. So her Zen-like
“be here now” utterance came as a surprise to me.
I went home and thought about her pronouncement for many days.
Days spent, I should say, attempting to read, with little progress, Tom Wolfe’s
new novel “Back to Blood,” and J.K. Rowling’s “The Casual Vacancy.” For weeks
I’ve also been engaged in a furious battle better known as post-holiday cleaning
after my son suggested at Christmas I should go back to my cleaning hobby. When
I haven’t been wiping, washing, heaving out, and organizing, I’ve been cooking,
specifically dinner, six times a week. Sometimes beginning as early as 9 a.m.,
I’ve been preparing time consuming, labor intensive meals like beef bourguignon
and mashed potatoes; whole roasted chicken with parnsips; and rich, rustica
pastas you only wish were on the menu at The Blue Dolphin. Oh, and writing.
More on that in a bit.
I have a confession. I have been experiencing anxiety. Not
the kind of heart pounding anxiety that resembles a panic attack, nor am I
having trouble sleeping. My anxiety is all work-related. I pine for the days
when nothing more was expected of me than to be the mother of a little kid. My
anxiety is the kind brought on by articles I read in the big city daily about
how all around the nation, adults in their 50’s are struggling to keep their
jobs, or juggling 3 part-time jobs, none of which come with health insurance.
These people will never realize a safe, happy retirement. As a self-employed
freelance writer, I never planned on stopping work. But I see there might be
larger forces out there affecting my ability to stay relevant.
Long ago my husband used to joke that if we got rich the
first thing he was going to do was hire a cook. Well, here I am. I can’t even
begin to tell you all the food I’ve cooked in past weeks: gumbos, jambalayas,
soups, stews, chili, vegan dishes, every kind of roast. I’ve mastered every which
way you can cook an egg. My husband is deliriously happy with what’s happening
in the kitchen, so happy he’s undertaken the job of going to the grocery store to
stock the pantry. Every day I play my own round of Top Chef, concocting elaborate
meals out of whatever has caught his fancy. Some nights the main ingredient I
have to work with is asparagus, or it could be chorizo sausage, or pork loins,
or broccoli. It’s not unheard of for us to have breakfast for dinner, i.e.
silver dollar pancakes topped with walnuts and bananas and real maple syrup.
Did you ever think you’re doing exactly what you’re supposed
to be doing is a constant refrain in my ear. I think of it as I’m swabbing the
woodwork with Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, scrubbing the shower with Fantastick Scrubbing
Bubbles, and steering the Miele around. One afternoon last week after I painstakingly
applied Lexol to all my leather boots, I endeavored to clean my car. You would not
believe the mud and grime that accumulates from driving these dirt roads. The
more I clean and cook, the more I lament how my attention span for writing has
dwindled to crafting Tweets and updating my Facebook status.
One of the bonuses of having less writing to do is I can follow
the news. Among today’s most fascinating stories is the news that DNA has
concluded that it really is Richard III of England they found in Leicester interred
beneath a car park. Shakespeare, who wrote a play about the king, portrayed
Richard III as an evil, scheming, tyke killing monster who in his quest to
achieve the throne, would do anything. Shakespeare created lines for his
villain that are still evoked today, ranging from “the winter of our
discontent,” to “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” whatever that
means. Richard’s reign, apparently, is overdue for reassessment. Doing exactly
what he was supposed to be doing at the time, it might not have been nearly as
awful as Shakespeare made it out to be.
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