Author: Leslie

I love the 1939 film, The Women. I watched it again the other day and every time I do I see… more. It’s just one of those films.

It’s an amazing piece of history: the entire cast was female (not the crew and the animals, as is sometimes reported, though). And it’s surprisingly profound while, at the same time, hits every negative stereotype of women you can imagine: vanity, cattiness, money hunting, etc. Most of the characters in the film are society women, as they were called. In other words: rich broads either through marriage or inheritance (or both).

The fundamental point of the film is, however and perhaps surprisingly, that love requires superseding your ego. One might argue that a bit of unintended Buddhist philosophy sneaks in, exactly where you’d never expect to find it.

The basic plot is that the main character’s husband strays. She (Mary, played by Norma Shearer) finds out through the social grapevine and everyone’s favorite manicurist. The other woman, who works the perfume counter of a Sax-like department store, is a real siren (Crystal, played by Joan Crawford in full lower-class-hustler-trying-to-get-ahead-however-she-can form) looking for a sugar daddy. She (we learn) targeted Mary’s husband when he went to buy his wife some perfume for her birthday, and that he never stood a chance. Regardless of the circumstances, when Mary learns of the betrayal, she believes that the violation is so complete that the relationship must end.

However, before Mary actually ends her marriage, her mother learns from the same manicurist about the affair and gently confronts Mary. Mary tells Mom that she believed in her marriage and that its love was pure; now it is tainted, so it’s over. Most of all, she must end it because, as she says, “I have my pride.” There we see the ego, in opposition to love.

Mom has a fabulous scene here. She says that virtually all men cheat at some point and, when they do, it’s not because they don’t love their wives but rather because they lose themselves. Men, she asserts, don’t have the good sense to change their office or hair as women do. Instead, men look to see themselves as fresh and new in the eyes of someone new and younger. It isn’t love and it isn’t about the wife–it is the man’s ego (in opposition to love, again).

Mom even casually admits her (now dead) husband, Mary’s father, had an affair back in the day, shocking Mary. Mom points out that it isn’t love and that it will end, and likely soon. Mom also cautions that Mary needs to think about more than herself and her hurt pride, she has a daughter with her husband, and that must be considered. Mary opines that her daughter will appreciate her choice in time. Mom scoffs at that.

Mom closes her argument with a doozy: she says that ignoring the cheating is the only real sacrifice they, as super privileged women, have to make in life. Ooof! But accurate. Overall, she’s telling her daughter to feel hurt but, more importantly, to be compassionate to everyone involved (her kid and her husband, the latter in his own weakness) and to be grateful for the good things even with the bad things. To be less hooked by either. Middle path, for the win. Strong Buddhist vibes, Bodhisattva-Mom.

Mom ends her visit by asking Mary if she’s told her friends. Mary says that she is pretty sure they know anyway and Mom says that if she hasn’t told them that she knows, “Don’t. Don’t confide in your friends.” Mom points out that if Mary does, then her friends will, with best intentions usually, make sure that the marriage ends. She finishes with the great line, “I’m an old woman, I know my sex.” Then Mom manufactures a need for a trip to Bermuda for her health and gets Mary to go with.

Of course, Mom’s right. Mary should take the time to sit in the discomfort and decide more rationally how to respond rather than just react; to look at the situation from a more dispassionate perspective, not to be rash. To not stab herself with the second arrow[1]. And Mary does try this. She tries to go on as if nothing is wrong, to let the flirtation/cheating run its course and wait for the husband to stop (as it appears he is).

However, as her mother warned, it is listening to her friends that makes moving on impossible. First, they plant the seed by calling her on her trip to nudge her insecurities. Mary comes home early. However, things seem better with the husband after her return and Mary appears to be moving on.

Shortly, however, after the fashion show (oddly, a scene done in color in a rather surrealist manner), Sylvia (Mary’s friend and cousin) points out that Crystal is in the next dressing room. When Mary reacts just a little, the friends learn she does know about the affair and they (especially Sylvia) pounce, pushing her to action. Playing on her ego (pride) and her maternal instincts (telling her that her daughter and husband were seen with Crystal in the park while she was gone), they essentially force a confrontation with Crystal.

Mary can’t let herself lose face. She tells Crystal to back off; Crystal digs in. And, the genie cannot be put back in the bottle–the papers get a hold of the relatively minor incident and make it a much bigger deal. Mary’s pride takes another hit. Of course, she confronts her husband and it all goes south, according to the housemaid who reports on the fight to the cook. The marriage is over.

After settling things with her husband via his robotically efficient secretary (trope of the sexless working woman), and finally telling her daughter of the split (just as she is preparing to leave for the train station–perhaps as a sign she was hoping for a last second reprieve), she is off on a train to Reno to get her divorce.

One of Mary’s friends (played by Joan Fontaine, who is, in my opinion, the most annoying of the actresses in the film) suddenly leaves her husband and joins her on the train. He won’t let her spend her own (obviously inherited) money as it apparently emasculates him and, well, as she puts it she too has her pride. This woman, however, when in Reno, discovers she’s first-time pregnant. That changes everything. Of course, her husband wasn’t cheating on her so, in a way, it was easier for her to get over her pride and go back to him, which she does in a tearful phone call, meekly getting his permission at the end to reverse the long distance charges. Screw pride–she’s having a baby and loves her husband (whether he deserves it or not). She’s annoying, but she does show Mary that she can have the love she wants… if she lets go of her ego.

This all happens on the morning Mary’s divorce comes through. Another woman from the train to and the ranch in Reno, Miriam (fabulously played by Paulette Goddard), is a chorus girl (thus of a lower class) who is divorcing her “bum” of a husband to marry a wealthy man (Sylvia’s husband!). Miriam tells Mary she obviously is still in love with her husband and needs to tell him so. Miriam counsels Mary to call her man and say she’ll tear up the decree. She says Mary let her pride get in the way and she should have fought more for him, for them. Just as Mary realizes that Miriam is right, the phone rings and it is Mary’s now-ex-husband. Mary, smiling, responds to his unheard question about whether the decree was granted with a “Yes, but…” when he seemingly interrupts her. In the silence, Mary’s face becomes awash with sadness.

Of course, in the few hours since the divorce is granted, Mary’s now-ex has married Crystal (his own ego wouldn’t permit him to just shag her). Mary holds it together to congratulate him, then ends the call. Miriam can see what happened. Mary says, before collapsing into tears, “At least I have my pride.”

Time passes and the husband (Stephen) is miserable (his own doing for having married Crystal), Mary is brave-facing it through life; Sylvia has backed Crystal, feeling betrayed by Mary who made friends with Miriam before she knew about the husband; Crystal is cheating on Stephen, with another Reno-divorcee’s husband….basically, there is a shitton of second-arrow hell going on. But, of course, things work out in the end. Mary learns that Stephen is miserable, that Crystal is cheating, and she decided to enact a plan to win him back. Spoiler: she does.

The last line of the film seals the Buddhist-reading deal. Sylvia, Mary’s friend who has played on her ego the hardest throughout, tries to prevent the reconciliation between Mary and her ex. Sylvia reminds Mary about her pride as Mary is literally turning to go back to him. Mary, rejecting the intervention, responds that pride is something “a woman in love can’t afford.”

And there we have the deeper truth: true love requires a loss of pride, well, of ego. If you’re worried about how loving makes you look, to others, you aren’t really loving with your whole heart. If you are judging your partner, you are not really loving. If you are judging yourself, you are not really loving. Moreover, there is a difference between pride and self-respect. It takes the journey of the film to teach Mary that. If she had known that self-respect and pride aren’t synonymous, there would have been no story to tell here.

Mary’s story is a very Buddhist journey. It is all external at first, then she learns how to be quiet and observe. She learns about herself, good and bad, and her friends (same), and to accept all as they are, including her flawed husband and her flawed self. To be true to herself is to admit that she loves her husband, even as she hates what he did. She learns that she owes it to herself to honor that by reconciling, if she can. She even essentially jiu-jitsus Crystal and Sylvia into exposing Crystal’s infidelity and freeing Stephen to reconcile. Finally, she chooses, actively, to love–imperfectly but wholly.

I would argue that in so doing, she becomes a stronger human, and a more peaceful one. There is no more striving for the perfect marriage, not more seeing her husband or herself as ideals. They are simply humans with flaws (note: he is never portrayed as at all abusive, which is important in this context) who choose to love each other and do the work, together. A Buddhist love story.

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[1] The Buddha taught that life happens and painful things happen in that life, things out of our control–the first arrow. We get sick or someone is mean to us…first arrow stuff. If we react (“I’m an idiot for getting sick!” or “He’s an asshole for being mean to me!”) we usually make ourselves suffer more–like stabbing ourselves with a second arrow. We can control our responses to the first arrow stuff and not stab ourselves with the second.

Growing up as the only daughter/sister and being significantly younger than my brothers put me on my proverbial back foot. Having a shockingly sexist, primary parent, mother didn’t help (she made it clear my job was to cook and clean for the males, and then to take care of her when she got sick). I remember Mom saying to a friend of hers, “[Son 1] will be a great writer. [Son2] will be a great artist. Leslie will end up dancing on a table someplace.” Yeah. I was born, and definitely raised, for therapy.

The “artist” has been an insufferable know-it-all forever. I really have no idea how his wife has put up with that behavior, especially since he is often flat-out wrong. He will never admit it. He will simply pull a face that is shockingly similar to Hegseth’s sneer. Yikes. Regardless, he isn’t a total idiot and made it on Jeopardy! before I did.

When I made the show, I had one primary goal: to do better than he did. I mean, winning would be nice, but beating him was what I had to do. For me. He had humiliated me and been emotionally abusive to me since birth. If I did worse, he would wield it like a sabre. He was a cruel bully and to this day has never been held to account for his behavior, except by me (I have not been supported by my family in this). Back when I was going to go on Jeopardy!, though, I knew that doing better than he did would hurt his ego and, yeah, I wanted that.

I did do better than him. Substantially so. Actually, I did really well (18 right including one Daily Double, missed one; 94.7%) and would have won but for a poorly worded Final Jeopardy question. I even got invited back because of that bad FJ clue and did money-total-wise better the second time (16 right with 1 DD, 1 wrong; 94.1%) but I still came in 2nd to a machine of a player–she was, at the time, called the female Ken Jennings.

How did he do? He got 10 right and 6 wrong (62.5%) and did not even make it to Final Jeopardy.

The “great writer” never quite finished his BA. The “great artist” got his BFA but was not accepted to grad school (at Ohio State). Me? I was asked to apply to grad school (at Ohio State) and given a scholarship and TA-ship. I did my MA and all my PhD coursework (I got me too’ed and did not take my exams or write a dissertation). I was told I’d had the highest results of my class on the MA exams. Years later (after Jeopardy! actually), I got a full scholarship to law school.

After being convinced my whole life that I was the least smart of “the kids,” it has taken me until shockingly recently to realize I am, rather, not only the most educated, but also the smartest (and, not for nothing, the most physically active). Even writing any of that now is uncomfortable, but I believe it is true.

That said, I also have struggled the most both personally and professionally.

These things are not disconnected. Women are constantly downgraded in their own families and by society. In hetero relationships, when they are “good” relationships, we do more. Just one general example: our most loving partners regularly dump the mental load of life on us then don’t understand why were exhausted (and bitchy for it). In our careers, we don’t get respected or paid enough. We have to do much more than our male (especially white cis-het) counterparts to be seen as even close to being “equal.” It’s exhausting and infuriating.

I remember working for a small, struggling creative firm, and, as a part of my studio manager job (which, of course, also required me to answer the phones–I know, right?!), I figured out how to restructure it to be more profitable and run more smoothly. I reported my findings and plan to the owner who, like a day later, called an all-hands meeting and read the bullet points off, verbatim, except for one where he gave one of the male employees the strategic planning position I should have received. The owner never acknowledged that the plan was my work and then gave the undeserving male employee a big promotion and raise (that guy was already making much more than I did–I knew this because I also did the payroll). I was flabbergasted. When I asked after the meeting why he did that, the owner acted like he had thought up most of the plan and said “[Male employee] would have left if he didn’t get the position.” I replied that, after getting screwed like that, I was leaving, and I walked out right there and then. But I did so crying, shaking with tears–feeling undervalued and asking myself if I was being too…demanding?

In personal relationships, I’ve done back flips to help the men in my life achieve their goals, supported them in their struggles, and far too often paid more than my share just to make sure the men didn’t feel like I was taking advantage of them. I have not asked to have my needs met because when I did, I have been called “demanding,” or “dramatic,” etc. I have been physically and sexually assaulted, by partners and others. I have worked on relationships, alone in trying to make it better, more often that I like to admit (that is, the guys didn’t work to change their behavior to make things better, but I did).

And I am not at all unusual, as a woman, in any of that.

I was raised to devalue myself. To see myself as less than, simply because of my gender. To feel that I must be wrong if I think I am as smart as (forget about smarter!) than my brothers or co-workers; or that I was equally deserving of respect and support; or that I was upset that people in my family would not take sides, my side, when I told them of the abuse(s) I suffered. I accepted it all as the cost of being a part of whatever the tribe was (family, work, partnership).

It took me a lot of therapy to do better in my own head about all of that. I was lucky I could do that–so many women can’t access that kind of help. And all my Buddhist studies also helped. But I still have days where I struggle. De-programming is a lifetime of work. Fighting the patriarchy is an added burden. But I am… better.

I cannot stand being called “Les.” And I choose to pronounce my name with a voiced z-sound (lez-lee). I always have and never could explain why. Very recently I recognized that it may have been a subconscious way of saying something important:
I am not less.
And certainly not less than.

I was taking a pee when the white wainscoting in the bathroom bugged me, as it has before when I’ve been in that position. While mostly clean (I do keep a mostly clean house), the grooves that met the baseboard were holding onto just enough dirt to set my teeth on edge. As usual. However, also usually, by the time I’ve zipped up my jeans, I will have forgotten it. Not so today.

I went out to the studio and got a bucket, came in and dumped the last of my Pine Sol and warm water in it, grabbed one silicone scrubby glove (left hand because I am ambidextrous and scrub better leftie) and a microfiber cloth, and moved into the small bathroom, determined to get those grooves clean.

On my knees, I worked, and it looked better quickly. Still, I was not achieving the results I wanted. Then, I remembered an old toothbrush head I saved for scrubbing around faucets. I attacked again–toothbrush, scrubby glove, microfiber. That did the trick.

However, I had made a Clean Spot. Uh-oh.

A Clean Spot is dangerous–it’s a gateway drug for the perfectionist in me. It makes everything else look, well, maybe not dirty but certainly less clean. And I had the tools at the ready so I would just quickly wipe that one bit over there…after all, I was on my lunch break and had the time.

And, I was off. The wainscoting led to the decorative trim atop it. And the shelves, then the switch plates. That led to the door, and the jamb, which led to the floor, which led to the baseboards in the hallway just outside the bathroom. That led to the baseboards in the bedroom, which led to the window sills, which led to the wall switches, which led to every baseboard in the front of the house I could wipe down. Without being totally obsessive and moving all the furniture.

On my way out to the studio to dump the bucket, I gave the kitchen trashcan a good wipe. And the baseboards by the back door. It was as if I would not be deterred until the house smelled of Pine Sol throughout. But I got out the door, dumped the water in the industrial sink in the studio, and took off the glove as I walked back inside.

And immediately noticed I’d missed a spot.

Sunday, at sangha, we were discussing the word “present” in the Heart Sutra. The discussion evolved into people talking about how for them being present meant having gratitude for their past suffering or how hard it was to be present when there are so many demands on our time. Present was an oddly complex word. It surprised me, the range of personal definitions.

For me, present means not holding on to anything–fully letting go in the moment–with the knowledge that every moment is the present and everything is impermanent and these two concepts exist at the same time. Being present is recognizing the stream of everything and letting it flow over. When I was a kid, we used to make flicker pads–pads of paper with drawings that were a hair different from the one before and after, such that when you flipped the pages, the images became animation. Being present is seeing each still as it is AND the animation.

This learning has helped me so very much. It has made me better at life. I mean, it has reduced suffering in my life. I’ll try to explain…

Life arises. Joy arises. Fear arises. Pain arises (physical or emotional, doesn’t matter). Knowing that I have no real control over what arises* and that whatever arises will move on is liberating. It also reduces anxiety which reduces pain and suffering, including physical pain.

(*I do have control over how I respond to what arises–I control my behavior–but what feeling or emotion arises is out of my, or anyone’s, control)

When I had gnarly butt surgery a couple of years ago, learning that it was necessary should have scared the hell out of me. The fear of possible surgery had kept me from getting the consultation, in fact, until I grew enough to accept that I had to face it. Whatever was happening, either it could be fixed/improved, or not. Better to find out.

In some ways, after getting the word that surgery was (very) necessary, I was indeed scared. But not catatonically so, which is how I would have been in my past. Mostly, I felt the relief of knowing something was going to be done and the years of pain I had been experiencing would likely end, or at least change and, probably, get better. There was something about choosing to trust my doc that permitted me to let go of a lot of the fear. The surgery was, literally, out of my control (I would be unconscious–he and his team would be slicing and dicing) so there was no use in worrying about it. Thus, I was scared and hopeful. At the same time. I could hold both. And I knew that, whatever the experience, it would be temporary.

After the surgery and as a part of the recovery, I had to undergo several in-office procedures that were quite painful. I approached them with meditative breathing and the knowledge that whatever pain there was would be short-lived–acute then fading–and that each was a step to healing. I let myself feel the pain (albeit usually with some pain killers on board) and told myself, “yup, that’s pain!” I didn’t try to hide from it but neither did I call it “my pain.” It was pain arising, and I knew that it would change, moment to moment. I got curious about the nature of the pain (“it’s sharp and radiates…” or “that feels like I’m clenching the muscle or something…”) and, I think, that curiosity enabled me to feel the shift to its lessening sooner.

My doctor said he thought I had incredible pain tolerance and that I dealt with it all super well. I’m not sure if it was tolerance so much as acceptance. I accepted that it was going to hurt, and hurt a lot (in fact, the first office procedure was done without meds so, um, boy howdy), but knew it would stop hurting, eventually if not sooner. I didn’t fight the pain and I didn’t make it mine. It was just pain arising and pain leaving. I attribute how well I handled the whole thing to that practice: observing and being curious.

This has happened with emotional pain as well. I remember when, a week before my first law school finals, I discovered my then-husband was cheating. The one thing I would have bet he would never do he was not only doing, he was doing in a particularly gross and personally (for me) demeaning way. I was floored and furious and hurt and…. and I had a choice to make: how to respond to all that was arising. I chose to let myself have a good cry (feel my feelings) and then chose to put aside responding, that is, dealing with my marriage, until after my exams. So, I told the hubs that I knew about it and we would have a conversation, later. I chose to focus on my studies.

It wasn’t like I didn’t feel hurt and angry, etc., but I didn’t live in that. I didn’t feed the monster. When the feelings would arise, and they did, I would ride the waves with compassion and the understanding that they would abate. Arise > have a cry/whatever > abatement > back to the books….rinse and repeat. It was a mix of Finding Nemo‘s Dory (“Just keep swimming”) and Scarlet O’Hara (“I can’t think about that now…I’ll think about that tomorrow”). And, of course, I got through it. All of it.

Before I started meditating and studying Buddhism, little things would completely flip me out. When you have trauma in your background, this is a pretty typical thing. Car problems? Illness? Getting cut off on the freeway? End of the world kind of emotional reactions. Now, when shit happens, and shit will always happen, it’s just not as big of a deal. In the shitshow that is life in Trumpistan (v 2.0), I’m extra thrilled I did the work to get here.

Of course, I still have (strong) feelings. But now I can observe them and not let them own me. I choose and, very importantly, I recognize that I have the ability (power, some might say) to choose how I respond to what arises. I can see things from a very different perspective now and even laugh in the darkest shit, particularly when I catch myself forgetting my ability and reacting instead of responding. I laugh at my own monkey brain. Then, I get back on the path and choose to do something wiser.

I am by no means enlightened. Or perfect. Or fixed. But I am better. I highly recommend it.

After months of eating keto to drop some fat, I am back to eating carbs. I’m trying not to go crazy and to keep my intake of calories something reasonable, but, yeah, carbs baby.

I don’t eat a lot of sweet stuff, so I’m lucky there. No cokes/sodas or big desserts. Dark chocolate–like a square from the Trader Joe’s Pound Plus bar will usually do the trick. On special occasions, cheesecake made with less sugar and more lemon, on a not cookie crust; or dark chocolate pot de crème.

Ice cream, though… now there is a weakness and one which I inherited from my father. Dad had ice cream every night, usually french vanilla, with a Peppridge Farm chocolate chip cookie. I skip the cookie but, damn, I can eat some ice cream. I got myself some today, on my way home after sangha. Rather than wait for after dinner, I politely but immediately weighed out a serving of the mint chocolate goodness. I ate it slowly, mindfully, and it was lovely.

When I decided to eat carbs again, the first thing I thought of was my sourdough bread. I took care of that with a bake on Friday. The second thing I thought of was, surprisingly, not ice cream but rather pizza. Homemade pizza. The ice cream I bought was an impulse. The pizza, a plan.

I bought mozzarella the last time I went to the grocery. When I was with the ex, I would get provolone too, but I didn’t want to have any of the cheese go to waste so I stuck with the Mozz and skipped the other.

I had everything else in house: 00 flour and yeast, tomato paste in the freezer, mushrooms and prosciutto from the last Costco trip, a can of artichoke hearts from Trader Joe’s from who knows how long ago in my cupboard, and arugula, a staple I always have.

I made the dough this morning. It spent the day doing its second proof in the fridge. In the early evening, as I took the rolling rack out of my insanely expensive and pretentious Wolf oven to pre-heat the stone on the lowest rack, it hit me: this is the first post-Ex pizza.

I keep finding firsts. I’m not sure I like them.

I would never have the Wolf if it weren’t for the Ex. The Viking that was in the house when we bought it was dying and when we replaced it he pushed for the high-end. And the griddle. And the pizza stone that came with a peel. All upgrades he decided we had to have. So, pizza makes me think of him.

Being a Type 1 diabetic, regular pizza was verbotten, but he loved it. I found a good replacement flour (King Arthur keto flour) and made a passable crust for him. So, the pizza stone (etc.) was for him. So was the whole very expensive stove and oven. But I certainly appreciated all of it.

I insisted on paying for half the cost. We got a Bosch fridge at the same time. The total was more than I made as a graduate student.. for a whole year. I was arguably ill spending that much money when we easily could have gotten away with spending 30% of that…or less. It was huge for me. But I couldn’t not share the cost. That is who I am.

To be clear: I love the stove. I’m glad he pushed for it. I never would have done it.

Anyway, today, I made the pizza and used the stone and the peel and, damn, the result was fabulous. Worth every carb.

One of the leftovers from the breakup is The Sofa.
I use caps because it is a thing.
A particular thing.
A thorn-in-my-side thing.

This is The Sofa, in situ.

I have never liked The Sofa. From the first time I went to the Ex’ condo, I didn’t like it. He had good taste in many things; but not The Sofa.

The Sofa is large, deep, conventional in design, and beige.

I am not a fan of beige.
Or conventional design.
Especially when it involves metal studs on beige upholstery.

The Sofa’s seat cushions are shockingly heavy, as if filled with very dense foam and buckshot. Worse, though, the back pillows are attached. Unremoveable. A spectacularly bad idea. How can anyone get them fluffed/shaped right that way? Answer: they can’t. I’ve used fists, a bat, everything I could think of and never could get them right.
The Sofa mocked my attempts.

The Sofa has surprisingly low feet. As Douglas Adams might have said, they are precisely of the height to have everything that falls bounce out of reach under The Sofa, but far too low to be able to get a broom or mop there to fetch the items lost.

The Sofa is, also, surprisingly uncomfortable. Sure, it seems cushy and supportive, but that is just to lull you in. In reality, it causes physical pain. The depth of the seating makes it impossible to sit on like a normal sofa, with your back on the back and your feet on the ground. You must stack pillows behind your back to get close. Whatever you try, your back will let you know how wrong your posture is in no time.

When we bought the house, we moved The Sofa from the condo, with us. It always felt too large for the house’s space. I mean, it fit (see above), but overwhelmed the living room with its beigeness and bulk. And improperly fluffed pillows.

The Ex and I looked for replacement sofas a few times. We could never agree on any. Cost, design, whatever… we just never could settle on one. I think he was insulted I didn’t like The Sofa and held it as a bit of a grudge. Even though he admitted the problems with The Sofa, he defended his purchase as though it was a personal attack to dislike the object: he spent a lot of money on The Sofa; it was made by a reputable company; the attached cushions were a good idea at the time…
Whatever, our inability to replace it was a thing and, arguably, a sign.

When the Ex left, surprisingly to me, he left The Sofa. He had his stated reasons. I think there were others, unsaid. I like to tell myself none of them were about me but, really, only he knows. I only know I wanted him to take the damn thing. He didn’t.

Of course, as in any cohabitational breakup, the divvying up of stuff meant I had to buy a lot of things to replace those that went with him. Some things were more urgently needed, not just wanted; replacing The Sofa was back-burnered to economize. I told myself I could live with it. Better a bad Sofa than none.

I have rued that choice. In fact, since he left just over six months ago, every time I have plopped down to watch TV I have been reminded how uncomfortable The Sofa is. And of him. My back has ached, as did my heart. I groaned every time I stood up from sitting on it and which pain caused that, I’m not so sure. It was a far greater symbol of him and the us that no longer was than I knew, or wanted to admit.

This morning, it has come to an end. Our lovely neighborhood junk hauler man, his wife, and I hefted that thing out of the house and down the front stairs to his truck. It weighed a ton, even without being a sleeper; but I squat-lifted one end like someone much younger than my 60.5 years. I owe thanks to the Canadian whose workouts I have been doing; but I think my strength was mostly fueled by the deep desire to get the thing out.

Now, it is gone.
I paid the hauler more than he asked to remove it; it meant that much to get it out.

I have since swept and mopped the floor, and wiped down the baseboards and wall, in large part to purge the space.

I may even burn some sage, just to be on the safe side, especially since I kept The Sofa’s two beige throw pillows. They were the only thing that didn’t suck about The Sofa, except for their color, which does suck.

But I will re-cover them in a brighter color (blue!) and use them on my new, smaller, simpler orange sofa, delivered later today.

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Update: delivery delayed. Oh well.

For the third time in this second Trump administration, the nation protested. I attended the downtown San Diego protest, as I have the other 2. The first one I was still with my Ex and we went together; the last two, I have gone solo.

Last time, my first solo, brought me to tears. It took place shortly after he (finally) moved out and I was still fresh in the heartbreak. By turns, I was also more than a little furious that he had left me alone in this shitshow of a Trump-run USA. Even when things were difficult, just knowing I wasn’t alone made a difference; now, I was alone. At No Kings 2, I saw so many couples, leaning on each other emotionally. I was surrounded by people, and yet so very alone. I ached, in that sea of people. Luckily, dark sunglasses hide tears and yelling chants hides breaks in the voice. I don’t think I spoke directly to anyone. Somehow, I couldn’t.

Yesterday, again, I was solo. However, over the months since NK2, I had done a lot of healing so I wasn’t thinking about him… well, not much. Instead, I was happily looking at people and their signs, giving out compliments and small talk. Just being glad I could participate. I was proud of my fellow San Diegans.

Shortly after arriving at the start location, on the side of the county building that had been dedicated by FDR, and in a sea of people, I ran into a neighbor! She and her partner (wife?) were there with friends (mostly, recently retired science teachers) and they encouraged me to join them. I did for a while, until the sun got to be too much for me (I need to be in the shade more), but while with them I so appreciated being with a group of opinionated and smart women.

Both before and after that, I talked to strangers. I laughed with others waiting at crosswalks, walking to the location from where I parked my Triumph. I shared standing spots and laughs with a couple of old queer punks and a different, mixed-race group of slightly younger gay men (we all had the sense to wait in the shade). We were all of the same tribe, no matter how different our lives may be.

It was a very different experience than the last. When I did think of the Ex, it was to wonder if he had bothered to go to a march, wherever he was. My money is on probably not, but it’s close because he did care about what was happening in the USA. But he was also in a very dark place when he left, so maybe he just couldn’t join the protests. So, I sent him good thoughts then got on with my own participation, being present with the crowd around me.

Later, as I made my way back to my motorcycle for the ride home, it hit me: while once again I was solo, I was so not alone.

I wanted to become a lawyer for years before I could make it happen. In fact, I took the LSATs three times–not because my scores were bad but because they expire after 5 years and I couldn’t afford law school, until I could. I finally got a full scholarship, including books, and had some savings and the financial backing of my then-husband to go. After the marriage blew up at the end of my first semester, I negotiated to have the financial ability to not work at all my first year (a requirement of the scholarship and the school) and very little after that, until I took the bar.

I also had to be very near the top of my class to keep the scholarship. Grades in law school are competitive–the infamous bell curve–so this meant doing the academic work. After my first semester, it seemed unlikely I would be able to keep the scholarship as I had only done okay grade-wise (did I mention the marriage blew up…yeah, a week before my first final); but, somehow, I did the virtually impossible in my second semester and saved it.

Anyway, I loved law school. Apparently that is unusual. But, for me, it was heaven. Hard work, sure, but fascinating and the kind of work that I truly enjoy. Even with all the hiccups I just mentioned, I was happy…more than. I felt like I had found my place in the world. And I looked forward to becoming a licensed attorney.

Before I graduated, my ex-husband lost his mind and sued to overturn our financial arrangement. Of course, I couldn’t afford to hire an attorney so I represented myself…and won (FWIW, the ex’ attorney was an idiot whom he should have sued for malpractice). The judge was kind in her ruling, complimenting my work and wishing me well on my bar exam.

I passed the then 3-day California Bar on my first try (thank the gods, because it was not fun at all) and, after taking it, was more than completely broke. Actually, I had amassed a bit of credit card debt, to survive. But I had work as a paralegal so I chugged along as I waited for my results (and paid my debt). When I passed and took that oath, I felt the words in my bones. It was an honor and the culmination of literally decades of work and dreams.

I didn’t seek a high paying gig; rather I launched right in, representing artists and essentially working for myself in collaboration with other copyright attorneys. It was tight for a while and I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, financially; but before too long I got to a comfortable enough income. Importantly, I never sold out. I never even took a case working to defend an infringer, even though that could easily have made me a lot more bank.

So, when I hear about these fuckers helping Trump by perverting the law, I get furious. How dare they! How can they! I mean, how can you throw away the learning, the idea of justice, the faith in the system, and all your ethics. How?!? And just for money/power? Infuriating!

I suspect for many of these lawyers, they didn’t have to struggle to go to law school. They came from money, in other words. Many didn’t really have to work for their degrees much less the jobs that followed, so they didn’t/don’t value it. For others, they sold out early to pay off their loans and make as much bank as possible. That shows a particular willingness to do whatever it takes to “win” and, again, certainly is not valuing the Law.

It simply maddens me. There are many lawyers like me–those who want to help people. Lots of us don’t do it for the money–we just want to make a living and do good. But a whole swath of the worst of the worst are now in power and supporting/enabling the downfall of our whole legal system. Everything we worked for. All for greed and power.

In the end, they will eat themselves. Until we get there, though, it’s hard to watch and live through.

I just had a phone call with a potential date. Someone I have never met. We matched on an app, exchanged a few texts on the app, then he offered his number. Today, I texted him off the app and later he called.

This, talking on the phone before meeting, is an oddity these days. Hell, even texting directly is considered risky by many folk. Most people are terrified to share their phone number with someone they connected with on a dating app. Apps even have extra layers of video chatting, etc., to protect people from having to share their actual phone numbers “too early.”

This, I do not get.

Now, before you get all “but stalkers” at me, I have been stalked and sharing my phone number with a stranger is unlikely to turn into a stalker situation–at least not directly. First of all, most stalking happens to younger people (but it’s still possible for us old farts). The important statistic, though, is that stalkers are not usually strangers but rather someone you have met or been in a relationship with. Overwhelmingly so. Sadly, there isn’t anything you can do to prevent it–outside of never risking sharing any info (and even that won’t necessarily do it).

You can’t meet people without sharing info. It just doesn’t work that way. You can’t begin something based on trust without, well, trusting.

I’m also not freaked out because I’m old enough to have been in the phone book. Remember those? Everyone, practically, was essentially doxxed by the phone company and we all had the books in our homes so we could call people who didn’t even give us their numbers. And we’d get their addresses, too! My point is, sharing my phone number (and even my address–gasp!) doesn’t scare me the way it may someone younger.

Most of all, if someone wants to find that info, they can. It’s not really hard at all in most cases. I have to find people all the time in my work–we leave digital trails all over the place. If someone wants to find you, they (probably) will, no matter what you do to prevent it.

Is it a risk, maybe, but one which I think we should be more willing to take. Treating every other human out there like a threat just doesn’t work for me.

Anyway, so, I had this call. We talked. And it was… nice. Awkward? Sure. A bit. I mean, we didn’t know much about each other except that we both hate Trump, like motorcycles and Vespas, come from the Midwest, have dry senses of humor, and share an ethnic background. That’s not really very much info. But it was pleasant to chat and the call lasted longer than I thought (that is, time flew). There was laughter and we learned a little more about each other (like he still has his Chicago accent). Not sure if it will become anything, of course, but we both thought meeting for happy hour would be a good next step. My choice of location, because he wants me to feel comfortable and safe.

Risky? All of this dating stuff is on one level or another. But we don’t get anything in life without taking some risks. Starting with sharing our digits.

I used to be an awful cynic. Worse than cynical…dark. The kind of dark that could suck all the fun out of a room full of happy people.

I’m not that person any more.

A lot of this is family-of-origin-related stuff. My mother was a very strong personality and she was often super dark (she was actually very likely bipolar, but that’s for another day). She was also very conditional in her loving. You were either with her or against her and against carried the high risk of being excommunicated, cut-off. And she could blame and guilt like a frightening combo of the worst of the Jewish and Catholic mother stereotypes.

Since my parents divorced when I was very young (like 4), back when custody was almost always given to the mom, she was my primary caregiver and influence. As a result, her darkness became my darkness. My next older sibling fully drank that Kool-Aid and between the two of them, a happy-go-lucky Leslie didn’t stand a chance.

It was framed as sophistication; being precocious (in the case of us kids); being smart and witty. In reality, it was just fear wearing a mask. If we put down X or Y then, if we weren’t good at it, that didn’t matter because it was beneath us so pushing ourselves to be better at those things was, well, stupid. We were something special, more, smarter, better. The rules for most people should not apply to us. “Don’t be a sheep!” Mom would often say. We were being trained to become narcissists of some flavor (mostly of the covert variety as we were also told not to be selfish and “just who do you think you are?!” …yeah, confusing!). The world owed us…more, better. If something went wrong, it was not our fault or our doing; the world did it to us. We were victims of a world where everyone and everything was out to get us. Fear, fear, fear.

Luckily for me, I had my darkness (and its snobbery, false victimhood, etc.) called out by a trusted friend. He could see I was miserable and he put the pieces together and kindly mentioned that he thought I was making myself miserable. His simple comment raised my awareness, one day in the studio where we worked together; and it changed my life.

Since then, and with much work and hours on the cushion, I have become a very different person. I am by nature now mostly happy, or at least content. I have been told I am fun to be around (hearing that still makes me blush). I don’t believe the world owes me anything but rather I make choices and accept the ramifications/responsibility arising from those choices. I earn my successes and live with my failures. I am courageous, but I don’t take myself too seriously. When I feel myself struggling, I ask for help (friends, therapists, etc.). I am not transactional in any of my relationships (I give because I want to, not expecting something in return). Most of all, I am incredibly less judgmental than I was in my youth, which is probably my favorite part of all this because it gives me the chance to be, instead, curious, especially about other people. Turns out, I actually like most people!

I’ll tell you what: it’s a hell of a lot better way to be. Shit is going to happen in life–learning from it and looking at what I can do about it (versus obsessing about what I can’t), and not wallowing and blaming, is infinitely better. When bad things happen now, I roll with it (mostly). I even have people tell me how calm I seem in those times! Sure, I still get angry or sad or hurt, but the volume is much lower on any of that than it was in my dark youth.

Am I perfect? Not even close. But I’m better. And every day I’m a little more so. I”m super lucky: at 60, I still get to experience growth.