[From the archives]

It’s late December 2020, and we are wrapping up a year for the history books. Really. It’s so obvious that this is going into the books that it’s being recorded already (by last summer, a museum in Anacostia was collecting oral histories in real time on the effect of COVID-19 on people’s lives). So, truly, it’s unnecessary for me, of all people, to say anything about that.

And since I’m not a nurse or a doctor or a public health researcher, and since I left an econ PhD program, and since I’m not a mail carrier or grocery clerk or delivery person, I figure: I have no chance of solving this clusterfuck of a year.

(It’s amazing that there’s an end in sight due to these incredibly effective vaccines, but it’s also insane that we’re in the midst of becoming the epicenter even as the most essential of essential workers start getting vaccinated).

So: I can’t solve this. I can’t cure anyone. I don’t have a winning solution to get people to actually start keeping a distance, to hold on for a few more months (because it’s not really “more” for a lot of them, is it?) (but that’s not really the reason, either: I’ve never been good at convincing people of anything).

We as human society have large, real, pressing, numerous, wide-ranging (and -spreading!) problems, more immediate than probably at any point in my life so far, and I don’t know how to solve those.

I can’t solve anything real, so here’s what I’m going to do instead: pretend to solve trivial shit.

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Petty concern of the week: Running out of doable meals 1-2 days too soon.

We try to limit our grocery-going to about once a week, and sometimes even less, because, you know, weekends are busy times, and weekdays someone needs to work sometimes. What inevitably happens each time is that a little too long, a little longer than comfortable, before the next grocery trip arrives, we’re left with… not much. The cucumbers and bell peppers are gone. We have wilting leaves of some sort, perhaps. Maybe two eggs. Sometimes yogurt. One mini container of hummus. Expired tofu (definitely not from the last 10 grocery trips). Frozen vegetables. And lots and lots of canned tomatoes.

We could make rice and beans, because those are in the pantry, and we probably will, at the last minute, for dinner tonight. (Pressure cookers work! Or just used the canned version.) And then we’ll cook too much and eat it tomorrow and get tired of it over the next several days and forget about it as the new groceries invade our kitchen and then throw out whatever’s left just before next week’s grocery trip.

So that’s not good.

And I’ve been thinking: meal planning is just too cumbersome. It makes a lot of sense, I know: getting the exact right number and type of ingredients, and actually using them all up over the course of the week, in order from most perishable to least so nothing goes unnecessarily bad. It sounds genius, in fact. Except that it requires quite a lot of planning and coordination, and I’m not built like that. We have the same breakfast and lunch nearly every weekday. Simple creature, here. A.? He’d probably like more variety, and whenever he deigns to prepare things, we get it. And he’s gotten seriously good at food over time. It used to mainly look pretty. Now, it tastes great, too. (About a decade ago, when we first lived together, he put an entire lemon’s worth of juice into one salad. For two people. For a single meal.)

So anyway: no meal planning for me.

Here’s the solution instead.

(I want to step back for a moment and give you context for this writing: it’s 10pm on Sunday, I’m dead tired, and I just want to write. I’m typing and typing in the hopes that something brilliant occurs to me as a solution to this clearly intractable problem as I go because I clearly haven’t thought this through.)

(Back to the solution.)

(…)

Option 1: Endure heartburn. Eat those canned tomatoes on everything.

Option 2: Fast for a couple of days. At least the water’s still flowing. I’m pretty sure my grandfather fasted a couple days a week, though I’m not sure I ever truly understood why. Maybe I should ask.

(Also, really: “fast?” Fasting is intentional, a planned activity, a ritual. This? Is opportunistic fasting.)

What else could be a solution here? There’s no way it’s possible to go grocery shopping even one day earlier than whenever-the-f-I-feel-like-it, so… here’s the final solution I’m offering:

Option 3: Hibernate.

This actually could also solve COVID, if I do deign to pat myself on the back. Think about it: everyone’s sleeping. Those unfortunately ill folks get to heal (my world: I choose). Everyone’s metabolism slows way the hell down so we can eat less and don’t need to work quite so much (… while we sleep?) and it’s okay to shut down the economy. Available ICU beds because everyone’s getting some intentional, alive-and-well shut-eye, and keeping a distance, because you might be able to have dinner with a lot of people, but unless you’re all snoring in the same room you’re probably safe at night. Extended night time of the soul.

(Am I really saving this text file?)

[Added in the present:] And between COVID and long nighttimes, I’m thinking about mortality, so I just want to make sure to tell you, from the depths of the hollow organ in charge of my circulatory system, I appreciate you being here. Thank you for being in my life and for letting me into yours.

Love,

O

10. Sleep feels like heaviness in my eyelids and sluggishness in my brain, but only if I resist. If I give in, it feels like floating.

9. The sun can feel overpowering even when the air is cool.

8. Ants, marching, are mesmerizing. (Outside, in case you’re concerned.)

7. Speaking of insects, I’m pretty sure the drain flies are gone (shhh).

6. It might actually be possible to eat too many dates.

5. I’ve adjusted to winter time, but I still resent the early sunsets. The stars are lovely, but only if they’re visible.

4. I don’t really know how to make food quickly. (Do you? Does it still taste good? Can you give me pointers?)

3. If I put things away in the wrong place and I know they’re there, somewhere, it’s incredibly frustrating to try to find them again. But if they’re gone so long that I accept they’re gone forever, finding them on a forgotten shelf or in a neglected drawer is like finding $20 in the pocket of the coat I last wore just before spring.

2. It feels satisfying to check a bunch of things off a list first thing in the morning. It then feels like I’ve earned the afternoon tired (even though it comes anyway).

1. There is no good substitute for hugs.

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I’m lucky to have experienced incredible long-term friendships—people from high school, college, camps, travel, different places I’ve lived, who I know are there for me, no heads-up needed. If I say I need to talk, they will pick up the phone immediately. If we’re in the same place, it’s like no time has passed.

Really. No time. Do I know you from my awkward elementary/middle/high school days? For you, the awkwardness will still be there.

(Oh, who am I kidding? The awkwardness is still there because I’m still there.)

These people are my root system. They help me feel stable on this inherently uncertain adventure.

I’ve had other friendships, too. Friendships confined to particular settings or periods of time, that ended when someone stopped reaching out or when someone else stopped responding, but that were wonderfully nourishing until then. Friendships that it may be possible to pick back up in the future, but we’ll probably never find out, because some mystery has to remain in the world.

Maybe we lived together or did homework together or shared office space—and also talked about plans for the future. Maybe we helped each other learn to talk to new people—and recover from rebuffed attempts at friendship and romance. Maybe we explored new spaces together. Maybe we stayed up late to talk about life. Repeatedly. Maybe we helped each other feel at home in a new place. Maybe we danced together regularly and developed a reputation for making silly faces when we were focused.

For a time, we were present with each other. We could rely on each other to the days a little bit easier, a little bit brighter. A little bit more connected.

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In high school, I had a close friend who was—and I’m willing to bet still still is—a marvelous human being. She was warm and positive, silly and intelligent, creative and patient. And I was lucky to have had her as a friend.

We shared both interesting and frustrating teachers. We went to movies together and watched many more at home. We danced at concerts and school dances… and, you know, any place that had floors. We attended plays at school and at local theaters. We met each other’s friends. We saw each other through early romantic relationships and shifting home lives. And we played so, so, so many board games.

I thought of her a few weeks ago when “Safety Dance” came on the radio, not because I remember hearing it with her but because the feeling of that song, the silliness you feel when dancing to it, is the same joyful feeling I remember sharing with her for years.

My favorite memory is from the latter years of our friendship. I was not at my best, recently out of a relationship and in need of support. And she was there.

We went to dinner at a local shopping center. Ate outside under the awning. Caught each other up on life. I’m not sure how much I cried, but… I’m pretty sure I cried.

And then we were laughing.

When it came time to decide whether we were having dessert or not, the skies opened up. It began thunder storming.

So we ordered dessert. We stayed under the awning. And we talked some more, enjoying our time together.

The last time* we saw each other was about a year later. Since then, we’ve only been in sporadic email contact.

And I am lucky to have had her as a friend.

_{* So far! Mysterious world, remember.}

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If reading this makes you think of something precious you gained from a former friendship, please comment below and share. Let’s help each other better notice and appreciate the good in this life.

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Recently, all these articles popped up about the ideal bedtime.

Spoiler alert: it’s 10-11pm.

Go to sleep earlier: more cardiovascular disease (well, only for some of the population). Go to sleep later: more cardiovascular disease (somewhat more pronounced).

It’s not causal (that is, we can’t conclude that a 10-11pm bedtime actually lowers the rates of cardiovascular disease) because the authors use observational data. People were not told to go to sleep at a particular time. They simply wore accelerometers that recorded their activity, including sleep. Unless they didn’t wear them enough, in which case they were excluded.

It might not actually apply to everyone in the world (!), because all the people in this study were in England. Oh, and they were also mostly from particular demographic groups (their ages, races, and income levels certainly don’t apply to everyone).

Plus, people who are able to consistently go to bed at 10-11pm probably are living lives that make that bedtime available, which says something about the nature of their jobs and homes and a whole host of things beyond just their bedtimes that might affect the eventual incidence of cardiovascular disease.

And again: it wasn’t an experiment. (To their credit, the authors state outright that this study doesn’t imply changing your bedtime will make you healthier.) But it’s normal for news publications to report correlation as if it’s causation.

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What I don’t get is this:

These articles were published within days of the end of Daylight Saving Time in the UK, Canada, and the US. And no article I came across mentioned this delicious irony.

What do we do with an ideal bedtime when time itself is a construct?

Or is no one else picking up on this a sign that I’m the confused one? What if we adjust so perfectly to time changes that 10-11pm really is the Magical Bedtime that Will Solve Everyone’s Problems no matter who they are, what they do, where they are, or what time of year it is?

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Is everyone else missing something or are you? Comment below and let me know about your favorite moment of complete bewilderment.

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When I caught up with an old friend after A.‘s chemo, he told me I had a very glass-half-full view of the world. But I’m not in the habit of putting on rose-colored glasses. I think being real means recognizing the good things, too.

And I’m in good company.

During and after the chemo, I read lots of memoirs—about what lives, relationships, diseases, and struggles of all kinds are really like. All the better when they’re like Nina Riggs’ The Bright Hour: Compelling. Intelligent. Clever, insightful. Funny. Poignant. Heartbreaking when life is.

There’s something inherently optimistic in acknowledging: Yes, it’s exactly this bad. Even when “this” only refers to the one element of my life you’re ready to talk about, to acknowledge right now. If you lie to others or to yourself about how things are going, where does that leave you?

What if instead you choose to see the situation you’re in, to step back and describe what’s happening and how you’re taking it, even if it’s just to yourself? Then you can take the next step, which might be as simple (or as involved) as journaling or asking for help.

The optimism is in the implication that this is worth talking about, that your state of being is worth describing, discussing, working on, in the feeling that maybe it doesn’t have to be this way forever, that you want to work through it.

The optimism is in acknowledging, even for a situation that can’t be solved, that talking about things as they really are means we can talk about things as they really are. We can handle the truth,we can be open to just how hard and sad and boring and also just how painfully beautiful and inspiring and touching and happy it is, it can be.

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I try to approach my writing with pragmatic optimism. I called this site “this glass has water.” It’s a fact: a water glass contains water. But seeing the water and not just the empty part of the glass? Acknowledging all aspects of the story? It’s profoundly optimistic. 

I’m in a bad place. This is what it’s like. I’m telling you what it’s like so you’ll know if it ever happens to you that it has happened before, and maybe what to expect, and hopefully that it’s possible to see out, but certainly that you’re not alone in this. 

or

I’m in a good place, and I want to remember this, so I’m going to try to figure out what makes it good. I want to appreciate it fully while I’m here, and I want to know how to replicate it in the future, and I want to take steps to keep it good, to make it better, because I’ve realized that it only really feels good if the journey feels good.

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This way that choosing a story and then framing it in a way that serves me, and hopefully some of you, is my favorite thing about writing. I get to affect how I perceive and remember the stories I tell.

I might write down a thought or idea and then realize: That’s not it. That’s not how I want to think about this. That’s not how I want to share it. So I come at it from another angle, or set it aside and focus on something that feels like a better choice, like the way I’d like to be in the world.

Do you ever adjust the lens you use to tell your stories to change how you feel about them? Does widening the aperture feel overwhelming or calming? Share in a comment below.

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When I leave the library with a bag full of books, something strange happens.

Something quite beyond my control.

I bring home books. Books that strike my fancy; books I hear that all intelligent people should read; books recommended by my favorite librarian (or anyone else). When I put down that reusable bag, they exhale.

And then, when they inhale again, they spread out.

They take over designated library book areas. They cover the futon. They litter the floor. They obscure the dressers. They fill drawers around the house.

They become a part of the landscape.

One day, I might decide I’m in the mood to read that particular one. I might locate it, pick it up, begin to read it. I might even want—and remember—to keep reading the same book.

But while I’m making my way back to that book, it might be finding a new home.

Maybe before it was on the shelf and now it’s under the futon. Maybe before it was by the bed and now it’s outside the bathroom or on the chair on the side of the kitchen table that goes in the absence of guests.

And when it’s in its new home, I no longer see it as a book: It becomes a new piece of furniture. A decoration.

Eventually, I forget about it.

The only guarantee is that I’ll find it (because I must) when I get a notice from the library that someone else has put a hold on it. Or when my six months of repeated book renewal expires.

Do I read the books everyone says you should read to be an informed citizen? To better manage your thoughts or your sleep or your life? To understand the human condition? To learn something new?

Do I read the books I look forward to discussing with my favorite librarian, or with my friend who always takes my own recommendations so well?

For a time, they become a part of my home. I welcome them, these books that might otherwise fester, untouched, on a library shelf (only rarely does someone actually request them before the six month loan limit). I share my air with them. I rearrange my seating patterns around them. I think of them in passing as I gently move them from place to place, and I allow them to sink in where they feel comfortable.

And is that not as valuable as reading?

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At least once a day for the past several days, the density of drain flies per cubic inch of kitchen space reaches the critical mass at which we decide: It’s time.

It’s time to go to the closet and retrieve our most reliable means of defense.

It’s time.

For the vacuum.

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One of us—usually A.—will get it. He’s the original believer: They can’t escape the vacuum.

(Today I saw he sealed them in with painters’ tape. Just in case. We’ve learned not to trust our instincts with this batch of drain flies.)

And then we will replace the floor attachment with what I’ve just learned is called the “crevice tool.”

And then we will aim. We will be careful to have the crevice tool seal around the drain fly so we’re as likely to catch it as possible. (We will learn from our mistakes.)

We will be self-conscious about any neighbors peering in, wondering why we’re aiming our vacuums like rifles around our kitchen.

And we will collect as many drain flies as we can. All the ones on the walls, the cabinets, the blinds, the window frames, the light fixtures, the oven door—as long as they don’t see us coming. We might even get an occasional fly who zooms around in mid-air. But those? Those are the devious ones. The hardest to catch. And we worry that they’re the ones reproducing.

Maybe by next week, the flies won’t be so easy to catch.

Hopefully by then, we will have found out where they nest.

In the meantime, A. has cleaned out all the drains. We will leave almost nothing perishable (and certainly nothing sweet) out. We will clean up each night.

And we will hope that, tomorrow, this war of attrition will be over.

As long as it’s in our favor.

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Long-term relationships can be meaningful, grounding, supportive, and generally wonderful, but so much of life is made up of passing interactions. Why not make them as interesting as possible?

Sometimes I experiment.

Can I get this person to talk to me? Can I learn something surprising about them?

Half a lifetime ago, in Argentina, I cajoled responses out of locals by imitating complaints I’d heard about the humidity (it worked!) or by asking for help with a word or a phrase.

Locally, I approach it a bit differently. Sometimes, I share more details than absolutely necessary. Sometimes, I ask a question. Sometimes, I just try to keep an open face.

Here are some things I learned about people this past week:

• The health insurance rep who answered my call shares her belief in solving problems from the inside out (first, drink plenty of water), and how her current city sees itself as a city but isn’t really, certainly not relative to New York, which she left long ago.

• The guy bagging my groceries at Trader Joe’s says he loved age 7 best because that’s when he first got to choose a book to read for himself. Which book? The Prince. By Machiavelli. Which he didn’t understand but wanted to read because that’s what the big people were reading. (The big people in my life? Not reading Machiavelli.)

• At the park, a woman picked up an abandoned ringing phone, then allowed herself to be convinced to take responsibility for it and wait for the owner to return for it, even as the minutes ticked by and the owner called repeatedly to check in. Why not just leave it at a designated tree? Karma, she says. Despite having grown up well before the invention of even cordless phones, the prospect of losing her phone today is so horrifying as to be unimaginable. She isn’t qualified to carry her phone, she feels. It should be physically implanted in her somehow. She could definitely use the karma.

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What’s been your most memorable interaction with a stranger? Did one of you ask the other a question? How did it feel to talk with someone new? Leave a comment and share below.

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One summer, back when people shared indoor spaces without masks or advance virus testing, my level 5 improv class had its final show. It was fun and energetic and almost fulfilled its potential.

And then I froze.

Somehow, my character, a manic driver/police offer, was to appear at the end of Act 3. To wrap it up with a flourish.

My classmates set the stage for me for me to come in. It was so clear that I needed to play some sort of part that I was on alert as soon as the scene began:

How do I make this work? What do I say? When do I come in?

And there I was, on the sidelines, still watching, still analyzing, still thinking, still hesitating, when the theater turned down the lights. ,

Our show was over.

I’d missed my chance.

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There’s this paradox between doing for myself and doing for others.

Tell me if this sounds familiar:

If I do for others, I’m trying to help them make progress, so maybe I read a little, think a little, prepare in some way, but then: I start doing. Because it’s for a project someone else has defined. What matters is getting it done. And the only way to get things done is to do.

If I do for myself, I’m the one who defines the project, and I’m never sure I’ve defined it quite right.

It’s caring too much about the parameters versus just caring about taking steps. It’s a juxtaposition between solving by doing (try something, see if it works; if not, try something else) and postponing the doing till I manage to solve by thinking.

And who’s ever solved anything by thinking?

(Except theorists. We know a bubbly male computer science theorist who goes on round-the-world trips and long treks and comes back with highly regarded papers.)

Committing to action over analysis when I’m the one writing the syllabus, when I’m doing something I’ve never done before, when I don’t know the right answer (because, in all likelihood, there isn’t one) is so hard.

I like right answers. That’s why I kept taking math classes throughout college.

But improv helped me practice.

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Later that summer, after a few weeks away, I began the next improv class.

We started a scene on an island.

My character was lying back, trying to tan: “They didn’t tell us it would be overcast. This is the most disappointing tanning session, ever.”

Another character was sipping a drink: “They said we’d have free sunrises. Tequila sunrises.”

And then, I didn’t think. I just spoke.

“Can you pour that on me?”

“You want me to pour my sunrise on you?”

“I’ll take whatever form of sun I can get.”

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I know, I know: How painful was this to read? At least you weren’t in the room when it happened.

Still, what I hope comes across is something I try to remember most days: If we see failure as an opportunity—to explore options, to learn, to simply try and see if a different tack might lead to more interesting results—it’s rarely a bad idea to do something (reasonable) to move things along.

As for abject failure? Well. Maybe it’ll make for a good story. Whether you tell it to friends or your therapist? That’s up to you.

But what if the failure isn’t so abject?

Or… What if you don’t actually fail?

Which reminds me, I should re-do this great fear-setting exercise to figure out what terrifying worst case scenarios are holding me back.

Then accept that they might happen and focus anyway.

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Do you find it easier to do things for other people than for yourself? What helps you hop that hurdle? Leave a reply and share below: help us learn from each other.

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I’m writing this mere hours after my latest twice-yearly call with a friend from high school. He calls on my birthday; I call on his.

I thought today about how this is one of my favorite accomplishments, this commitment we’ve built over the years. We call—we speak, out loud, into each other’s ears, across highways and seas and borders, we have a goddamned conversation—each year, on our birthdays. It hasn’t devolved into text or email only. It hasn’t become a handful of photos. We communicate. We can’t catch up on everything, but we touch on some of the big things. It’s on both of us to keep it up, and so far, we do.

And we never planned it. There was no contract, no formal agreement, nothing set out in advance.

We lived in the same place for a single year of high school. I moved away. And he was the one person who kept responding.

Which is similar to what it’s been like making friends as an adult. Sometimes it feels like throwing darts at images of people (but kindly!) and hoping one of them wants to throw a dart at your image, too. You reach out. You start a conversation. You ask for a number. You follow up. You try to schedule something.

Mostly, things peter out. Mostly, you find out you don’t see eye to eye on the important things (like, I don’t know, actually responding to attempts to meet up). Mostly, you realize your time and energy are better spent elsewhere. Or they do. And they either let you know, or (mostly) you eventually assume so because of ongoing poor communication. Or because they’ve trained their dog to pee on you.

But sometimes.

Sometimes you reach out, or—miracle of miracles—someone reaches out to you. And you respond to each other. And you fill a need in each other. Maybe you find in each other a pleasant way to pass an afternoon, your friend making you laugh and you daring them to publicly post their ridiculous observations about the world. Maybe you discover a bond over having grown up in the mid-Atlantic, or over writing (or wanting to), or over a curiosity about languages, or over feeling at home with feeling foreign. Maybe you find a shared belief in the superiority of zero-drop, open-toed sandals over all other options in the footwear universe. Maybe you find a person who shows you that it’s possible to do all the regular things and also start a regular column, produce a podcast, take up photography, and finish a dissertation—or, you know, whatever is in your own wildest, technicolor dreams. Maybe you find someone who recommends you great escapist fiction and always lets you know they enjoy your recommendations, too.

And maybe, with any or all of those, you find the most magic thing of all: someone who, a bit at a time, creates a long term commitment to you, to checking in, to setting other things aside to hear your voice, to sharing a regular moment of this brief and beautiful life, to showing you that there’s another human who cares about you, too.

For friends of all kinds, with love.

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